Buddy-Buddy

Rod Mellin is a practical man.

Take his name, for instance--shortened from "Roderick" to save time and effort. Consider his present position--art director at Cowl and Ives, Inc., the eighth largest advertising agency in the United States. Nine years ago his one-man show at The Lourau Gallery in Paris made a strong and favorable impression upon the art world. Every painting was sold by the end of the fourth day. He took the money, went to Marseilles, and from there journeyed by sea to Greece. During the voyage he spoke to scarcely anyone and took his meals alone. He was thinking. He had bought a portable adding machine and spent his mornings using it in his cabin. His arithmetic had always been shaky and he was grateful that his new affluence made it possible for him to stop racking his brain over figures.

He had spent 572 days in Paris. With his machine (one of those cunning ones that can multiply, subtract and divide, as well as add) he calculated the average time per canvas: 11 days. This included nonworking days, binges and discards. Cost per canvas: 152.282 francs. This took into account living expenses, supplies, transportation, models and props. Average sale price per canvas: 410.969 francs. Deducting commissions, advertising and French taxes, he arrived at an average net return of 132.511 francs per canvas, or a loss of 19.771 francs per canvas.

His first thought was that the machine must be defective. (Should have bought that better one!) He spent half a day recomputing without the machine. The answer was the same to the penny. He was pleased with himself and with the machine, but doubly dismayed at the result.

The night before landing he walked the decks in fitful contemplation. At dawn, from the top deck, he watched the docking at Piraeus. As the ship was being tied fast he resolved, once and for all, to abandon painting.

During breakfast he made further plans, again with the aid of his machine. He was unaware of the stir he caused. Who ever saw anyone--even an American--having breakfast with an adding machine?

He was planning his year to come. Go straight back to Paris, sell everything--the Vespa, too; sublet the studio; rent (buy?) car. Italy, Yugoslavia, Copenhagen, London. Four months. Then home to New York with $4000--well, say $3500. Small apartment--no--job first, then apartment nearby. The new aim: commercial art. To hell with this feckless competing with Picasso.

Rod Mellin is a practical man.

• • •

The holiday happened, as did the New York plan, but he soon found that managers were generally better off than craftsmen; that sellers were richer than makers; that even a winning horse got no more than a feed bag, while the owner got the purse. He decided to stop being a horse.

His 56-year-old superior, Bill Ettinger, lasted only ten months under the pressure of his driving, challenging 26-year-old assistant; and late one November afternoon was found lifeless, slumped over an unfinished layout. Rod finished it.

At the Christmas office party he met Jeannie Cowl, his boss's daughter, recently returned from a year at the Sorbonne. They flirted in French and stayed together until New Year's Day.

Permanence was in the surrounding air. Jeannie was willing and Mr. Cowl seemed approving, or at least not disapproving. As for Rod, he could not make up his mind.

He spent January second on the Staten Island ferry, and as it docked after the last trip of the day, decided that he could not decide. He needed help, but to whom could he bring so intimate a question? He was at a vital crossroad and stood rooted. Yet he knew he must proceed soon in one direction or another. The temptation was great and the girl was not bad and the partnership was assured, but what of his image? What would the world--his world--say and think?

He sat at his desk the following day, made a list of his friends (14) and began to cross off those he mistrusted (14).

That was when he thought, for the first time in years, of Pete Rossi.

He and Pete went back to Army days in Korea, where each had discovered the other, sketching. They found themselves to be compatible in other things as well. Their tastes in food, music, girls and colors were alike.

They roomed together in New York for ten months after their discharge. When Rod began planning his move to Paris, he urged Pete to join him.

"Better food, better wine, better beaver, what's bad? Also, if you stay eighteen months, there's this jolly tax gimmick. No tax. We pick up odd jobs, we keep the loot, we paint and we sell. Why? Because we're from Paris, n'est-ce pas? Glamor, prestige. Fame and fortune."

Pete regarded his tense, handsome friend appraisingly and asked, "You know your trouble, bozo?"

"What?"

"You're practical."

"You bet your lily-white."

Rod went to Paris by himself. His correspondence with Pete began faithfully, continued sporadically and ended abruptly.

