Read Online I Confess by Johannes Mario Simmel - Free Book Online
Authors: Johannes Mario Simmel
Ads: Link
seven years she'd been pressing that button for me when I had business in the main building. I nodded; so did she. Next thing I knew, I'd bumped into the glass door.
I shook the handle. The glass door didn't move. Mabel hadn't pressed the button. Now she stuck her head out of
the little window. "Hello, Mabel," I said. My stomach was all cramped up.
"Hello, Mr. Chandler," she said politely. "Do you have an appointment?" So she already knew. I was one of those for whom she no longer pressed the button. Fast work!
"No," I said, "I don't."
"Do you want me to announce you?"
"Thanks," I said. "No."
"Have a nice day, Mr. Chandler."
"Thanks," I said again. Then I went back to my oflSce to get my typewriter and pipe.
Margaret was knitting when I got home. We had rented a place on Northwood Drive, a pretty little house with a hall and a wide, steep wooden staircase that led up to the second floor. She heard me close the front door and called out to me.
"Yes, Margaret," I said. I put down the typewriter and went upstairs to her. She was wearing a white housecoat and was smiling at me. "Look," she said proudly, holding up her knitting.
"Pretty," I said.
She suspected something. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Yes, there is. Tell me what happened?"
I walked over to the window and looked out. Two strange dogs were chasing each other across the lawn. "Whose dogs are those?"
"Where?"
"In our garden. I don't know them."
She got up and came over to me awkwardly and drew me away from the window. "Roy, tell me what happened."
I looked at her. Then I told her.
She turned around and went back to her chair. She sat down again, looked at her knitting, let it fall. Her hair was straggling in her face, her complexion showed the typical yellow pigmentation of pregnancy and she had on
no make-up. "And it's my fault, isn't it?" she said tone-
lessly.
^'Nonsense!" I wheeled around. Of course it was her fault. But could I prove it to her? "What a ridiculous idea! How could it possibly be your fault?"
"Because I told Jack Warner that the picture was terrible.''
"Nonsense!" T said again. I was still watching the dogs. They were digging a wide hole in the rosebed. "It has nothing to do with that."
"But it does. Believe me, Roy. I know it does. Dore is a personal friend of Jack Warner's. That's how he got the contract to rewrite your script." She got up and began to pace up and down. Her Ions robe got in her way and she stumbled once or twice. "Of course. That's what did it. Dore went to Warner and started all this. Because you're too talented."
"I am not talented."
"You're a thousand times more talented than Dore.** ^ **No, Margaret, I'm not."
**You are! You are! Dore is afraid of you. He knows you can write rings around him and that's why he wants to get rid of you."
I went to her and laid my hands on her shoulders. "Now listen to me, Margaret. I am not a better writer than Dore Thompson. I am a very average writer and I've told you that often enough and now I beg you urgently to start believing it"
"Wait! I know if one is ambitious it would be much more exciting to be married to Paul Osbom or John Steinbeck. But I am not Paul Osborn, and I am not John Steinbeck, and I insist that you finally resign yourself to the fact."
"I shall not resign myself to the fact," she cried excitedly. '1 shall not resign myself to the fact because it isn't true! You underestimate yourself."
"I do not underestimate myself; you overestimate me. And that's got to stop."
"Why?"
"Because it's robbing me of my chance to get wort Because I am losing my friends, my connections. ..."
"And your contract with Warners," she said slowly. Her eyes were boring holes into me. I met her gaze silently. All right, I thought, if you must hear it. . . "and my contract with Warners."
"So it is my fault."
I didn't want to say it but I did. "Yes, Margaret.'*
"So..."
"I'm sorry, but the answer is yes. What you said at the preview was unpardonable. I love you, you
I shook the handle. The glass door didn't move. Mabel hadn't pressed the button. Now she stuck her head out of
the little window. "Hello, Mabel," I said. My stomach was all cramped up.
"Hello, Mr. Chandler," she said politely. "Do you have an appointment?" So she already knew. I was one of those for whom she no longer pressed the button. Fast work!
"No," I said, "I don't."
"Do you want me to announce you?"
"Thanks," I said. "No."
"Have a nice day, Mr. Chandler."
"Thanks," I said again. Then I went back to my oflSce to get my typewriter and pipe.
Margaret was knitting when I got home. We had rented a place on Northwood Drive, a pretty little house with a hall and a wide, steep wooden staircase that led up to the second floor. She heard me close the front door and called out to me.
"Yes, Margaret," I said. I put down the typewriter and went upstairs to her. She was wearing a white housecoat and was smiling at me. "Look," she said proudly, holding up her knitting.
"Pretty," I said.
She suspected something. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Yes, there is. Tell me what happened?"
I walked over to the window and looked out. Two strange dogs were chasing each other across the lawn. "Whose dogs are those?"
"Where?"
"In our garden. I don't know them."
She got up and came over to me awkwardly and drew me away from the window. "Roy, tell me what happened."
I looked at her. Then I told her.
She turned around and went back to her chair. She sat down again, looked at her knitting, let it fall. Her hair was straggling in her face, her complexion showed the typical yellow pigmentation of pregnancy and she had on
no make-up. "And it's my fault, isn't it?" she said tone-
lessly.
^'Nonsense!" I wheeled around. Of course it was her fault. But could I prove it to her? "What a ridiculous idea! How could it possibly be your fault?"
"Because I told Jack Warner that the picture was terrible.''
"Nonsense!" T said again. I was still watching the dogs. They were digging a wide hole in the rosebed. "It has nothing to do with that."
"But it does. Believe me, Roy. I know it does. Dore is a personal friend of Jack Warner's. That's how he got the contract to rewrite your script." She got up and began to pace up and down. Her Ions robe got in her way and she stumbled once or twice. "Of course. That's what did it. Dore went to Warner and started all this. Because you're too talented."
"I am not talented."
"You're a thousand times more talented than Dore.** ^ **No, Margaret, I'm not."
**You are! You are! Dore is afraid of you. He knows you can write rings around him and that's why he wants to get rid of you."
I went to her and laid my hands on her shoulders. "Now listen to me, Margaret. I am not a better writer than Dore Thompson. I am a very average writer and I've told you that often enough and now I beg you urgently to start believing it"
"Wait! I know if one is ambitious it would be much more exciting to be married to Paul Osbom or John Steinbeck. But I am not Paul Osborn, and I am not John Steinbeck, and I insist that you finally resign yourself to the fact."
"I shall not resign myself to the fact," she cried excitedly. '1 shall not resign myself to the fact because it isn't true! You underestimate yourself."
"I do not underestimate myself; you overestimate me. And that's got to stop."
"Why?"
"Because it's robbing me of my chance to get wort Because I am losing my friends, my connections. ..."
"And your contract with Warners," she said slowly. Her eyes were boring holes into me. I met her gaze silently. All right, I thought, if you must hear it. . . "and my contract with Warners."
"So it is my fault."
I didn't want to say it but I did. "Yes, Margaret.'*
"So..."
"I'm sorry, but the answer is yes. What you said at the preview was unpardonable. I love you, you
Similar Books
