Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

“What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know. Things had been pretty hard for them for a long while. Louis was out of the hospital, but with his leg and all, he couldn’t get any work. Gina’s mother had been helping them out, and I guess that bothered Louis a lot. Louis’s a funny guy — he’s proud.”

Tom glanced out the window. He found it hard to look at Caesar.

“Gina’s mother thinks they may have gone to Milan to look for work, and that they didn’t tell anybody they were leaving because they owed so much money,” Caesar continued. “Anyway, there’s no sign of them now. I thought you ought to know.”

“Thanks,” Tom said.

“Gina’s mother has an aunt in Milan, and she’s asked her to look for them,” Caesar added. “She’ll let me know if they find them.”

“I guess there’s not much we can do now,” Tom said.

“They’ll turn up eventually,” Caesar replied. “I’m sure of that. Gina has an awful lot of relatives over there. Louis’s funny — if he made some money, he’d come back and pay his debts. And if things went real bad, Maria would have to go to some relatives for help. Sooner or later she’ll turn up. I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks,” Tom said.

“Well, so long,” Caesar concluded, awkwardly put on his cap, and went out the door.

Tom got up and walked over to the window. So they’ve disappeared, he thought. I wonder if this is the way it will end — with no ending at all, with me never knowing what happened to them. They’ll turn up, Caesar said. Somewhat to his own surprise, Tom found himself hoping they would — soon. The implications of that startled him a little, and he turned quickly to sit down at his desk. What would I do? he thought: what would I do if right now I knew they were starving and knew where to reach them? I couldn’t do anything without telling Betsy — we’ve got joint bank accounts, both the saving and the checking, and Betsy keeps much closer track of the money than I do. I could take a few dollars out and make up some kind of excuse, sure, but not much and not regularly. And even if I could find a way to get the money without her knowing, it wouldn’t be fair to her. I’d have to tell her, he thought. I’d have to tell her and pray to God she’d understand.

How would you tell your wife a thing like that? he asked himself. Would you go up to her and say, “Look, honey, I’m sorry to have to say this, but during the war. ”

What would she do? It suddenly seemed to him that his wife was a stranger whose actions he could not predict at all. I don’t know her, he thought with a kind of panic, I don’t really know my own wife at all. Poor Betsy! Betsy had never had anything happen to her which could possibly help her to understand a thing like that. Would she accuse him of being immoral? Would she cry? Would she be angry, jealous? Would she figure that the whole time they had spent together since the war had been a kind of living lie, and would she want a divorce? He simply could not imagine what she would do — he couldn’t picture himself telling her about Maria at all. Maybe I’ll never have to, he thought. Maria has disappeared as completely as though I had wished her away. She isn’t there any more, or at least no one can find her — it is as though she never existed. I should be glad Caesar can’t find her, he thought; I should be glad, I should feel immensely relieved. He put his hand up to his face and suddenly realized he was praying like a child: Dear God, I want Maria to be all right.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the buzz of the interoffice communication box on his desk. He turned it on, and Ralph Hopkins’ cheery voice said, “Good morning, Tom! Ready to go to lunch now? Bring along a copy of the speech!”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” Tom said.

Carrying the speech in its manila envelope, Tom stepped into one of the golden elevators. The secretaries in Hopkins’ office all smiled at him, and he smiled back. Hopkins came out almost immediately. “Glad you could make it, Tom!” he said. “How have you been?”

“Fine,” Tom said. “The hotel accommodations are all set for you in Atlantic City.”

Hopkins started toward the elevators. “Did you read the speech?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m looking forward to talking to you about it,” Hopkins replied. An elevator door rumbled open, and they both stepped in. The elevator was crowded, and on the way down they both remained silent.

“How about the University Club for lunch?” Hopkins asked when they got out on the street.

“That would be nice.”

“Let’s walk — it’s a grand day,” Hopkins said, and strode rapidly up Fifth Avenue.

I hope he doesn’t ask me what I think of the speech now, walking along Fifth Avenue in the sunshine, Tom thought. It would be very difficult for me to play games with him here and now.

“Did you get a chance for a vacation this summer?” Hopkins asked.

“No — I haven’t been on the job long enough,” Tom said.

“I just got a couple of week ends myself,” Hopkins replied. “Put in some good fishing, though. Have you ever tried landlocked salmon?”

On the way to the University Club, Hopkins continued a pleasant line of chatter about fishing. They sat at a table in the corner of a high-ceilinged dining room. All around them earnest-appearing businessmen ate and talked. A waiter bowed and took their order for cocktails.

It isn’t quite as I pictured it, Tom thought. Such a respectable place for me to lie about a speech, and there really should be music.

“Well, what do you think of the speech?” Hopkins asked mildly.

Parts of it are wonderful, Tom started to say, but on the other hand.

He didn’t say it. Instead, he glanced at Hopkins and saw that he was watching him intently. On his face was an expression of courteous attention, nothing more. There was a pause.

“Would you care to order your luncheon now, sir?” a waiter asked. He spoke in a thick Italian accent.

“I guess we might as well,” Hopkins said. “What will you have, Tom?”

“Anything,” Tom said. “I guess I’d like some cold salmon.”

“Scrambled eggs for me,” Hopkins said. “And a cup of tea.”

The business of ordering luncheon took a few more minutes. A man at a near-by table laughed explosively. The hell with it, Tom thought suddenly, so clearly that he half thought he had said it. It doesn’t really matter. Here goes nothing. It will be interesting to see what happens. In defiance of his intentions, he heard himself saying aloud in a remarkably casual voice, “To tell you the truth, Mr. Hopkins, I read the latest draft of your speech, and I’m afraid I question it pretty seriously.”

“You do?” Hopkins asked. His face did not change expression.

“I’m afraid I just don’t think it’s a very good speech,” Tom said flatly.

“What do you think is the trouble with it?”

“It doesn’t say anything,” Tom replied. “That’s the main trouble I had when I was trying to write it. The only point you really make is that mental health is important, and you can’t repeat that for thirty pages. And frankly, I don’t think an audience of physicians will react very well to slogans.”

“I see,” Hopkins said. “What do you recommend that I do?”

“I think you should come up with some concrete recommendations on how to solve mental-health problems,” Tom heard himself booming confidently.

“I believe that at some point Ogden already has me asking for more mental hospitals and research,” Hopkins said dryly.

“But everybody knows that’s necessary — it’s another repetition of the obvious,” Tom said. “Couldn’t you give some ideas about how to get the research and the hospitals?”