After he returned to New York for good, his reminder pad frequently held the words: "Call Rossi," but he failed to heed them. When he thought of it in pre-sleep darkness, he reasoned that the man he had become could not hope for Pete's approval, let alone friendship. He was on a new drive now, with values, aspirations and meanings that Pete could not, would not, understand. So it was that the old friends remained apart until Rod's crisis.

He found Pete's phone number in the directory (same address!) and called him.

"Yeah?"

Rod remembered that singular answering sound--impatient, suggesting that important activity had been interrupted.

"Rod, Pete."

There was a pause.

"What'd you do?" asked Pete. "Dial the wrong number?"

Within the hour they sat in the bachelor comfort of Rod's apartment having a drink and studying each other.

It seemed to Pete that Rod had grown taller, or was it thinner? In either case, it was becoming, as were his careful clothes.

Rod saw a slower Pete, relaxed and resigned. He looked heavier and his new crewcut was youthful.

They talked of nothing things until Pete said, abruptly, "What's the problem?"

"What makes you think there's a problem?"

"You always change color when you're in a jam. A kind of gray-green. Winsor Newton, terre-verte."

Rod began slowly and apologetically, but soon (since the subject was himself) became absorbed and involved, and gushed a geyser of talk. He was encouraged by Pete's matchless listening. ("If you want to be impressive," Pete had once said, "learn to talk; if you want to be popular, learn to listen.")

It took a long time, almost two hours, and when it was over Rod was drained. He made himself a fresh and exceedingly brown drink.

"So," said Pete, "what it boils down to is this: Should you marry her because she's the boss's daughter, or should you not marry her because she's the boss's daughter? Yes?"

"Something like that."

"The answer goes like this: Every fine, red-blooded American boy should marry the boss's daughter if he can. But every fine, red-blooded smart American boy makes damn sure it's not his boss's daughter."

"What?" said Rod, startled.

"Somebody else's boss's daughter is the enlightened view, unless you happen to be crazy about everybody smirking behind your back all the time. Or unless you're a born second fiddler. Now. You know any other bosses' daughters?"

"Not offhand, no."

"I'm not worried, Rod. If I know you, you'll find one."

He knew him.

• • •

On the first day of the Atlantic City convention of The Council on Graphic Communications, Rod met a petite, beguiling redhead who wore nothing but Chanel originals and seemed to need no sleep at all. They shared talks, walks, meals, kisses and more--with increasing intensity and appetite.

On the last day of the convention, Rod (having learned who she was) proposed successfully and less than two weeks later was related by marriage to BBD&O, the fourth largest advertising agency in the United States.

Two years and two months later Rod was again in need of a confidant, this time to assist him in a private, risky matter.

He made another list and wiped it out (35 names this time) and sought out Pete.

They met at The Racquet Club. Pete was impressed.

"You a member?" he asked.

"Yes."

"You must have a good racket, huh?"

Pete laughed at his own joke, since Rod did not.

"Same ol'," said Rod, sadly regarding his waggish companion.

"A bit handsomer, no?" asked Pete. "All this becoming chinchilla up here?" He fingered his graying hair.

"You look surprisingly all right," said Rod.

"That comes from not being married," Pete explained.

"Yeah. How come?"

"There ain't enough bosses' daughter to go round."

"Eat your food."

"It's what I came for, if you want the truth. When I eat best is when you're in a bind."

"I'm in a beaut now, all right."

"Tell me."

Rod collected his thoughts and began.

"It's a girl."

"Congratulations! Shouldn't you be passing out cigars?"

"Relax, will you?"

Rod lit a cigarette.

"Who is she?" asked Pete. "Anybody you know?"

"She's sensational," said Rod. "And nuts about me." (Continued on page 122) buddy-buddy (continued from page 116)

"Sure. That's what makes her sensational."

"British," Rod continued. "We brought her over with a flock of models for that luxey cosmetic screamer and, well--don't ask me. We simply happened."

"I didn't ask you," said Pete.

The waiter brought Rod's coffee and served it with care.

"She's about the least demanding female I've ever known," Rod resumed. "And she understands my position perfectly."

