Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

“I ought to give the foundation at least two weeks’ notice.”

“We need you right away — Mr. Hopkins has a speech he has to prepare. I’ll see if we can fix it up with Dick Haver.”

“If Dick approves, it’s all right with me,” Tom replied.

“One more thing,” Ogden said. “You’ll be working with Mr. Hopkins, but you’ll be responsible directly to me. And for the first six months you’ll be on a temporary basis.”

“I understand.”

“Good luck,” Ogden said, concluding the interview. “We’re looking forward to a very happy relationship.”

When Tom got home that night there was a long bright-red Jaguar convertible parked in the driveway of the little house in West-port. In the living room Betsy was seated on the sofa, talking to a short thin man dressed in a soft tweed suit.

“This is Mr. Swanson Howard,” she said to Tom as he came in the front door. “He wants to talk to you.”

“How do you do, Mr. Swanson,” Tom said.

“It’s Swanson Howard, not Howard Swanson,” the man said, getting to his feet. He was almost a foot shorter than Tom.

“Of course,” Tom said. “I’m glad to meet you.”

“Anybody want a drink?” Betsy asked.

“Martini?” Tom suggested to Howard.

“A little Scotch on the rocks,” Howard said.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any Scotch,” Betsy said.

“A Martini will be fine then,” Howard replied, and lit a cigarette. “I was very sorry to hear of Mrs. Rath’s death.”

“You knew her?” Tom asked.

“I knew of her.” Howard looked around the room, and Tom imagined that his eyes dwelt on the crack in the wall, and the soiled upholstery on one of the chairs. “I understand she left you her house,” Howard said.

“That’s right.”

“Do you plan to move into it?”

Betsy came from the kitchen, carrying a tray with a pitcher of Martinis and three glasses. “I’m sorry, but there aren’t any olives or pickled onions or lemon peels or anything to go in it,” she said. “Anyway, we’ve got the essentials.”

Howard accepted a drink, but kept his eyes on Tom.

“We expect to sell it,” Tom said.

“I might be interested in buying the place,” Howard said casually, and took the first sip of his drink. Betsy sat down suddenly in the nearest chair.

“The estate won’t be settled for quite a while,” Tom said.

“I understand that. Of course, a place like that isn’t easy to sell, as I’m sure you know. The property needs a lot of work. The house is old-fashioned, and far too big for most people. The taxes are about twenty-two hundred dollars a year, and it would cost about twenty-four hundred a year to heat the place. And of course it couldn’t be run without servants. You won’t find many prospective purchasers for a property like that, and it will be expensive for you to hold for long.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” Tom said.

“I like the place. I like the view. We might be able to work something out.”

“Do you want to make an offer?”

“My offer would probably sound low to you,” Howard said. “It would be based solely on the value of the land. Although I might live in the house, I’d figure it had almost no market value.”

“How much would you offer?”

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“I’ll have to consider it,” Tom said. “I won’t be able to give you an answer for a long while.”

“I’m afraid I’d have to know within a week or so,” Howard said. “We’re considering several properties.” He took an engraved card from his pocket and handed it to Tom. “Hearthside Restaurants, Inc.,” it said in large letters, and in smaller letters at the left-hand bottom corner, “Mr. Swanson Howard.” In the right-hand corner was an address on Thirty-third Street in New York and a telephone number.

“Would you be buying the house as a residence for yourself?” Tom asked.

“Of course. If we can get a decision within a week or so.”

“I’ll be in touch with you,” Tom said.

Howard thanked him for the drink, smiled mechanically, and left. A moment later the engine of the Jaguar roared — apparently he had a cutout on the exhaust.

“What do you think?” Betsy asked excitedly. “You’ll hold out for more, won’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Tom said, stretching out exhaustedly on the couch. “By the way, United Broadcasting hired me today. The salary’s nine thousand, and I’m on a temporary basis for six months. I’m supposed to start in a week.”

“That’s wonderful!” Betsy said. “Oh, Tommy, let’s put this damn little house on the market tomorrow! Everything’s going to be wonderful for us — I can just feel it!”

The front door slammed, and Barbara rushed in, followed by Janey and Pete. “Momma!” Janey said excitedly. “There are some boys across the street with knives, and they said they’re going to stick us!”

“They’re probably rubber knives,” Betsy said.

“They’re real knives! ”

“Play upstairs then,” Betsy said. “Your father and I are talking.”

“They said they were going to chop off our hands and our legs and our heads and everything!”

“They were just fooling,” Betsy said. “Upstairs!”

“But they weren’t fooling!”

“UPSTAIRS, or I’ll call Mrs. Manter!”

The three children immediately went upstairs.

“The name Mrs. Manter still works,” Betsy said gratefully. “I don’t think you ought to sell Grandmother’s house to that man. He’s in too much of a hurry. With a salary of nine thousand we could afford to hold it for a while.”

“I don’t know,” Tom said. Unaccountably, he felt depressed and pessimistic. “Suppose we turn down this offer,” he said, “and suppose that after six months, they tell me I’m through at United Broadcasting. And suppose we can’t sell Grandmother’s place. Then what do we do?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Betsy said. “I’ll bet that at the end of six months you get a big raise at United Broadcasting. Hopkins seemed to like you, didn’t he?”

“Sure, he seemed to like me. Hopkins seems to like everybody. With the money he makes, why shouldn’t he? I tell you, Betsy, I’m uneasy. I don’t like this guy Ogden, and it’s him I’m really going to be working for. I don’t like being responsible for old Edward. What are we supposed to do, pay him a salary for the rest of his life, or give him a lump sum? You can’t throw an old man like that out on the street. And I’m worried about Grandmother’s house. It would cost us at least six thousand a year to hang onto it, counting mortgage, taxes, minimum repairs, and a caretaker of some kind. You’d have to have a caretaker there, or it would go to hell in no time. Are you going to keep a house that costs you six thousand dollars a year on a salary of nine thousand? And what happens when you lose the job paying you the nine thousand?”

“You can’t look at things like that,” Betsy said. “You’ve got to plan on things going all right. I’ve never seen you lose your self-confidence!”

“I haven’t lost it, but maybe it’s time we started being sensible. All we’ve ever thought about is getting out of this house. The more I think about it, the more I think that’s crazy. This house is plenty comfortable enough. With nine thousand a year, we could afford some life insurance. Did you ever stop and think what would happen to you if I dropped dead some morning?”

“Don’t think about it!” Betsy said. “I’d drop dead right alongside you.”

“Then what would happen to the children?”

“What’s gotten into you, Tommy? I’ve never heard you talk like this before!”