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Authors: Rona Jaffe
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scornfully. "He hangs around in those Third Avenue bars all night, drinking and reciting poetry and talking to ever)' stranger he can lay his hands on. One of them probably hit him."
"Doesn't he have a home?" Caroline asked. "A \vife?"
"He had a wife, but she left him. It's very sad. He lives in a real run-down hotel on the West Side. He's divorced and he has a daughter ten years old who he never sees. He writes to her all the time. I know because his secretary told me. He used to dictate these long, long letters, all about life and love and people and stuff. Sort of advice for when she grows up. That's because he thinks he'll never see her again. I can just imagine the kind of advice he'd give to a child."
"Ten years old seems young for a child of his," Caroline said.
"How old d'you think he is?"
"About forty-eight, I would guess."
"He's thirty-eight. He looks that way because he lives such an unhealthy life," Mary Agnes added disapprovingly. "If he was married and lived with his wife and child he wouldn't look that way."
"Marriage solves everything?" Caroline asked.
"What a funny thing to say."
"Why is it funny?"
"Well . . ." Mary Agnes said, "there are only two ways to live, the right way and the wrong way. If you live the right way you're
happy, and if you live the wrong way you're miserable. If you get married it doesn't mean positively you're going to be happy, but if you get married and walk out on it then you cant be happy. You'll always know you gave up on a responsibility."
"What if the other person walks out on you?"
"Mr. Rice should have tried harder."
"How do you know he didn't?"
"Well, that's a funny thing to think," Mary Agnes said. "You don't even loiow him."
"I know it," Caroline said. "Maybe he was a beast. I'm only saying I know about being walked out on. Sometimes trying doesn't make the least bit of difference. It's almost as if there aren't two people involved at all."
Mary Agnes looked at her, her eyes widening. "Were you married?"
"No. Engaged."
Mary Agnes glanced at Caroline's left hand. "Oh, how terrible. How terrible."
"Well, don't you get upset about it," Caroline said, smiling.
"You poor thing," Mary Agnes said. "I'll never talk about it again, unless you bring it up. If you ever want to talk about it, you just tell me."
And you'll tell everyone else on the thirty-fifth floor, Caroline thought, amused. Mary Agnes' air of tragedy made her begin to feel that her problems really weren't so pitiable after all. There is something to be said for someone else's exaggerated sympathy. If it happens to fall a little far afield it makes the original problem seem a bit remote and not quite worth it. Or maybe that's the first sign of health, she thought. If you get hit in the stomach it has to heal, and if you have a concussion that takes time too, but at least you can watch the progress. It's very hard to watch the imperceptible mending of a broken heart. Maybe this is the first sign of mending: the fact that Mary Agnes' pained solicitude for me this morning happens to strike me as amusing.
It was a relaxing day, because Miss Farrow disappeared directly after lunch and did not come back for the rest of the afternoon, but Caroline kept glancing nervously at Mr. Shalimar's closed door, half expecting him to come roaring out of it like a bull into a ring, waving her comment sheet in fury. It was odd that she had thought of a buU,
she mused, but perhaps it was because Mr. Shalimar, from the few ghmpses she had had of him, looked to her like an aging matador. The stiff posture, shoulders straight, the dark skin, and oddest of all that air he had of someone who has been through a great deal and still has some inner feehng urging him on but knows that he cannot answer it any longer. He struck her as a troubled man, and not just because of his responsibilities at the office, which would make anyone in charge look bemused at times. It was funny, she thought, that before she had ever had a job
"Doesn't he have a home?" Caroline asked. "A \vife?"
"He had a wife, but she left him. It's very sad. He lives in a real run-down hotel on the West Side. He's divorced and he has a daughter ten years old who he never sees. He writes to her all the time. I know because his secretary told me. He used to dictate these long, long letters, all about life and love and people and stuff. Sort of advice for when she grows up. That's because he thinks he'll never see her again. I can just imagine the kind of advice he'd give to a child."
"Ten years old seems young for a child of his," Caroline said.
"How old d'you think he is?"
"About forty-eight, I would guess."
"He's thirty-eight. He looks that way because he lives such an unhealthy life," Mary Agnes added disapprovingly. "If he was married and lived with his wife and child he wouldn't look that way."
"Marriage solves everything?" Caroline asked.
"What a funny thing to say."
"Why is it funny?"
"Well . . ." Mary Agnes said, "there are only two ways to live, the right way and the wrong way. If you live the right way you're
happy, and if you live the wrong way you're miserable. If you get married it doesn't mean positively you're going to be happy, but if you get married and walk out on it then you cant be happy. You'll always know you gave up on a responsibility."
"What if the other person walks out on you?"
"Mr. Rice should have tried harder."
"How do you know he didn't?"
"Well, that's a funny thing to think," Mary Agnes said. "You don't even loiow him."
"I know it," Caroline said. "Maybe he was a beast. I'm only saying I know about being walked out on. Sometimes trying doesn't make the least bit of difference. It's almost as if there aren't two people involved at all."
Mary Agnes looked at her, her eyes widening. "Were you married?"
"No. Engaged."
Mary Agnes glanced at Caroline's left hand. "Oh, how terrible. How terrible."
"Well, don't you get upset about it," Caroline said, smiling.
"You poor thing," Mary Agnes said. "I'll never talk about it again, unless you bring it up. If you ever want to talk about it, you just tell me."
And you'll tell everyone else on the thirty-fifth floor, Caroline thought, amused. Mary Agnes' air of tragedy made her begin to feel that her problems really weren't so pitiable after all. There is something to be said for someone else's exaggerated sympathy. If it happens to fall a little far afield it makes the original problem seem a bit remote and not quite worth it. Or maybe that's the first sign of health, she thought. If you get hit in the stomach it has to heal, and if you have a concussion that takes time too, but at least you can watch the progress. It's very hard to watch the imperceptible mending of a broken heart. Maybe this is the first sign of mending: the fact that Mary Agnes' pained solicitude for me this morning happens to strike me as amusing.
It was a relaxing day, because Miss Farrow disappeared directly after lunch and did not come back for the rest of the afternoon, but Caroline kept glancing nervously at Mr. Shalimar's closed door, half expecting him to come roaring out of it like a bull into a ring, waving her comment sheet in fury. It was odd that she had thought of a buU,
she mused, but perhaps it was because Mr. Shalimar, from the few ghmpses she had had of him, looked to her like an aging matador. The stiff posture, shoulders straight, the dark skin, and oddest of all that air he had of someone who has been through a great deal and still has some inner feehng urging him on but knows that he cannot answer it any longer. He struck her as a troubled man, and not just because of his responsibilities at the office, which would make anyone in charge look bemused at times. It was funny, she thought, that before she had ever had a job
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