"Do you?"

"I've got to go along like this for a while," said Rod. "I can't rock the boat right now."

"The old man's not getting any younger, huh?"

Rod blushed. "Cut it out, Pete."

"No. I'm not so sure I like you. You want too much. The English say--ask your friend, why don't you?--'You cahn't have it both ways!' How wrong they are. You've got it both ways. Now you want it two more ways." He paused and snapped an afterthought.' "Why isn't your wife enough?"

Rod's answering anger flared. He kept his voice down, but it was hoarse with vehemence.

"Can I help it if I'm not her father? That's what she wants me to be!"

They sat quietly, cooling off.

Pete said, "I doubt I can help you this time."

"Yes you can."

"But why should I?"

Rod did not reply immediately. When he did, it was as though someone else were speaking, a tender man.

"Because I know you," he said, "and there's only one thing you revere and that's love and that's what this is. That's why you're not married--because you've never had the luck of love--and you won't settle for less, like the rest of us poor slobs. Mine came at a bad time, that's all. Late."

"I was in love once," said Pete to his memory. "And she had to go and die."

"Will you help me, Pete?"

"What makes you think it's love?" asked Pete, testily.

The answer came slowly and steadily. "I live in another category with her, that she--creates. It's quiet there and the small things matter more than the big ones and she means every word she says and every move she makes. And the sound of her--I wish I could describe it--soothing and nourishing. Not like at home, where everything's so goddamn here and now and we have to this and you'd better that and hurry up and what's the matter with you---- Am I talking too much?"

"What is it you want me to do?"

"I have to have a few evenings with you. You know--buddy-buddy. A couple of afternoons. Prize fights, ball games-- poker? Weekends, maybe. Fishing? A trip to the West Coast. You've got this television notion--something to do with painting, say--and we're developing it."

"All that? You'll get sick of me."

"How about it?"

Pete looked out the window, musing.

"I'm wondering why should I?" he said. "Dirty pool."

"Bread on the waters? I might be able to do something for you someday."

Pete looked back at Rod and said, "I hope it never comes, but--all right. I'll swing with you, because in spite of everything, you're my friend. One of my few."

Rod's voice took on a take-charge tone.

"To begin with, call me up three, four times in the next four, five days and when you find I'm not home, talk to her. That'll check you in."

"All right."

"And in case she should ever happen to call your place when we're supposed to be together there--say I that minute left--you'll try to catch me--can't--then call me at this number--and I'm right around the corner from home. Ten minutes, twenty the most. Depending."

He handed over a filing card on which was typed: "Plaza 5-0803."

Pete smiled. "Man, you sure work things out, don't you? What a brain."

"I'm no genius, just practical. You have to be, in this world."

"That's why I may be moving to another one. Any day now."

"Also, it would help a lot if you--I mean during those times--if you'd stay put--so no chance of being seen on the street or in a store or whatever."

"I'll lock myself in the bathroom, how's that?"

"Any questions?"

"Yes, one. How come if we're going to get to be so--as you put it--buddy-buddy--how come I'm never around your place?"

"Her bloody snobbism. She'd never ask you, unless I went to the mat with her."

"And that, I take it, you no longer do."

"By mutual sick-of-it, no. More coffee?"

"Not a thing, no."

• • •

The complex escapade began. Pete phoned a few times, as instructed, and often found himself conversing far longer then he had planned. Rod's wife seemed subdued, but amiable and warm and usually reluctant to end the conversation. A lonely lady, he guessed. Once she asked if she might visit with Rod to see some of the recent work--Pete had begun some sculpture--and he put her off, in a panic.

He went to see Rod at his office and reported.

"Great!" said Rod.

"Why?"

"Cements it, the two of you meeting. Makes it real. Makes you real."

"I've always been real."

• • •

Pete had swept his studio clean in preparation for the visitors, and tidied it up. There had been no work all that morning. His favorite-by-far model--a stunning Negress named Honoria De Frates--had helped him, had arranged an artful tea table and had gone out to buy cakes.

When she returned, he indicated the studio and asked, "What do you think?"

"It was better by far before."

"What do you suggest?"

