"Mr. Ferris Cooper? This is LE 4-3017 isn't it?" The voice articulated each digit carefully, making certain it was the correct number.
"Yes it is, but he isn't here. Who's calling please?" It was unusual for someone to be phoning Ferris at home in the middle of the day.
"Well, he's not at his office. They said he wasn't coming in today."
"Oh?" That was a very strange thing to hear.
"Well, just tell him Myra Peterson phoned to let him know that Andrea is going to be late for their date — they're supposed to be meeting at five at the Algonquin but Andrea is going to be at least a half-hour late."
"Andrea?"
"Yes. A-n-d-r-e-a," She spelled out each letter. "Just tell Ferris she's going to be late," the woman said.
There was a click and the woman was gone.
After a while, Marian got up, emptied the tea cup, and washed it in the sink. The hot water from the faucet was scalding. Her hands got redder and redder. She was aware of her hands changing color but she felt no pain. It was the same sort of feeling, lack of feeling that she'd felt watching them put her Father's coffin into the earth.
It was as if someone else's hands were placing the washed cup back on the shelf and closing the cabinet. The hands were wet. It was as if the hands led her to the towel rack in the bathroom. She dried them, staring down at a zigzag crack in the tile floor.
...."Andrea"...
There was ice in Marian's heart like a cold cruel splinter. She felt cold all over as if the ice was spreading. The truth was crystal clear and very simple.
Ferris was involved with another woman. Her name was
An
drea
.
+++++++++
Chapter
10
At six-thirty, Ferris' key sounded in the lock. The click of the tumblers, the clack-clack of the door knob turned then springing back, the opening door, the sound of it closing, his steps as he moved to the brass hooks to hang his coat, the clatter of his keys in the pewter dish — each sound seemed to be a separate event that was spaced out so that at any point she could break in, interrupt the inevitability of the steps that were bringing him to the kitchen. She knew she should sing out a greeting that would divert him to his study, the shower, or to some other ordinary domestic routine. But she couldn't.
"Don't let me say anything, God, stop me please," she prayed. She'd been sitting in the breakfast nook on the wooden bench for a long time. The sun had gone down. Street lights were on outside the windows, the appliances had a phosphorescent ghostly presence which vanished as Ferris snapped on the light.
"Darling, what are you doing in here in the dark?"
It took Marian's eyes a second to adjust. She spoke quietly. "You were supposed to meet her at the Algonquin Hotel at five o'clock, weren't you, but she was late, wasn't she?
Andrea
— that's her name, isn't it Ferris?"
Ferris said "Yes."
An injury had been made, no bones broken, no break in the skin but it was extremely painful. An internal bruise, it did not show but it would take a long, long time to heal. Silence was not a remedy. Marian knew that from observing her Mamma's quiet suffering for many years.
"You might as well sit down," she said. "I think we'd better talk."
Ferris wanted to take Marian in his arms, smooth back her hair, speak to her as husband of the many things that had happened while she had been away — the girl was unimportant, what he needed to talk about was the pressures that had made him vulnerable, susceptible to an outside relationship. He sat down on the opposite side of the table so that he could see her face, her eyes especially. Perhaps Marian was right — the best thing for them both would be an honest and open discussion.
Marian learned the full name was Andrea McCreedy, she was about twenty-five and "quite attractive."
"It's better to know," Marian said. The sound of his voice made her begin to feel alive again. "But what do you mean — 'quite attractive'? You mean 'very'? Or just sort of?"
Ferris wasn't sure what to say. Marian was fiddling with the green and yellow-flowered salt shaker, turning it around on the green and yellow-flowered tablecloth. The matching patterns had always vaguely bothered him. He shifted his position, trying to get his long legs more comfortable — the picnic-style wooden benches and table were O.K. for breakfast but not for a long discussion. "Marian darling, that seems so unimportant, why do you need to know if Andrea was 'very' or 'sort of' attractive?"
"I just need to know. How else can I understand what happened? Your Andrea was..." Marian stopped mid-sentence, corrected herself, "
is
very pretty, isn't she?" Her tone of voice was reasonable but she wasn't looking at him. She was concentrating on the salt shaker as if it were a bank statement.
"Most people would say she's pretty."
"One of those starlet types, I suppose?"
Ferris replied carefully, "I'm not sure what you mean, Marian."
"You know what I mean. Is she one of those movie starlet types? Perfect face, perfect figure, always smiling? I've heard you describe dozens of girls as 'starlet types.'"
Ferris didn't answer, he wasn't sure how to answer and he was feeling extremely uncomfortable.
"Well, was she?
Is
she?"
"Is she, was she what?"
"Perfect. Is she perfect? I mean, in an ordinary way? Oh Ferris, you don't want to tell me, do you? You're avoiding the question. To spare me? Is she a gorgeous glamor girl? Is that why?"
"Honey, I'm not avoiding your question. Andrea is far from perfect..." He noticed Marian had stopped turning the salt shaker. "Sweetheart, she isn't ordinary but she's definitely not a gorgeous glamor girl!"
"What makes her so
extra
ordinary?"
"I'm not suggesting that Andrea is 'extra' ordinary, I'm just saying she wasn't ordinary."
"
Isn't
. Use the present tense please Ferris," Marian reminded him.
"Well dammit, she isn't ordinary." He felt as if he were talking to a lawyer.
"I see how it upsets you to talk about her," Marian started playing with the salt shaker again.
