Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

“I guess I just got a little stomach upset,” he said. “I think I’ll go upstairs and lie down.”

Without saying more, he walked up to the big bedroom. Taking off only his shoes, he lay down on the wide four-poster bed. All the objects in the room seemed to swirl before his eyes. The paintings of his father and grandfather as children, the old mandolin in its cracked leather case on the top shelf of the corner bookcase, and an electric clock on the bureau blurred and wavered. He shut his eyes. In the quiet room he could hear his wrist watch ticking. A few moments later Betsy came in and looked at him worriedly. “Should I call a doctor?” she asked.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I guess I just drank a little too much. I was tired, and when I missed my train, I stopped at the bar in the station.”

“You shouldn’t,” she said. “It’s not adult, Tommy! And when you drink like this, I feel as though we were in different worlds. You haven’t even told me about your trip to California, and now the kids and I will have to eat supper without you. I wish you’d quit drinking, if only because it makes me feel so lonely.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. He stretched out and stared up at the crocheted canopy overhead. Betsy left the room. A moment later she came back, and he felt something cool on his forehead. He put his hand up and found a damp towel she had placed there. “Thanks,” he said.

“Would an ice bag help?”

“This is fine.”

“Did Hopkins say anything to you that worries you?”

“No — everything is fine with Ralph. I’m not worried about my job at all. I’ll talk to you about it later.”

“Please don’t drink any more,” she said.

“I won’t.”

“I don’t like to see you like this. It makes me feel awful.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We’ve got so much work to do. I promised I’d help mail pamphlets for the school.”

“After the school election can I talk with you?”

“What about?”

“Never mind now. It’s funny you said you were lonely. We’ve both been lonely so long.”

IT WAS INDIAN SUMMER. The day of the school election turned out to be warm and clear. After an early breakfast, Tom and Betsy took the children with them and went to the Town Hall to vote. Ahead of them waited a long line of commuters, the young and ambitious, the old and successful, and the tired of all ages, standing in line to vote yes or no on whether to tax themselves for the construction of a new school. They were polite, excusing themselves elaborately when they jostled each other and pointedly refraining from commenting on the issue at hand.

On the way home after they had voted, Tom and Betsy passed a white sound truck. “Vote no on the school!” it was blaring. “Vote against high taxes and poorly planned school programs!” A block ahead was another sound truck shouting, “Vote yes on the school! Our children deserve the best!” Apparently the two trucks were following each other around town, blatting like moose in the mating season.

Tom left Betsy and the children at the house and hurried to the station to go to work. On the train he looked once more at the photograph of Maria and her son. Then he read his newspaper, all of it, from headlines about wars and incipient wars to the comics. When he got to his office, he worked all day, getting together plans for the first meeting of the mental-health committee.

At six o’clock he took the train back to South Bay and again examined the photograph, which was becoming stained and creased. Before going home he stopped at the Town Hall, where Bernstein and a group of other officials were about to close the polls and announce the count on the voting machines. A quiet crowd was assembling in the building. Tom saw both Parkington and Bugala. A few last-minute voters hurried in, and then there was a hush while an elderly town councilman consulted his watch and declared the voting at an end. Three rather self-conscious officials began to inspect the voting machines, and there was a long wait. Bernstein walked to the head of the hall, and a small man handed him three pieces of paper. Bernstein cleared his throat. “On machine number one,” he announced, “the vote is seven hundred and forty-two yes and four hundred and forty-three no .”

There was a ragged cheer from the crowd. Bernstein read the counts on the other two machines, which did not differ markedly from the first. “It looks as though the vote on the school is yes by a margin of almost two to one,” he said.

There was another cheer, and a rising hum of conversation. Old Parkington headed toward the door without comment. Bugala grinned at Tom and shouldered his way through the crowd toward him. “It looks like we got it made,” he said.

“I hope so,” Tom replied. “Let’s get together tomorrow.” Hurriedly he headed home. Just as he reached the sidewalk, Bernstein caught up with him. “Say, Tom,” he said. “Have a beer with me?”

“Sure.”

They went to a bar across the street. When two glasses of beer were before them, Bernstein said, “Well, we got the school. The people in this town have more sense than they’re given credit for.”

“I guess they do.”

“Now about this zoning problem of yours. I’ll be glad to call a meeting of the board next week if you want to submit your petition.”

“Do you think they’ll approve it?”

“I can’t tell you that. As a friend of yours, all I can say is that, in my opinion, now would be a good time to submit it.”

“Thanks,” Tom said. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll hurry back and tell Betsy.”

The old Ford knocked as he drove it fast up the steep winding hill, past the great outcroppings of rock. When he got to the house, Betsy came to the front door to meet him. She had brushed her hair until it shone and had put on a crisp white blouse. She smiled, and he found he didn’t want to keep secrets from her any more. Now is the time, he thought. The housing project’s not sure yet, but nothing’s ever sure. Now is the time I’ll have faith.

“Did we get the school?” she called as he came toward her.

“Yes,” he said.

“Wonderful!” she exclaimed. “If Bugala is right. ”

“I want to talk to you,” he said.

“What about?”

“I’ve got something important I want to talk over with you. Let’s go up to our room.”

“Is something the matter?”

“It’s nothing about the project?”

“Can you wait a minute? I’ll put the kids to bed.”

“I’ll wait in our room,” he said.

“Is it anything serious? You’re acting so strange!”

“I’m all right. I don’t want to worry you. It’s just something we’ve got to talk over.”

“I’ve fed the kids, but I’ve got dinner waiting for you,” she said. “Don’t you want anything to eat?”

“Later. Come to our room when you can.”

As he went upstairs Barbara and Pete, already in their pajamas, ran to meet him. He kissed them and went in to say good night to Janey, who was already half asleep.

“Come on, kids,” Betsy said. “To bed!”

“We haven’t had a story yet!” Janey said, waking up.

“I’ll read you a short one.”

Tom went into the big bedroom and sat down nervously on the edge of the bed. He could hear Betsy in the next room quietly reading a story about Winnie the Pooh. He put his hand in his pocket, took out the letter from Maria, and for perhaps the hundredth time examined the photograph. There was the child, big-eyed, serious, dressed with that pathetic and grotesque gentility, staring out at him solemnly, the image of “The Senator” as a young boy. Beside her son, Maria looked proud and serene. He stuffed the photograph and the letter back in the envelope and put them in his pocket.