Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

Maybe that isn’t it at all, Tom thought. Maybe they’re just clever enough to know that a man goes stale on a speech after he’s worked it over a few times. This is probably routine, and because this mental-health thing is a new project, they just don’t have anything else for me at the moment. That’s all it is — just routine. He got up and started pacing up and down his office, feeling much as he had during the war when he heard of another jump coming up. He glanced at his watch and nervously wound it.

I wonder if old Edward really has any proof, he thought; I wonder if Grandmother did write a later will and give it to him, but that’s impossible; she wouldn’t have done that without telling me. I wonder if we really will be able to sell off the land in small lots. This man Bernstein will be able to tell me — I wonder what he’s like.

I shouldn’t be thinking of private business, he thought. I should be showing initiative on this mental-health project. I shouldn’t expect Ogden to keep giving me assignments; I should dream up assignments of my own. I bet Ogden never has to be told what to do. I’ll think of what has to be done, and I’ll do it. How the hell do you start a national committee on mental health? You get a list of big shots for members — Hopkins undoubtedly has that in his mind already. You get the thing financed — and I bet Hopkins already has some understanding with the foundations about that. He could pay for the thing himself as another tax deduction, but he’ll need the prestige of the foundations, and he wouldn’t have gone this far if he didn’t have it all lined up. He’ll need the co-operation of the medics, and that’s why he’s working so hard on this speech. What else will he need? A little knowledge of what the problems in the field really are — that’s the only thing nobody seems to be bothering about. If we’re going to figure out a program, we ought to have a list of what the experts think the basic problems are. I ought to interview the top medics. I ought to see what the public library has on the subject. I ought to become well informed.

I can’t start interviewing people without Ogden’s permission, he thought — that might be tipping Hopkins’ hand too soon. But I can start getting books to read, and I can ask Ogden for permission to interview people — that at least will let him know I’m on the job.

Tom pressed a button on his desk, and when his secretary came in, he dictated a memorandum to Ogden requesting permission to visit the state mental hospitals and several leading psychiatrists to gather information about mental-health problems. He added that he was planning to get together a bibliography on the subject — he thought that sounded quite impressive. He had just told his secretary he was going out to lunch, and that he would spend the afternoon at the public library, when the telephone rang. He picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” a familiar deep voice said. “Is this Mr. Rath?”

“Hello, Caesar,” Tom replied with sinking heart, and he thought, Here it comes. So Caesar wasn’t just embarrassed at seeing me — he was biding his time. I wonder if he’s been in touch with Maria.

“I’m off duty now, and I thought maybe we might have lunch together,” Caesar said.

“Sure!” Tom replied with forced cheer. “Where will I meet you?”

“In the lobby by the information booth,” Caesar said. “What time would be best for you?”

“Right away,” Tom replied. “I’ll be right down.”

Caesar, still dressed in his plum-colored elevator operator’s uniform, was leaning against the wall by the information booth, smoking a cigarette. He grinned diffidently when he saw Tom coming toward him.

“This is a swell ideal” Tom said heartily, ashamed that in addition to all the other strains involved in their relationship, he should find it awkward to have lunch with a man in an elevator operator’s uniform. “I know a swell little place on Forty-ninth Street, up toward Sixth Avenue.”

“Fine,” Caesar replied, and fell in beside him. They walked rapidly across Rockefeller Plaza. Actually, Tom had no restaurant clearly in mind — he simply wanted to find a place where they wouldn’t be seen. The impulse to keep his connection with Caesar completely private was overpowering. They walked in silence for several minutes. When they finally came to a dingy little Mexican restaurant and bar on Sixth Avenue which looked like an establishment none of his acquaintances ever would frequent, Tom said, “This is the place. I like Mexican food, don’t you?”

“Sure,” Caesar replied.

They went in and sat down at a dimly lighted table. A waiter in a stained apron came to take their orders. Over the bar a radio was playing a song in which a girl kept saying over and over again, “I love you.”

“The drinks are on me,” Tom said. “Order anything you want.”

“I’d like Scotch,” Caesar replied. “Some Black and White.”

“Make it two double Black and Whites,” Tom said to the waiter.

“Funny, the way we just happened to run into each other,” Caesar said.

“I’m falling for you,” the woman on the radio sang. “Falling, falling, falling, head over heels in love.”

“It is funny,” Tom said. “I sure was surprised to see you.”

The waiter put their drinks before them, and Tom lifted his to his lips eagerly.

“Well, this is better than that old jungle juice we used to drink in New Guinea,” Caesar said.

“It sure is!” Tom replied. The phrase “jungle juice” sounded antique to him — he didn’t really remember drinking any at all.

“You’ve sure done all right for yourself,” Caesar said. “Assistant to Ralph Hopkins!”

“The breaks,” Tom said. “It isn’t as much of a job as you might think.”

“Mind you, I’m not complaining,” Caesar said. “Things have gone pretty good for us.”

“You married?”

“Sure. Are you?”

“Yes,” Tom said. “I was married before the war.”

The girl on the radio finished her song. “And now the news,” an announcer said. The bartender turned the radio off.

“Did you go back to Rome after the war?” Tom asked.

“Sure — as soon as I got out of the hospital. Gina and I got married in forty-seven. We got three kids now.”

Tom said nothing. He finished his drink and motioned to the bartender to bring two more.

“Three kids,” Caesar repeated. “Things were pretty tough for us for a while, but I’ve got a twenty per cent disability because of my back, and Gina is working now. We’re making out all right. She runs an elevator over in the Empire State building. Sometimes she takes a night shift and sometimes I do — we got it worked out so one of us is always home with the kids.”

“Sounds like a pretty good arrangement,” Tom said.

“We got a nice apartment,” Caesar replied. “It’s a hell of a lot better than we’d have had if we’d stayed in Rome, the way Gina’s folks wanted us to.”

“I guess things are pretty tough back there,” Tom said.

“I’ll say! We hear from Gina’s old lady every once in a while. Those people don’t have it easy.”

Tom took a long sip of his drink. “Caesar,” he said, “did you ever hear anything about Maria?”

Caesar looked down at the table. “I did,” he said. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“How is she?”

“I haven’t heard anything lately — not for more than a year. You knew she married that guy who had the bakeshop, Louis Lapa?”

“No!” Tom said. “When?”

Caesar seemed embarrassed. “She married him about two months after we left,” he said.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Tom said. “I certainly am glad to hear it. Louis was a nice guy.”