She picked up a wastepaper basket, emptied it onto the floor and began scattering the contents about with a graceful, high-kicking mule. He joined her, and in five minutes the gay disorder had been re-established.

The afternoon was a triumph. Pete and Rod's wife became old friends in ten minutes. She was generous with her compliments and showed an imaginative understanding of even the more difficult pieces.

She had been an art major at Radcliffe, had spent two student years in Florence and had written her master's thesis on: "The Mutations in the Taste of Bernard Berenson." She had been to Carrara to study the quarries. She had known Jacob Epstein and Jo Davidson, knew Henry Moore and deplored the absence of a present-day American counterpart.

It was her interest in applied art that had brought her with her father to Atlantic City and the meeting with Rod.

She was giving a dinner on Saturday for Marc Chagall and his wife. Would Pete come? Would Honoria?

Pete studied Rod as they accepted.

"Saturday?" asked Rod. "Isn't that our trout weekend? Poughkeepsie?"

"What the hell," Pete replied. "Let's make it the next."

Honoria served an elaborate tea and the hour was charged with a debate on the culture explosion. Rod took no part in it, confining himself to eating cakes and drinking tea.

Honoria capped the afternoon with a vivid description of the idiosyncrasies of the men and women for whom she regularly posed.

Rod's wife had a bright, flushed face as she said her goodbyes. Rod was glum.

When the guests had gone, Honoria asked, "You want to work awhile? I'm game--and didn't you say you wanted another go at the right thigh?"

"I ought to, yes--but I'm too up-there right now." (continued on page 244) buddy-buddy (continued from page 122)

"So am I. Isn't she one hell of an exhilarating woman?"

"Let's go get a beer."

"A capital suggestion," said Honoria.

The weekend following the one that held the heady Chagall party (Pete in a brand-new dinner jacket, vital, magnetic to the women; Honoria in subtle beige, conversing with the guest of honor in rapid, colloquial French), the postponed fishing trip took place. There had been further talk of it at the dinner table. Pete, seated at Rod's wife's left, found himself drawn by her into talk of trout (was any subject closed to her?) and knew he would have to do some homework.

Early Saturday morning he phoned (ostensibly to make last-minute arrangements) and spoke first to Rod, then to Rod's wife. He went back to bed, but not to sleep. He was torn by passionate ambivalence. His loyalty to Rod was at war with his growing admiration for Rod's wife. At ten, he slowly dialed PL 5-0803.

"What is it? What's happened?" shouted Rod, his voice panicking.

"I have to ask you something."

"What?"

"Do you honest-to-God know what the hell you're doing?"

"This your idea of a joke?" asked Rod.

There was a pause.

"No joke, no. I only----"

Rod cut him off by hanging up.

After half an hour's careful reflection, Pete got out of bed, dressed, went down to the corner barbershop and had his hair cut. He returned to the studio, shaved, showered, put on a clean white shirt, his Bronzini tie and his best suit.

He went to Mrs. Palfrey's Greenery a block away, ordered an old-fashioned bouquet and waited while Mrs. Palfrey made it up.

"Where've you been, ducky?" she asked. "I haven't seen you since well before autumn."

"I'm off that still-life kick," he explained.

"Well, you might've popped in all the same."

"I will, Florence. You'll be seeing a lot of me."

"Back on the still life, are you?"

"Not exactly, no."

He hailed a taxi and went to Rod's.

To the elevator operator's question, he said, "Mrs. Mellin. Seventeen B."

"Are you expected, sir?"

"Yes."

Still, the elevator operator lingered and watched him as he waited for a response to his ring.

The maid who opened the door recognized him at once, having seen him the week before, and asked him in.

He nodded smugly toward the elevator and stepped into the apartment.

The maid said, "I don't think madam is expecting anyone. Might there have been some mistake?"

"No."

"I'll tell her. Would you care to wait in there?"

"No, this is fine."

Pete smoothed his hair, straightened his tie, put down the bouquet and, hands in pockets, tugged his shirttails into place.

The maid returned and said, "She's in the morning room, sir. Would you go in, please? Last on the left."

"Thank you."

He picked up the bouquet and made his way down the hall.

