Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

There was a moment of silence before Tom said, “When can I see you?”

“How about lunch today?”

“I’ll meet you here in the lobby by the information booth, where we met last time,” Tom said. “Twelve-thirty for lunch. Will that be okay?”

“Sure, Mr. Rath. I’ll be there.”

“Thanks,” Tom said, and hung up. I’ll have to tell Betsy after all, he thought. I hope this housing project goes through. Then we’d have plenty of money, and it would be easier to tell her.

I won’t tell her now, he thought. Not tonight. I might as well wait until the school vote goes through. It would be easier to tell her then, when we knew we were going to be all right ourselves.

What will I do if the housing project fails? he thought. If it doesn’t work, we’ll just have my salary, and is it fair to ask Betsy to share that with some woman I met during the war? She’d never do that — no woman would!

Tom glanced at the telephone. He wished he didn’t have to see Betsy until he could tell her about Maria — he didn’t want to have to keep secrets from her any more. The eagerness to go home had left him. He telephoned Betsy and told her he had to stay in town for a business lunch.

“Oh!” she said, sounding disappointed. “Do you really have to?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You sound funny. Is everything all right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you angry at me or something? You sound so funny.”

“I’m not angry,” he said. “I just have to see a guy. This is a thing I simply have to do.”

At twelve-thirty Tom got into one of the golden elevators and rode down to the lobby of the United Broadcasting building. Caesar Gardella, dressed in a dark-blue business suit, was waiting for him at the information booth. Caesar smiled embarrassedly when he saw him. “Do you want to go to that Mexican place again?” he asked.

“I guess so,” Tom said.

They walked across Rockefeller Plaza in silence. When they got to the restaurant, they sat down in the same booth they had occupied before.

“Two double Black and Whites,” Tom said to the waiter. When the drinks arrived, he said to Caesar, “Is there anything more you can tell me about Maria?”

“It’s just that she and the boy are living with Gina’s folks,” Caesar said. “I guess they’re well enough. I don’t know whether I should have done it or not, but there didn’t seem to be any point in calling you unless. ”

“What did you do?”

“I told Gina’s mother that I had run into you here in New York, and I asked her to talk to Maria about it and see if Maria would take any help from you if you were willing to give it.”

“What did Maria say?”

“She sent me a letter to give you. I didn’t open it, but Gina’s mother says. ”

“You have a letter for me?”

“Yes.” Caesar put his hand in his breast pocket and took out a rather soiled envelope with Tom’s full name written in black ink across the front in large, slanting letters. Tom tore it open. He took out a single-page letter folded around a snapshot wrapped in tissue paper. He looked at the snapshot first. It showed a plainly dressed woman, quite stout and almost middle-aged whom he dimly recognized as Maria, and standing beside her was a boy, a thin little boy all dressed up, with a cap on his head, and a shirt with a wide collar, and a little tight-fitting jacket, and short trousers. With his queer old-fashioned clothes, and his slender big-eyed face, and with his shockingly familiar forehead and nose and mouth, he looked like one of the faded photographs Tom’s grandmother had kept of “The Senator” as a child. Tom stared at the snapshot and then with trembling hands quickly stuffed it back into the envelope and unfolded the letter. Apparently Maria had dictated it to someone — the grammar and spelling were all correct.

“Dear Tom,” the letter said, “I do not like this, but I don’t know what to do. For myself I do not need help, but there is the boy. Anything you could do for him would be from heaven. I am ashamed to ask you, but we were never proud with each other, so perhaps you will understand. The boy needs help. He is a good boy. He studies well. I am sending you this picture that Louis took last year. Do not think we are trying to make trouble for you. I leave this in the hands of God.”

The letter was signed, “Maria Lapa.” Tom took a drink before folding it carefully and putting it back in the envelope with the photograph. He put the envelope in his inside coat pocket, glanced up, and saw that Caesar was discreetly staring at the wall. There was a heavy silence.

“Caesar,” Tom said suddenly, “can I have some time to think this over?”

“Sure, Mr. Rath,” Caesar replied. “Nobody’s trying to hurry you. We don’t want you to do anything you don’t think should be done.”

“How much do you think I should send?”

“Anything would help. Gina and I have been sending ten dollars a month to her mother. Ten dollars a month is a lot of money in Rome.”

“How much would Maria need to raise that boy decently?”

Caesar shrugged his shoulders. “Maria will probably go on living with Gina’s mother,” he said. “If you sent her a hundred dollars a month, she could do an awful lot with it. She could send the boy to a pretty good school, and everything.”

“I’ve got to have time to work this out,” Tom said. “Look, Caesar, you’ve always been a decent guy. I’ve got to tell my wife — you can understand that. And it’s not going to be easy. I’ve got to have time.”

“Sure, Mr. Rath,” Caesar said earnestly. “Maria’s all right for now — Gina’s mother can take care of her. You’ve got no need to hurry.”

“It might take me a few weeks,” Tom said. “I’ve got to pick the right time to tell my wife.”

“It’s none of my business, Mr. Rath, but aren’t you going to make a lot of trouble for yourself? By telling your wife, I mean.”

“Could you send money somewhere every month without telling your wife?”

“No, I guess I couldn’t. I sure hope this doesn’t make trouble for you, though. I know Maria wouldn’t want that.”

“I’ve got a good wife,” Tom said. “I don’t think there’s going to be any trouble. I’ve just got to pick the right time.”

“Mr. Rath, I’d like to say this,” Caesar replied awkwardly. “We’re grateful to you — Maria and Gina and I. We know you don’t have to do it, there’s nothing that could make you. I don’t know whether it will mean anything to you or not, but Gina and I are going to pray for you, and I know Maria will.”

“Maria already has,” Tom said. “Now listen. You may not hear from me for quite a while. But I’ll get in touch with you, and I’ll make some kind of arrangement for Maria. I’ll probably do it through a bank or a lawyer. I’ll write her a note, but I want to make some kind of permanent arrangement.” He paused in confusion. “It would be kind of difficult for everybody if I had to write her every month,” he concluded.

“What if your wife won’t let you do anything? I better not tell Maria until you’re sure.”

“No, you better not. We better wait and see.”

There was an interval of silence before the waiter came to take their orders.

“You want anything to eat?” Tom asked Caesar.

Caesar shook his head. “I got to be getting back,” he replied.

“Me too,” Tom said. He paid the check for the drinks. They left the restaurant and hurried off in different directions.

That afternoon Tom had a vicious headache. He threw himself into his work and missed his regular train home. While he waited for another train in Grand Central Station, he went to a drugstore and swallowed two aspirins. Finding that they didn’t help much, he went to the Hotel Commodore bar and drank too many Martinis. When he finally got home, Betsy looked at him with astonishment and concern. “Tommy,” she said, “what’s the matter with you? You look terrible.”