Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

“They probably think you’ve been in an accident,” he said, laughing.

“Don’t laugh. I want to come home. I feel awful and I want to come home.”

“Let me talk to the cops,” he said.

“Just a minute.”

There was a short delay before a gruff voice said, “Sergeant Haggerty speaking.”

“My name is Rath, Thomas Rath in South Bay,” Tom said. “I want you to call a cab for my wife and let her come right home. If there’s any difficulty about it, I’ll have Judge Saul Bernstein here get in touch with you immediately and straighten it out.”

“No difficulty,” the voice said. “We just thought it was peculiar, girl walking along the road alone late at night like that. We just wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

“Everything’s fine. Please have the car towed to a garage and call her a cab.”

“Be glad to. You a friend of Judge Bernstein’s?”

“Sure am.”

“Give him my best when you see him — name’s Haggerty. And tell your wife to bring her license and registration with her after this when she goes out driving alone late at night.”

“I will. Let me talk to her again, will you?”

“Okay,” Haggerty said. “Just a minute.”

“You’re out of hock,” Tom said when Betsy came on the line. “They’re going to call you a cab. Come home. I can’t wait to see you.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ve been an awful fool, Tommy. I know that.”

“Anybody can forget a driver’s license,” he said. “Hurry home and we’ll talk then.”

He went outside and sat down on the front doorstep. The moonlight was still bright on the long grass and on the water of the Sound, lying ruffled by a rising morning breeze. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke float lazily off in the moonlight. After about a half hour, he heard a car approaching. Bright headlights flashed across the driveway, and a taxi stopped in front of the house. The back door swung open, and Betsy jumped out. She ran immediately to him. Neither of them spoke. The silence was broken after about thirty seconds by the taxi driver clearing his throat. Tom paid him. When the taxi had gone, he turned to Betsy. “Don’t let’s go in yet,” he said. “It’s too nice a night out.”

They walked over to the stone wall and sat with their backs against it. He kissed her. “There are some things I have to say,” she said. “Don’t kiss me again, or I’ll never say them.”

“Nothing has to be said now.”

“This must be said. Tonight while I was driving alone, I realized for the first time what you went through in the war, and what different worlds we’ve been living in ever since. I’m sorry I acted like a child.”

“I love you.”

“You’re right about helping your boy in Italy. Of course we should do all we can.”

“I love you.”

“He should have a good education and everything he needs. Do they have trouble getting enough food and medicine and clothes over there? We should find out what he needs and send it. We shouldn’t just send money.”

“I love you more than I can ever tell.”

“I want you to be able to talk to me about the war. It might help us to understand each other. Did you really kill seventeen men?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it now?”

“No. It’s not that I want to and can’t — it’s just that I’d rather think about the future. About getting a new car and driving up to Vermont with you tomorrow.”

“That will be fun. It’s not an insane world. At least, our part of it doesn’t have to be.”

“Of course not.”

“We don’t have to work and worry all the time. It’s been our own fault that we have. What’s been the matter with us?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I expected peace to be nothing but a time for sitting in the moonlight with you like this, and I was surprised to find that this isn’t quite all there is to it.”

“I disappointed you.”

“Of course you didn’t. I was my own disappointment. I really don’t know what I was looking for when I got back from the war, but it seemed as though all I could see was a lot of bright young men in gray flannel suits rushing around New York in a frantic parade to nowhere. They seemed to me to be pursuing neither ideals nor happiness — they were pursuing a routine. For a long while I thought I was on the side lines watching that parade, and it was quite a shock to glance down and see that I too was wearing a gray flannel suit. Then I met Caesar, running an elevator. He’s the one who knew about Maria — he went through most of the war with me. There was Caesar in his purple uniform, staring at me in my gray flannel suit and reminding me, always reminding me, that I was betraying almost everyone I knew.”

“I wish I could have helped you.”

“You did help me — you and Caesar. I needed a great deal of assistance in becoming an honest man. If you hadn’t persuaded me to play it straight with Ralph, I would be thinking differently now. By a curious coincidence, Ralph and a good deal of the rest of the world have seemed honest to me ever since I became honest with myself. And if I hadn’t met Caesar, I don’t think I ever would have had the courage to tell you about Maria. I would have gone on, becoming more and more bitter, more and more cynical, and I don’t know where that road would have ended. But now I’m sure things are going to be better. I’ve become almost an optimist.”

“I’m glad we’re going to have a week to ourselves. Where are we going in Vermont?”

“I know a place where we can rent a cabin by a lake a thousand miles from nowhere. The foliage on the mountains will be beautiful this time of the year. If we get a few more days of Indian summer, it may not be too late for a swim. The nights will be cold, and we’ll sleep by an open fire.”

“Do you love me?”

“A little.”

“Don’t tease me. Do you like the way I look?”

“You’re beautiful. You never used to like to have me tell you that.”

“I want to hear it now. Often. Tell me again that I am beautiful.”

“Every time I look at you, you are a delight to me. Every night when I get off the train and see you, I want to tell you that. I haven’t for years, because you told me once that you would rather have other compliments.”

“I guess when I decided to be a fool, I had to play it big.”

“You’ve not been as foolish as I,” he said, and pulled her down beside him in the fragrant grass and kissed her. A sudden puff of wind set the long ends of the grass shivering all around him. She shuddered. “You’re cold,” he said. “I’ll take you in now.”

“No. Hold me tight.”

“You’re trembling. Why?”

“I don’t know. I feel as though we almost died and have just been rescued.”

“We’re not going to worry any more. No matter what happens, we’ve got a lot to be grateful for.”

“When I think of all you’ve been through, I’m afraid.”

“Don’t be. The dead don’t have the last laugh. It’s the children left by the dead and the survivors who laugh last, and their laughter is not sardonic. Ever since you came back to me tonight, I’ve been remembering a line from a poem that used to sound ironic and bitter. It doesn’t sound that way any more. Tonight, for a little while at least, I feel it’s true.”

“What is it?”

“ ‘God’s in his heaven,’ ” he said, “ ‘all’s right with the world.’ ”

AT ELEVEN-THIRTY the next morning Judge Saul Bernstein got a telephone call from Tom Rath. “I’m just about to leave town for a week, but I’d like to drop down and see you first,” Tom said. “I want your help on a very personal problem.”