Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

“Whose party?” Virginia stopped eating.

“The Lawtons’. She went to school with Anne Lawton,” Robert said. “Didn’t you meet her?”

“I didn’t go to that party. I had the flu that week.” Virginia sipped her wine. “What’s her name?”

“Carol Something. Look at the program.”

“I left the program in the theatre. Was she nice?”

Robert shrugged. “I only talked to her for five minutes. She told me she came from California and she hates working for television and she was divorced last year but they’re still good friends. The usual kind of talk you get at the Lawtons’.”

“She looks as though she came from California,” Virginia said, making it sound like a criticism.

“Oakland,” Robert said. “It’s not exactly the same thing.”

“There she is now,” said Virginia. “Near the door.”

Robert looked up. The girl was alone and was making her way down the center of the room. She wasn’t wearing a hat, and her hair looked careless, and she had on a shapeless polo coat and flat shoes, and Robert decided, looking at her, that actresses were getting plainer every year. She stopped briefly once or twice to greet friends at other tables, then headed for a table in the corner, where a group of three men and two women were waiting for her. Robert realized that she was going to pass their table, and wondered if he ought to greet her. The party at which they’d met had been almost two months before, and he had a modest theory that people like actresses and book publishers and movie directors never remembered anyone they met who wasn’t in a related profession. He doubted whether the girl would recognize him, but he arranged a slight, impersonal smile on his face, so that if she did happen to remember, he would seem to be saluting her. If she just passed by, Robert hoped that it would merely look as though he were responding with polite amusement to one of Virginia’s remarks.

But the girl stopped in front of the table, smiling widely. She put out her hand and said, “Why, Mr. Harvey, isn’t it nice seeing you again!”

She wasn’t any prettier close up, Robert decided, but when she smiled, she seemed friendly and simple, and her voice sounded as though she really was glad to see him again after the five minutes in the noisy corner at the Lawtons’ two months ago. Robert stood up and took her hand. “Hello,” he said. “May I present my wife. Miss Byrne.”

“How do you do, Miss Byrne,” Virginia said. “We were just talking about you.”

“We saw your show tonight,” Robert said. “We thought you were very good indeed.”

“Aren’t you dear to say that,” the girl said. “I love to hear it, even if you don’t mean it at all.”

“What about the man who wrote the play?” Virginia asked. “He must be rather strange.”

“Mother trouble.” Miss Byrne glanced significantly up at the ceiling. “All the young writers coming into the theatre these days seem to have the same thing. You’d think it’d be the war that would be haunting them, but it isn’t at all. It’s only Mama.”

Virginia smiled. “Not only young writers,” she said. “Is this your first play, Miss Byrne?”

“Heavens, no,” the girl said. “I’ve been in three others. Regret, The Six-Week Vacation .… I don’t even remember the name of the third one. Turkeys. Here today and closed by Saturday.”

Virginia turned to Robert. “Did you happen to see any of them, dear?” she asked.

“No,” Robert said, surprised. He never went to the theatre without Virginia.

“Three other plays,” Virginia went on pleasantly, sounding genuinely interested. “You must have been in New York quite a long time.”

“Two years,” Miss Byrne said. “A single blink of the eye of a drama critic.”

“Two years,” Virginia said, politely. She turned to Robert again. “Where did you say Miss Byrne came from? Hollywood?”

“Oakland,” Robert said.

“New York must be quite exciting,” Virginia said. “After Oakland.”

“I love it,” Miss Byrne said, sounding young and enthusiastic. “Even with the flops.”

“I’m so sorry,” Virginia said. “Keeping you standing there like that, talking on and on about the theatre. Wouldn’t you like to sit down and join us for a drink?”

“Thanks,” the girl said, “I really can’t. They’re waiting for me over in the corner.”

“Some other time, perhaps,” Virginia said.

“I’d love it,” said Miss Byrne. “It’s been fun meeting you, Mrs. Harvey. Mr. Harvey told me about you. I do hope we see each other again. Good night.” She waved and smiled widely again and strode over toward her waiting friends.

Robert sat down slowly. There was silence at the table for a moment.

“It’s a hard life,” Virginia said after a while, “for actresses, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“ The Six-Week Vacation ,” Virginia said. “No wonder it failed, with a title like that. Did she play the lead in it, that girl?”

“I don’t know,” Robert said, waiting. “I told you I didn’t see it.”

“That’s right,” Virginia said. “You told me.”

They were silent again. Virginia began to twist the stem of her wineglass with little, jerky movements. “You told me,” she repeated. “It’s too bad she couldn’t have a drink with us. We might have learned a great deal about the theatre tonight. I find people in the theatre so fascinating. Don’t you?”

“What’s the matter with you?” Robert asked.

“Nothing,” Virginia said flatly. “There’s nothing the matter with me at all. Are you finished with your food?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s pay the check and get out of here.”

“Virginia …” Robert said, drawling the name out complainingly.

“Rah-ahbert …” Virginia said, mimicking him.

“All right,” said Robert. “What is it?”

“I said nothing.”

“I know what you said. What is it?”

Virginia lifted her eyes and looked at him closely. “Miss Byrne,” she said. “I thought you didn’t know her name.”

“Oh,” Robert said. “Now it’s turning into one of those evenings.”

“It’s not turning into any kind of evening. Get the check,” Virginia said. “I want to go home.”

“Waiter!” Robert called. “The check, please.” He stared at Virginia. She was beginning to look martyred. “Listen,” Robert said. “I didn’t know her name.”

“Carol Something,” said Virginia.

“It came to me just as she got to the table. While I was standing up. Hasn’t that ever happened to you?”

“No,” said Virginia.

“Well, it’s a common phenomenon.”

Virginia nodded. “Very common,” she said, “I’m sure.”

“Don’t you believe me?”

“You haven’t forgotten a girl’s name since you were six years old,” Virginia said. “You remember the name of the girl you danced with once the night of the Yale game in 1935.”

“Gladys,” Robert said. “Gladys McCreary. She played field hockey for Bryn Mawr.”

“No wonder you were so eager to get to the Lawtons’ that night.”

“I wasn’t eager to get to the Lawtons’ that night,” Robert said, his voice beginning to rise. “And anyway I didn’t even know she existed. At least be logical.”

“I had a hundred and three fever,” Virginia said, pitying herself all over again for the damp eyes, the hot forehead, the painful cough of two months earlier. “I was just lying there all alone, day after day …”

“Don’t make it sound as though you were on the point of death for the whole winter,” Robert said loudly. “You were in bed three days, and on Saturday you went to lunch in a snowstorm.”

“Oh,” Virginia said, “you can remember that it snowed one Saturday two months ago, but you can’t remember the name of a girl you talked to for hours at a party, that you exchanged the most intimate confidences with.”