He found her standing at her desk, dressed in a flowing housecoat (a green girl in a pink room), her eyeglasses dangling from her fingers. She was pale.

Pete smiled and said, "What're you doing in the morning room? It's a quarter to one. Here."

He handed her the bouquet. She took it, sat down and put her forehead into her hand.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I thought for a minute--when Anna said you were--an accident or----"

"Oh, hell. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. The fact is, I'm not so sure I'm thinking now."

She looked up at him. They communicated in silence.

"Am I in trouble, Pete?"

"No. He is."

She looked at the flowers. "Thank you for this. For these."

"Nothing."

"Will you stay to lunch?"

"Damn right."

At lunch they avoided discussion of the situation and talked of other things: Italy (especially Florence), air versus sea travel and Shakespeare in the Park.

Pete asked, "Aren't you ever going to ask me how I happened to come over today? I wish you would, because I've got a fine answer."

"It frightens me."

"It shouldn't. To look at it one way, I'm a reprehensible rat--but that's not the way I look at it."

"Nor I."

"No. See, I'm interested in form--call it order. On canvas, in clay--or marble if I could afford it--and in people, too. Now, think for a second of us here. Doesn't this make more sense than you alone and me alone?"

They spent the afternoon coming to know each other through questions and responses freely interchanged.

At five o'clock she said, "You'll think it's absurd, but I really must go and lie down now. Habit."

"What could be more civilized?" he said. "Do you want me to blow, or could I stick around till you stand up again?"

"Whatever you like."

"I'll stick around. Maybe I'll try it, too. I was up early this morning. Telephoning."

She awakened him an hour and ten minutes later. He looked up at her from the sofa. They exchanged a smile.

"Say," he asked, stretching lazily, "how long has this been going on?"

He sat up, put on his shoes and noticed that she was dressed for the evening.

"You got a date?" he inquired.

"Not unless you ask me."

"You're asked."

"What did you have in mind? Should we be seen together?"

"Better if not," he answered, "but that's a great thing about New York. There's always somewhere to go where there's no one you know."

They went to Gilhuly's on 8th Avenue for drinks; to a long, slow dinner at a sprawling Italian restaurant on 32nd Street; and (at her suggestion) to a Viennese supper club on East 86th Street to be steeped in Offenbach, Strauss and Lehár.

He walked her home. They reached her doorway at 12:30 A.M.

She glanced at him.

"Thanks," he said. "I'd love to."

Two drinks later, she failed to stifle a sonorous yawn.

"Oh," she said. "I am sorry."

"Don't be," he said, and yawned powerfully. "It's only the best of friends can sit around yawping sea-lion noises at each other."

She laughed, sobered suddenly and asked, "Is that what we are, Pete? The best of friends?"

"I think we can get to be," he said, "if we work on it."

"But can you see ahead? I can't. Not far. Tomorrow and the next day and maybe the one after that, but then they begin to blur."

"Days to come," he said. "That's one hell of a subject to introduce at twenty to two."

"Forgive me."

He got to his feet and said, "Sleep seven and a half. That's enough. I'll be back at nine-thirty to take you to a swinging breakfast. Coffee only, till I tell you."

"How about tea?"

"You have my permission."

"Thank you."

"And then at eleven we go to church," he said.

"You and church? I wouldn't have thought so."

"Every Sunday a different one is how I do it--every flavor. I'm hooked. The one for tomorrow is the French one on East Sixtieth."

"Whatever you say."

She took him to the door. They joined hands.

"Pete," she said. "You're a terribly--" she stopped and swallowed her emotion, "--kind man. The kindest I've ever known. I'm grateful to you."

"Shut up," he said.

• • •

She was ready when he arrived promptly at 9:30 the following morning.

"Holy smoke," he said. "That's a what-a-dress!"

"Suit, really," she said. "Sunday best."

He took her to Steinberg's Dairy Restaurant on Upper Broadway for a breakfast of sturgeon and smoked salmon, mushroom omelet with stewed tomatoes, cheesecake and coffee, and fresh grapefruit.

"I'm a fool," she said, touching her middle.

"We'll walk it off after church."

"Where?"

