Evan Hunter: Candyland

I'd have preferred your not having discovered those words on your own, he thinks. I'd have preferred whispering them in your ear as part of our after play, Oh, just a clever little observation of mine, Karen, based upon having watched hundreds upon hundreds of movies, listen for them the next time you go see one. I would much have preferred that, Karen, couldn't you at least have given me a chance? I'm not a bad person, really.

It is ten-thirty.

Three hours earlier in Los Angeles.

Should he call home and tell Grace he's back from dinner and is going to bed? Clear the decks for whatever the night might still hold in store? He's got eight hours before he has to leave for the airport. He can steep on the plane. Karen, I'm sorry to have lost you, he thinks, but there's always another streetcar.

He picks up the phone, hits 8 for a long distance line, then dials 1, and 3 10 and then his home number. Grace's voice on the answering machine picks up on the fourth ring. "Hello, you've reached Grace and Ben Thorpe, neither of us is able to come to the phone just now, but if you'll leave a message we'll get back to you as soon as we can. Thanks."

"Honey," he says, "this is Ben, I just got back from dinner and a nightcap downstairs, and I'm going straight to bed. I won't be talking: to you again before I leave, but I'll see you tomorrow. I hope Mom's okay. Tell her I love her. You, too."

He hangs up.

So what now? he wonders.

Do I get dressed again and go down to the bar? Really have the. nightcap I mentioned to Grace on the answering machine? See who else might be sitting there having a nightcap? See who or even whom of the female persuasion might be patrolling the night in search of company? What time does the bar close? he wonders. He picks up the phone, dials 0, waits.

"Good evening, Mr. Thorpe," a woman says.

He visualizes her sitting with earphones on her head. Is she Lily Tomlin or Judy Holliday?

"Good evening," he says. "Is the bar still open?"

"Which one?" she asks.

"How many are there?" he says.

"There's the lounge bar and the roof bar," she says. "Both close at midnight."

Then why'd you ask me which one? he wonders.

"Thank you," he says.

"Goodnight, sit," she says, though it was "Good evening" a minute ago.

He is beginning to feel irritable. He supposes that achieving erection and then losing erection so abruptly is not too good for equanimity. He wonders idly how Bob Dole manages mood swings within the parameters of erectile dysfunction and popping Viagra pills. He wonders where Karen is now. Is she sitting downstairs at the bar again? Or perhaps up on the roof at the other bar? Crossing her legs and searching in a similar hurry? He really regrets her leaving. Now he will wonder forever if she was truly naked under that black dress. He had wanted her so very much. Truly. He sighs heavily, picks up the phone again, dials 0 again.

"Good evening, Mr. Thorpe."

Same girl again. "Goodnight" has become "Good evening" again. A switch hitter. She sounds Puerto Rican.

"Good evening," he says. "Is the gift shop still open?"

"No, sir, they close at ten."

He looks at his watch.

"Is there anywhere else I can get a magazine?" he says.

He is tempted to ask if she's wearing panties.

He is tempted to tell her he's sitting here at the phone wearing nothing but an open robe. The Open Robe by Seymour Hare, he thinks.

"There's a newsstand on Fifty-seventh and Sixth," she says.

"Are you Puerto Rican?" he asks.

"Dominican, sir," she says.

“What's your name?"

"Maria Teresa."

"Thank you, Maria Teresa. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mr. Thorpe."

Little flirtatious lilt to her voice there?

Smiling, he replaces the receiver on the cradle, and goes into the bathroom for his clothes.

He is dressed again and about to leave the room, actually has his hand on the doorknob, when the telephone rings, startling him. Can it be Maria Teresa calling back to say she quits work in a little while, does he want her to come up to the room and discuss hot tamales ? He virtually bounds across the room, yanks the receiver from its cradle.

"Hello?"

"Ben? You weren't asleep, were you?"

