Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

It was Tom’s turn to laugh nervously. “Well, there it is,” he said. “I don’t know what I do now. Do you still want me to work for you?”

“Of course,” Hopkins said kindly, getting up and pouring himself another drink. “There are plenty of good positions where it’s not necessary for a man to put in an unusual amount of work. Now it’s just a matter of finding the right spot for you.”

“I’m willing to look at it straight,” Tom said. “There are a lot of contradictions in my own thinking I’ve got to face. In spite of everything I’ve said, I’m still ambitious. I want to get ahead as far as I possibly can without sacrificing my entire personal life.”

Hopkins stood with his back toward Tom, and when he spoke, his voice sounded curiously remote. “I think we can find something for you,” he said. “How would you like to go back to the mental-health committee? That will be developing into a small, permanent organization. I’m thinking of giving my house in South Bay to be its headquarters. That would be quite nice for you — you wouldn’t even have any commuting. How would you like to be director of the outfit? That job would pay pretty well. I’d like to think I had a man with your integrity there, and I’ll be making all the major decisions.”

“I’d be grateful,” Tom said in a low voice.

Suddenly Hopkins whirled and faced him. “ Somebody has to do the big jobs! ” he said passionately. “This world was built by men like me! To really do a job, you have to live it, body and soul! You people who just give half your mind to your work are riding on our backs!”

“I know it,” Tom said.

Almost immediately Hopkins regained control of himself. A somewhat forced smile spread over his face. “Really, I don’t know why we’re taking all this so seriously,” he said. “I think you’ve made a good decision. You don’t have to worry about being stuck with a foundation job all your life. I’ll be starting other projects. We need men like you — I guess we need a few men who keep a sense of proportion.”

“Thanks,” Tom said.

Hopkins smiled again, this time with complete spontaneity. “Now if you’ll pardon me, I think I’ll go to bed,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”

THE NEXT MORNING Hopkins was friendly, but brisk and a little distant. “Good morning, Tom!” he said when they met for breakfast. “I find that I’ve got to stay out here a little longer than I thought. There’s no reason why I should hold you up, though — you can fly back to New York any time you want.”

“Thanks,” Tom said. “I guess I might as well take the first plane I can.”

“Certainly!” Hopkins replied, “and thanks so much for coming out with me. Don’t worry about anything. In a couple of months we’ll have that mental-health committee set up, and I’m sure we can work out something good. I really meant it when I said we can use a man like you. I won’t keep you on the mental-health committee more than a few years — we’ll work out lots of new and exciting projects. I think the two of us will make a good team.”

“I’m grateful,” Tom said.

“By the way,” Hopkins concluded, handing him a large manila envelope. “Give this to Bill Ogden when you get back, will you? It’s just a few notes I’ve made on some projects he has underway, and I know he’s waiting to get my reaction.”

“Sure,” Tom said. “Glad to. See you later, Ralph — see you when you get back to New York.”

Tom went to his room to pack. He glanced at the telephone. Half the night he had lain awake wanting to call Betsy to tell her about his conversation with Hopkins. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want to wait any longer. Without knowing whether she would be disappointed or glad, or even whether she’d understand what had happened at all, he had an intense urge to communicate with her. On impulse, he picked up the receiver and placed the call.

“It’ll be a few minutes,” the operator said. “I’ll ring you.”

He sat down on the bed and waited. In a shorter time than he had expected, the telephone rang. “I have your call to Connecticut,” the operator said. “Go ahead, please.”

“Betsy?”

“Yes!” she replied, sounding marvelously close. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes. I’m flying home today.”

“Today? That’s wonderful! But why?”

“Something’s happened,” he said. “I had a really frank talk with Ralph and I’m going back to work on the mental-health committee. I’m going to be its director, at least for a while. Then I’ll probably go onto something else with Ralph.”

“Are you glad about it?” she asked, sounding bewildered.

“Yes. I think it’s going to work out fine. Ralph is a good guy, Betsy — an awfully good guy. Guys like that never get appreciated enough. I’m going to go on working with him, but he understands that I’m not built the way he is. You and I will have plenty of time to ourselves. No more working every week end.”

“It sounds grand,” she said. “Tell me all about it when you get home. And hurry back. I miss you.”

“I’ll hurry,” he said.

To his disappointment, he found he couldn’t get a plane until evening. He was tired, and after sending a wire to Betsy to say he wouldn’t be home until the next morning, he spent most of the day sleeping in his hotel room. As a result, he had difficulty sleeping on the plane. It was not a direct flight, and every few hours they landed at some big airport. During the night Tom had four cups of coffee in four different states. The plane wasn’t due in La Guardia until six-thirty in the morning, and head winds made it an hour late. Tom shaved with an electric razor provided by the stewardess. It would be almost nine o’clock by the time he got to Grand Central Station, he figured, and he’d better stop at the office at least long enough to give Hopkins’ envelope to Ogden before doing what he wanted to do, which was to rush home.

Ogden seemed surprised to see him, but accepted the envelope without comment. Tom stopped at his desk in Hopkins’ office to see if there were any calls for him. Miss MacDonald also seemed surprised to see him. “There’s a message on your desk,” she said. “I didn’t expect you back until the end of the week.”

Tom went to his desk. There was a typewritten memorandum from Miss MacDonald with yesterday’s date. “A Mr. Gardella called,” she had written. “He said it was important and asked me to have you call him as soon as you returned.” Caesar’s telephone number followed. Tom dialed it.

“Hello,” a woman with an Italian accent answered.

“Is Mr. Gardella there?”

“Just a minute,” the woman said, and Tom heard her calling, “Caesar! Caesar! Telephone for you!” She added something in Italian. There was a moment of silence, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching the telephone. “Hello,” Caesar said in his deep voice.

“This is Tom Rath. Did you call me?”

“Yes, Mr. Rath. I heard from Maria. I’d like to see you.”

“Is she all right?”

“Things aren’t very good, Mr. Rath. Louis is dead. They went to Milan, just as I figured, and he got killed there, only a couple of weeks after he found a job. They had a strike in the plant where he was working. They’ve got a lot of Commies in Milan, and they make a lot of trouble — there was a riot, and Louis got killed. With that leg of his, he couldn’t fight and he couldn’t run.”

There was a pause. “Did you hear me, Mr. Rath?” Caesar asked.

“I heard. I’m very sorry that Louis died. Are Maria and the boy all right?”

“They’re back in Rome with Gina’s folks. They need help bad, Mr. Rath. I’d like to see you and kind of talk it over. Gina and I do what we can to help, but you know how it is. We’ve got three kids of our own. We’d all sure appreciate it if you could do something.”