"Bronx Zoo," he replied.

The hour at the French church--where they were part of a congregation of 11--was spent in another world, replete with fresh sights and sounds, intimations and perceptions. When they left, they did not discuss the experience, but went directly to the Bronx Zoo, where they lunched on hot dogs and passed a young afternoon.

At 6:30 he said, "Fishing's over. Your husband and I are about to start back."

"Yes."

"I caught six."

They took a taxi and he dropped her at her door.

"See you soon," he said.

"I hope so."

Soon turned out to be the following Wednesday. Rod called a conference for 2:30.

At 2:30, Pete presented himself to Rod's wife carrying two folding drawing boards, pads and boxes of pastels.

"Here's the plan," he said. "You sit there and me here and we draw each other."

"No fair," she said. "You're a pro."

"So? When we finish, I sell you mine and you give me yours."

"Done!" she said, and they began.

They talked as they worked: of the day's news, of hobbies and of childhood recollections of Mayor La Guardia. From time to time they moved about to examine and criticize each other's work in progress. They each made several sketches, some incomplete.

"I'm getting worse," she said when they stopped for tea at four.

"And smudged, too," he said. "You and your cerise nose."

"Who cares?" she said.

They held a look.

"I think something's on for Friday night," said Pete.

"Yes. I've been told. The fights at the Garden."

"Would you care to make a bet?"

"Yes. On you."

"I'm a shoo-in."

"Would you be for movies at the New Yorker? Two great old Hedy Lamarrs."

Pete smiled. "I always say, 'Two Hedys are better than one!'"

"Leave the room," she said.

After that Friday there were two more afternoons before another weekend was arranged: a tour of New England museums to find American primitives for use in an upcoming cigarette campaign. It was to be a long one, Saturday morning to Monday night, late.

Pete rented a car and drove her, leisurely, to The Red Lion Inn at Stock-bridge, Massachusetts. They had a picnic lunch on the way, dinner at the Inn and a walk and talk which lasted until four A.M. At her door, he kissed her cheek, and they studied each other for three minutes before she went in. They drove back on Sunday and went to Chinatown for the evening.

He brought her home a few minutes before midnight and said, "I think I won't come up tonight, if you don't mind."

He moved out of the entry lights to a dark spot down the block. She followed him.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"This wasn't how I meant it to work out," he said. "Believe me."

"Please come up," she said. A full minute later she added, "And stay?"

He took a deep breath, exhaled and said, "Let's once around the block."

They walked, saying nothing. When they reached the front door again he said, "Thank you. I will. But I have to go home first. I know I'd look good in his things, but I'd feel ridiculous."

They stayed in all of Monday.

She had told the servants to take the day off. A cold lunch had been left in the refrigerator.

At six, holding hands, they began to talk of where to go for dinner.

After a number of suggestions, she said, "Or I could fix us something right here."

"Like what?"

"My Greek stuff is where I shine, they say."

"Greek?"

"Lemon soup; moussaka with boiled dandelions; baklava."

"Is there time?"

"More than plenty. He's not due till eleven. And he's always late."

"Well, fine, then. If it won't make you nervous."

"It'll make me calm."

They spent the next hour in the kitchen. He was overwhelmed. Still another side of this kaleidoscopic creature was being revealed. He watched her. She worked seriously and quickly and with childlike concentration.

The result was an exquisite feast of delectable and exotic taste sensations. He ate heartily and made appropriate sounds.

They sat beside each other on the largest sofa, having coffee and anisette.

"All right," he said. "That settles it. Why didn't you tell me you could cook? I'd have asked you to marry me long ago."

"In Greek?"

"No," he said. "Greek is Greek to me."

She began to weep quietly. Pete stood up and moved about the room. When he came to a stop he realized he was quaking.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Ten-twenty."

"I can't tell you why," she said, "but I feel like washing the dishes."

"That's funny," he said. "I feel like drying."

They had almost finished when Rod came in and found them.

He stood in the doorway, his hat still on his head. He blanched with shock, reached out and grasped the doorjamb.

He looked at his wife, at Pete, nodded and murmured, "Nice going, pal."