"No, no." Instant recovery. Not Maria Teresa, after all. Grace. Calling from California. Her mother is dead. What else can it be? "what time is it?" he asks. He knows very well what time it is. If he doesn't hurry downstairs, even the newsstand might be closed. "It isn't your mother, is it?" he asks.”

"No, she's all right. They'll be doing it early tomorrow morning. Are you in bed?"

"Yes," he lies.”

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be calling."

"What is it, Grace?"

"You told me you'd be going to sleep. It could have waited till you got home."

"That's okay, I wasn't asleep yet."

"But if the restaurant's still open, you might want to go there."

"Grace, I have no idea what you're. "

“You left your credit card," she says.

"What?"

"At the restaurant."

"I left my…"

“MasterCard called here just a few minutes ago. The person I spoke; to said you'd left your card at Trattoria dell'Arte… is that where you, had dinner?"

"Yes?"

"Said you'd charged a hundred and five dollars and sixty cents there — and left your card behind. They're holding it there for you. I don't know how late they'll be open. What'd you eat?"

"What?"

"That cost a hundred and five dollars and sixty cents?"

There is a silence on the line.

"Ben?"

"I had a few drinks before dinner," he says.

"I still don't see…"

"And a bottle of wine with the meal."

"You drank a whole bottle of wine?"

"There was nothing by the glass. Nothing I liked."

"But a whole bottle?"

"Well, I didn't drink all of it, Grace."

"After two drinks?"

"I had a long, hard day, Grace. I really don't see anything too terrible about a grown man. "

"It just seems like a lot of money."

"It is a lot of money. New York is an expensive town. Trattoria is an expensive restaurant. I earned two hundred thousand dollars designing that fucking building, so I think I'm entitled to a lousy…"

“Ben? Lower your voice, please."

There is a long silence.

In even, measured tones he hopes are conveying weariness, impatience, and not a little annoyance, he says, "I had a couple of drinks. I had spaghetti with tomato sauce and basil to start. I had the veal parmigiana as…"

"You don't have to tell me everything you ate, Ben. I'm just calling to say you left your card there."

"Thank you, I appreciate that," he says.

You're full of shit, he thinks.

"What kind of wine was it?"

"A French Merlot."

"How much did it cost?"

"I have no idea. I would guess forty or fifty dollars."

"I hope you enjoyed it," she says.

Another silence.

"I guess now I'll have to dress and go down for the card," he says.

"Call first," she suggests. "Make sure they're still open."

"I'm sure they're still open. They get a big after-dinner crowd."

"Then you're safe," she says.

"I'll let you know how I make out."

"You don't have to. I know you're tired. Get some sleep. Anyway, I'm going out to dinner."

"Oh? Who with?"

"Whom," she corrects automatically. "Sue Ellen."

"Give her my love."

"I'm sure she sends her love, too. Good night, Ben."

"Love ya," he says.

But she is already gone.

Well, he thinks, what the hell was that all about?

Little bit of Sherlock Holmes out there in Topanga Canyon? Is she now calling a liquor store to check on the price of a French Merlot? Is she calling Trattoria dell'Arte to ask if Mr. Thorpe was there alone tonight? Will she call him back to say she now knows he was dining with a redhead, what's wrong with you, Ben, is something wrong with you? What is wrong with me is that I have a suspicious controlling wife who never wants to make love and who thinks I am fucking every other woman on the planet, including Sue Ellen Pearson, I'm sure she sends her love, too, my ass! I have never so much as blinked at Sue Ellen Pearson, try Rachel Fein instead, whose fine ass I have groped at many a country club dance, try her why don't you? You have no goddamn reason to believe I wasn't dining alone tonight, having a couple of drinks and a good bottle of French wine, no reason at all. What's wrong with me? What the hell is wrong with you? What the hell is wrong with a woman who when she sees you walking into a bedroom preceded by a foot long flagpole will smile like a virgin cheerleader and turn her head away? What's wrong with a woman who, when you're fucking her, if you're fucking her…