Glenna Wilson was forty-eight, and she looked almost young enough to be her husband’s daughter. She was the envy and despair of all her friends and the constant amorous target of their middle-aged husbands. Her waist was still twenty-two inches, her breasts were firm and high, her hips were slim and her legs were as gracefully curved as they had ever been. Men half her age turned to smile at her on the street and tried to pick her up in cocktail lounges. Yet, except for a light henna rinse applied to her dark blonde hair—that was always worn in a full page boy—and carefully applied make-up, Glenna did absolutely nothing to keep her figure trim, her eyes clear and her skin smooth. She ate and drank whatever she pleased, she lived as hard as she pleased and she simply did not age. She was not, however, a contented woman. Her twenty-year-old daughter, Sue, was running with a fast, Bohemian crowd and Tommy, her twenty-four-year-old son, was about to make her a grandmother. But the main source of her discontent was the rapid aging of her husband and their friends. She still felt as young as she looked and she hated being constantly in the company of what she had begun referring to as “the old crowd.”
Perhaps because they disliked each other so intensely, Irene was always aware of her sister-in-law’s attitudes and so knew more about her than anyone else. She was the only one in the family who seemed to realize that it would not take much for Glenna to walk out on her husband and children and take off for Reno. She also knew that when and if it happened she, too, would be partially responsible, though innocently so.
Irene asked Frank to act as host, so he moved heavily to the bar as other guests began to arrive. The party was small, comprising only a dozen couples, and represented the social residue of the chipping away and wearing down of ten years. Most of Irene’s friends had deserted her immediately after the tragedy. Others she had cut adrift herself when she realized that the loyalty of so many of them was based on the color of the Tinsley-Wilson millions. There were also large social groupings in the city wherein Irene was no longer welcome or acceptable. The people at the party were those who believed in Irene’s innocence and, if they did not, kept it to themselves and liked her, anyway.
Irene gave her cocktail parties every other Friday night. The pattern was so well established that no one was any longer invited. They simply arrived at the proper time. The parties were never very gay and they never lasted more than a few hours. A few drinks, some hors d’oeuvres, a little chatter and the guests began drifting away to late dinners and other, more lively affairs.
This Friday night, however, was enlivened by the introduction of Morgan O’Keefe’s name. Irene was standing by the fireplace, talking over business of the bank with Frank, when Nicky and Tina van Ostrand wandered over to join them. Irene smiled at her two closest friends, relieved to break off the boring conversation with Frank. Nicky was tall, slim, blond and handsome and at one time had been the target of most of the city’s debutantes. It was still a surprise to everyone, even after eleven years, that he had married Tina. She was small, she was chubby, her lipstick was always the wrong shade, the best hairdressers could never do anything with her mouse-brown hair, and she made expensive gowns look like cheap hand-me-downs. Tina, however, was more of a woman than any woman had a right to be, a fact of which Nicky was happily aware. She had a vast love for humanity that encompassed almost everyone, she adored her husband and children and she had a talent for savoring every moment of living that was sheer genius. She would not have traded places with any woman in the world and Nicky, though he still had a roving eye and occasionally had to be reminded where the home pasture was located, felt exactly the same way. They were the only two people with whom Irene had absolutely no reservations.
Nicky sipped at his highball, winked at her and said, “I saw Doc Rigsby today, the old quack. He tells me you’re competing with the Salvation Army again.”
Frank groaned, “Oh, no. Irene, do you have another of those drunken bums in the apartment?” She nodded and he sighed, “God knows why you do it. Jay was never an alcoholic, you know.”
“I’ve known that for years.”
“Then why do you persist? If you feel you must help them, just give them some money and send them on their way. One of these days you’re going to have trouble, bringing bums like that into your own home.”
She arched her eyebrows and said quietly, “I have learned a great deal about alcoholics. When they reach that last step where they must have someone else’s help they are in no condition to be trouble to anyone.”
“But don’t you allow them to convalesce here for a few days?”
“Of course.”
“In which case, they get back on their feet and—”
She interrupted. “They aren’t like ordinary sick people. I’ve never known one yet who wasn’t humble and grateful and—” She paused and thought of Morgan and of the remark he had made while she was standing in his doorway, and suddenly the incongruous humor in his words struck her and she giggled.
Tina stared at her. She had heard Irene laugh a few times during the past years, but never giggle. A giggle was something new.
Intuitively she said, “This new bum doesn’t fit what you were about to tell us.”
Irene shook her head. “No, he doesn’t. And he’s not a bum. He’s not like the others in any way, except for his binges. All the others have been middle-aged or old, strictly Howard Street characters. Mr. O’Keefe is something quite different. He is about in his mid-thirties, I think; he’s rather handsome in a hawklike way, and there’s nothing humble about him. In fact, he’s decidedly sarcastic and sometimes downright insulting, even to me.”
Nicky gulped at his drink and looked at her with surprise. “You’re taking him in and putting him on his feet and he still has the temerity to insult you?”
“He certainly has. I think O’Keefe’s a man who would much rather have your hatred than your love. Then he knows where he stands and he doesn’t have to become involved.”
Tina protested, “Now, Irene—”
Nicky chuckled and said, “You’ll never get Tina to believe there’s anyone in the world like that.”
Irene noticed that other guests were drifting over to listen, as she said, “Well, this man is that way. And the things he says about himself— One moment he seems to be the supreme egoist and the next moment he destroys himself as casually as if he were talking about a stranger. And I have a quite definite impression that he enjoys lying about himself. As I said before, he’s far from being a bum, so I suppose he doesn’t want me to know who he really is.” She smiled. “He claims to be a writer. He says he writes dreary little books about dreary little people. Imagine.”
Everyone smiled except Nicky and Tina. They stared at each other with the same thought in mind. Nicky finished his drink in one gulp and swung his eyes back to Irene. “I know this is impossible,” he said, “but could this O’Keefe’s first name be Morgan?”
Irene stared. “Why—why, yes. How did you—”
Nicky snorted and said, “Oh, no. This is crazy. Morgan O’Keefe?”
Tina cried, “But it has to be! That description, Nicky!”
Irene said excitedly, “My goodness, do you know the man?”
Nicky shook his head, amazed and baffled. “No. We’ve never met him. It’s just that he happens to be my favorite writer. Tina can’t stand his work. He hits too hard and too low for her tastes, but I’ve always been crazy about him. Morgan O’Keefe, here in this house! My God, that’s hard to believe. And a drunk at that. That’s even harder to swallow. But it must be the same guy. Last I heard, though, he was living in Los Angeles.”
Irene