"I can't explain everything," said Pete. "But some of it, let me try. The thing to do is to all sit down a minute."

"You sit down," said Rod. "I know when I've had it. Been had."

He started out.

Pete called after him, "Will you wait a minute?"

Rod slammed the door as he left.

• • •

Mr. and Mrs. Pete Rossi live in Florence now, in the celebrated Villa D'Annunzio, which they bought three years ago. The elder of their two sons is two; the younger, ten months.

Pete works in Carrara marble exclusively and is evolving a unique, highly personal, abstract style.

His wife's book on contemporary Italian painters is about to be published by Skira.

A few days ago, as they rose from their now-habitual midday siesta, she asked, "How are you?"

"Well," he replied, "I'll tell you. I'm thinking of changing my name to Riley."

Rod Mellin has become, after all, the husband of Jeannie Cowl (her third).

Shortly before his divorce became final, his British girl was offered a term contract by Paramount Pictures and took it.

Rod became a weekend commuter to Beverly Hills, until the routine began to affect his health. One Saturday he simply failed to turn up, did not phone, and it was over.

That Monday afternoon he developed a migraine working over a layout and had to go home.

At a quarter to 11 his assistant, a brilliant Puerto Rican of 22, brought the finished work to him for final approval.

The assistant grinned and said, "Please don't worry to be sick, Mr. Mellin. I can handle everything A-OK."

"I know you can, Santos."

Rod Mellin is a practical man.

When he recovered, four days later, he phoned Jeannie Cowl and invited her to dinner and the theater. She accepted and continued to accept for the next five months. She was as determined to capture him as he was to capture her, which lent the courtship a somewhat surrealist atmosphere. As a double divorcée with three children (a boy of seven and a girl of six by her first, and a boy of five by her second), her field was narrowing. She continued to be longingly fond of Rod, his earlier rebuff notwithstanding.

He explained. "I was an innocent, sweetie. You can't imagine how plain thick. Dense."

"She's the one thick and dense. To let you get away. A dreamboat like you. I never will. You just try."

"Why should I?"

The first Sunday after their wedding was spent on Mr. Cowl's estate at Old Westbury, Long Island. It was the children who fouled the day. They made it clear, as though by plan, that they adored their grandfather and disliked their stepfather with equal passion. When at last they had been sent up for their nap, Mr. Cowl handed Rod a cane and invited him to walk the grounds. Rod had become art director at Cowl and Ives, and there were matters of business to discuss. In the midst of these, Mr. Cowl broke off to apologize for the malevolent behavior of the children.

"Only natural, don't y' know? Too complicated, all this, for the little beggars. They're not at all sure of their relationships--even to one another. It'll take time. Everything takes time, don't y' know?"

"It certainly does," Rod heard himself respond.

"The future," said Mr. Cowl. "That takes time, too."

Rod, his attention fixed on the unwieldy cane, blinked. Could he have heard it right?

"I beg your pardon?" he prompted.

"I said," replied Mr. Cowl, raising his voice and enunciating too clearly, "that the future takes time."

Rod nodded gravely.

The dinner hour was torture, with the children being indulged and spoiled before his eyes.

Afterward, at Mr. Cowl's direction, there were parlor games--among them, charades.

The children were maddeningly clever; Rod, lamentably inept. (He suspected, with reason, that they were cheating.) He found himself being laughed at more than his good humor could absorb.

He retreated into numbness.

"Are you all right, dear?" he heard Jeannie call.

"Yes," he answered automatically and looked about. He was standing, naked, at the basin in the guest bathroom.

"Lovey?" she called again and knocked sharply.

"Right out!" he shouted, jolting himself into full wakefulness.

"Good," she said close to the door.

"But hurry up! I don't want another one of those bathroom boys!"

He heard her moving off and whistling. (If there is one thing he cannot bear, it is whistling. For some reason it grates on his nerves, always has; moreover, it brings a stabbing pain to his right eardrum.) He would speak to her about it---- Would he?

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, they saw his reflection. He seemed far older than he had that morning.

"You're a mess," he said to his aging image.

"What?"

"A mess!"

The mirror conversation struck him as funny, and he began to laugh.