James Salter: Dusk and Other Stories

In those days they were living in apartments with funny furniture and on Sundays sleeping until noon. They were in the last rank of the armies of law. Clever junior partners were above them, partners, associates, men in fine suits who had lunch at the Four Seasons. Frank’s father went there three or four times a week, or else to the Century Club or the Union where there were men even older than he. Half of the members can’t urinate, he used to say, and the other half can’t stop.

Alan, on the other hand, was from Cleveland where his father was well known, if not detested. No defendant was too guilty, no case too clear-cut. Once in another part of the state he was defending a murderer, a black man. He knew what the jury was thinking, he knew what he looked like to them. He stood up slowly. It could be they had heard certain things, he began. They may have heard, for instance, that he was a big-time lawyer from the city. They may have heard that he wore three-hundred-dollar suits, that he drove a Cadillac and smoked expensive cigars. He was walking along as if looking for something on the floor. They may have heard that he was Jewish.

He stopped and looked up. Well, he was from the city, he said. He wore three-hundred-dollar suits, he drove a Cadillac, smoked big cigars, and he was Jewish. “Now that we have that settled, let’s talk about this case.”

Lawyers and sons of lawyers. Days of youth. In the morning in stale darkness the subways shrieked.

“Have you noticed the new girl at the reception desk?”

“What about her?” Frank asked.

They were surrounded by noise like the launch of a rocket.

“She’s hot,” Alan confided.

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

“What do you mean, you know?”

“Intuition.”

“Int ui tion?” Frank said.

“What’s wrong?”

“That doesn’t count.”

Which was what made them inseparable, the hours of work, the lyric, the dreams. As it happened, they never knew the girl at the reception desk with her nearsightedness and wild, full hair. They knew various others, they knew Julie, they knew Catherine, they knew Ames. The best, for nearly two years, was Brenda who had somehow managed to graduate from Marymount and had a walk-through apartment on West Fourth. In a smooth, thin, silver frame was the photograph of her father with his two daughters at the Plaza, Brenda, thirteen, with an odd little smile.

“I wish I’d known you then,” Frank told her.

Brenda said, “I bet you do.”

It was her voice he liked, the city voice, scornful and warm. They were two of a kind, she liked to say, and in a way it was true. They drank in her favorite places where the owner played the piano and everyone seemed to know her. Still, she counted on him. The city has its incomparable moments—rolling along the wall of the apartment, kissing, bumping like stones. Five in the afternoon, the vanishing light. “No,” she was commanding. “No, no, no.”

He was kissing her throat. “What are you going to do with that beautiful struma of yours?”

“You won’t take me to dinner,” she said.

“Sure I will.”

“Beautiful what?”

She was like a huge dog, leaping from his arms.

“Come here,” he coaxed.

She went into the bathroom and began combing her hair. “Which restaurant are we going to?” she called.

She would give herself but it was mostly unpredictable. She would do anything her mother hadn’t done and would live as her mother lived, in the same kind of apartment, in the same soft chairs. Christmas and the envelopes for the doormen, the snow sweeping past the awning, her children coming home from school. She adored her father. She went on a trip to Hawaii with him and sent back postcards, two or three scorching lines in a large, scrawled hand.

It was summer.

“Anybody here?” Frank called.

He rapped on the door which was ajar. He was carrying his jacket, it was hot.

“All right,” he said in a loud voice, “come out with your hands over your head. Alan, cover the back.”

The party, it seemed, was over. He pushed the door open. There was one lamp on, the room was dark.

“Hey, Bren, are we too late?” he called. She appeared mysteriously in the doorway, bare legged but in heels. “We’d have come earlier but we were working. We couldn’t get out of the office. Where is everybody? Where’s all the food? Hey, Alan, we’re late. There’s no food, nothing.”

She was leaning against the doorway.

“We tried to get down here,” Alan said. “We couldn’t get a cab.”

Frank had fallen onto the couch. “Bren, don’t be mad,” he said. “We were working, that’s the truth. I should have called. Can you put some music on or something? Is there anything to drink?”

“There’s about that much vodka,” she finally said.

“Any ice?”

“About two cubes.” She pushed off the wall without much enthusiasm. He watched her walk into the kitchen and heard the refrigerator door open.

“So, what do you think, Alan?” he said. “What are you going to do?”

“Me?”

“Where’s Louise?” Frank called.

“Asleep,” Brenda said.

“Did she really go home?”

“She goes to work in the morning.”

“So does Alan.”

Brenda came out of the kitchen with the drinks.

“I’m sorry we’re late,” he said. He was looking in the glass. “Was it a good party?” He stirred the contents with one finger. “This is the ice?”

“Jane Harrah got fired,” Brenda said.

“That’s too bad. Who is she?”

“She does big campaigns. Ross wants me to take her place.”

“Great.”

“I’m not sure if I want to,” she said lazily.

“Why not?”

“She was sleeping with him.”

“And she got fired?”

“Doesn’t say much for him, does it?”

“It doesn’t say much for her.”

“That’s just like a man. God.”

“What does she look like? Does she look like Louise?”

The smile of the thirteen-year-old came across Brenda’s face. “No one looks like Louise,” she said. Her voice squeezed the name whose legs Alan dreamed of. “Jane has these thin lips.”

“Is that all?”

“Thin-lipped women are always cold.”

“Let me see yours,” he said.

“Burn up.”

“Yours aren’t thin. Alan, these aren’t thin, are they? Hey, Brenda, don’t cover them up.”

“Where were you? You weren’t really working.”

He’d pulled down her hand. “Come on, let them be natural,” he said. “They’re not thin, they’re nice. I just never noticed them before.” He leaned back. “Alan, how’re you doing? You getting sleepy?”

“I was thinking. How much the city has changed,” Alan said. “In five years?”

“I’ve been here almost six years.”

“Sure, it’s changing. They’re coming down, we’re going up.”

Alan was thinking of the vanished Louise who had left him only a jolting ride home through the endless streets. “I know.”

That year they sat in the steam room on limp towels, breathing the eucalyptus and talking about Hardmann Roe. They walked to the showers like champions. Their flesh still had firmness. Their haunches were solid and young.

Hardmann Roe was a small drug company in Connecticut that had strayed slightly outside of its field and found itself suing a large manufacturer for infringement of an obscure patent. The case was highly technical with little chance of success. The opposing lawyers had thrown up a barricade of motions and delays and the case had made its way downwards, to Frik and Frak whose offices were near the copying machines, who had time for such things, and who pondered it amid the hiss of steam. No one else wanted it and this also made it appealing.