Ferris then had to deny that it upset him to talk about Andrea. To prove the point, he had to continue to talk about her. In this way he was brought to describe the girl in more detail. He kept it as innocuous as possible, mentioned freckles, short nose, square jaw, bright red lipstick and fake fingernails — he thought it would amuse Marian but it didn't. He mentioned heavy mascara and long, straight black hair.
"And she wears it loose I suppose, except for a couple of bobby pins," Marian muttered.
In the silence there was the sound of someone laughing in another apartment. It seemed to be coming down through the pipes that were hidden behind the green and yellow flowered wallpaper.
There were many questions, sharp questions, hard questions, hurtful thoughts on her mind all at once, like so many pins in a pin cushion.
...Why is he making it so difficult? Why is he leaving out certain things? Why doesn't he mention Andrea's clothes? Her weight, her height, her shape
...?
There was another burst of laughter behind the walls.
"Well, go on," Marian said quietly.
"Go on?" Ferris also spoke quietly. "Marian, haven't we talked enough about the girl?"
"No. We haven't."
"What more do you want to know?"
The automatic icemaker in the refrigerator dropped a cube. She fiddled with the salt shaker, aware that they were talking in the same strained, quiet tones her parents had used when talking about Ralph — the flat, mechanical voices used to make her feel invisible.
"Marian, what do you want me to explain? You want me to start at
day
one
when you left for California and tell you what I've been doing day by day?" It was as if she'd led him onto quicksand, any move was going to get him in deeper.
Then, the salt shaker fell over, spilling out some salt and Marian laughed. And then Ferris was laughing too when he realized that they were both making little salt piles — he, with the side of his hand, she — with the tip of one finger.
"I don't suppose you've had any dinner," Marian said.
"I'm starving. Can't we take a little break, honey?"
Marian reached impulsively across the table, took his hand. A black and white shadow play of his hands touching, caressing and imparting their warmth to someone else burst into vision. She folded her hands in her lap. It was hard to remember that only a few hours ago, she had been a confident content and happy wife preparing for a tender homecoming reunion.
Outside, Ferris took Marian's arm. Her profile had a classic purity. It swept over him — how beautiful she was, how important she was to him. He knew he had to find a way back to loving communication but he wasn't sure how.
After a sip of his scotch, Ferris began tentatively, to tell his side of the story. He started with the casting agency that had sent
Cooper-Riche
the six actors. He explained the type of commercial — it was Florida oranges. Ferris described the environment — the location in Key West, the crowded motel, cafeteria food, the technical problems with script, weather and temperamental camera crew. By detailing it, he was trying to make it more abstract. He wanted Marian to see that he had not sought out a relationship, that the girl was merely an incident among the other incidents in a stressful moment of his life.
By the time the entree arrived, Ferris had managed to get Marian to smile once or twice. He got her talking about her new client and the style show luncheon and they began to enjoy the food. The conversation became husband and wife chatting about their household — the problem with the front door lock, the new lounge chair that was needed for the study, the pilot light on the stove that had been going out, what kind of wine should be ordered for the wine rack.
Both chuckled, each noting the other, ordering a sinfully rich dessert.
Ferris was finally able to get to the subject of Charles, the situation at the office. It was a problem that was on his mind almost continually and Marian was the one person who might be able to help him figure out what to do.
"Charles' drinking is beginning to affect his work, Marian. He comes in late to the office. He's always had affairs but now his playing around has gotten us into trouble. He got involved with a young man — what a trauma — the boy works for
Empire Advertising
! Charles and the boy ran up a lot of late-night entertainment expenses. I just got a nasty letter from
Empire
— they're refusing to pay the bill! I want to say something to him, but what do I say? Stop playing around? Shape up?"
"I'm not sure. You've always said his private life is his own business but it sounds as if Charles is jeopardizing the reputation of your firm."
"He certainly is, and you wouldn't believe the expenses he's already run up on the
Soup Can
presentation." Ferris sighed deeply, but he was almost enjoying the discussion because they were sharing again. He signaled the waiter so he could order their favorite brandy.
Suddenly Marian asked, "Ferris, does Charles know?"
"Does Charles know?" Ferris repeated, not sure what she was asking.
"Does Charles know about Andrea?"
"Well, he certainly knows who she is. He hired her. But he was in Boston with another one of our clients while we were shooting in Key West." Ferris knew they were back on dangerous ground.
"I thought you said the casting agency hired Andrea?"
"They did, but Charles takes care of all our contracts with I.F.M."
"What's 'I.F.M.' — a union?"
"It's a management group, it handles models."
"Didn't you say Andrea was an actress?"
"Sweetheart, she is an actress."
"But she's handled by a group that handles professional models?"
"O.K., she's an actress
and
a model. What difference does that make?"
"I'm not a fool, Ferris. There
is
a difference — models have different qualifications." Marian studied the cake crumbs on her plate. "Is that why you avoided telling me that Andrea is a model?"
"I didn't avoid telling you."
"I suppose Andrea has a model's build?"
"Yes." Ferris' tone of voice was flat. "Andrea has a model's build."
"Skinny?"
"No." It seemed ludicrous — their intense focus on a not particularly talented model who had been in his life for so short a time. "She's not skinny." He laughed nervously.
"What's so funny? You said Andrea was a model. Fashion models are usually skinny." Marian was thinking of the models that she had hired for the store. They were little better than salesgirls, though flashier types. "Your Andrea isn't one of those cheap types, is she?"
"Dammit to hell, what kind of man do you think I am? What kind of commercials do you think we make!" His voice was out of control but he couldn't help it.