Man in the Gray Flannel Suit Page 28

  33

  WITHOUT WARNING, on September 16, Susan Hopkins eloped with Byron Holgate, an aging playboy with an affectionate smile. Ralph Hopkins heard about it in his office on one of his own company’s three o’clock news broadcasts soon after he returned from Atlantic City. He immediately called his wife in South Bay. She answered the telephone herself. “Hello,” she said, and her voice sounded so dead that he knew she had heard about it and had not hurried to let him know.

  “I just heard about Susan,” he said. “I’ll be right out.”

  “No,” she said dully.

  “I want to.”

  There was no response.

  “I want to,” he said again.

  “I know.”

  “I’ll be right out.”

  “I’m tired,” she said. “I’m terribly tired.”

  “Of course. Go to bed and I’ll see you in an hour.”

  No answer.

  “I think I’ll stay out there with you, Helen,” he said. “I think I’ll give up the apartment here in town.”

  There was a pause, and then, as though he hadn’t spoken, she said, “Ralph, will you do me a favor?”

  “Of course!”

  “Have one of your secretaries get me a ticket on one of those cruises that go around the world.”

  “I’ll go with you,” he said.

  There was another long pause before she said, “That’s awfully nice of you, dear, but I think I want to be alone for a few months. I’m awfully tired.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “One more thing. Could you get rid of this place out here? I don’t know–with Susan gone, there doesn’t seem to be much point to it any more. I don’t want to have to worry about it.”

  “Leave it to me,” he said. “I’ll have it put on the market, or think of something to do with it.”

  “Thank you, dear,” she said, and there was still another long pause.

  “I’m going to start driving out now,” he said. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  “Ralph,” she replied, “would you mind waiting? I don’t know, I don’t want to talk to anybody right now. I just want to go to bed.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “I’ll see you in a few days. Get me on a boat that leaves as soon as possible, will you?”

  “I’ll make all the arrangements.”

  “Thank you, dear,” she said quietly. “Good-by.”

  Later that afternoon Miss MacDonald told Tom that Hopkins would like to see him that evening at seven o’clock. At two minutes after the hour, Tom knocked at Hopkins’ door. Hopkins opened it. He was alone, and to Tom’s surprise, he looked tired. He was pacing restlessly up and down the room jingling the change in his pockets and gesticulating as he talked. The first thing he said after greeting Tom was, “I’ve definitely decided to go ahead with this mental-health committee. I want to get rolling on it now fast.”

  “Maybe we should start by . . .” Tom began.

  “Wait a minute,” Hopkins said. “Here’s what I want to do. I’m going to expand it beyond the publicists–I want a really representative group. Begin by asking about a dozen people to form an Exploratory Committee–choose the people we’ll eventually want as trustees. For labor, Bill Krisky. For a Catholic, Fred Bellows. For a Jew, Abraham Goldberg. For a liberal, Mary Harkins. For a hard-shelled businessman, I’ll do. For a Democrat, Pete Cronin. For a Republican, Nat Higgins. How many is that?”

  “Seven,” Tom said. He was taking notes furiously.

  “All right. For a Negro, Herbert Shaw. For radio and television, I’ll do. Sam Peterson for newspapers. Ted Bailey for mass circulation magazines. We should have an intellectual: make it Harold Norton, up at Harvard.”

  “That’s eleven.” Tom said.

  “What are we missing? Oh, somebody from the movies. Ross Pattern. Make that the first twelve. Write letters of invitation to them tomorrow for my signature and find out a convenient day for all of us to meet at the Waldorf next month.”

  “Right,” Tom said.

  “Now an advisory medical panel. Make it seven members. The heads of all the major medical associations, and fill up the rest of it with the best psychiatrists–make sure you don’t get the crackpots.”

  “I’ve got a list all made up,” Tom said.

  “Fine–show it to me tomorrow. Now a tentative program–enclose it with your letter of invitation. We’ll start with a broad publicity barrage aimed to make people more aware of mental-health problems. We’ll want spot announcements on both television and radio, all networks. Have films and records made to send out to the local stations. Get the agencies to work on the copy and bring me samples as soon as possible. I’d play up the theme, ‘An enemy in the dark is more dangerous than one in the light–bring the problem of mental illness into the open!’ That’s not the wording, of course–I’m just thinking out loud.”

  “I’ll get the agencies to work on it,” Tom said.

  “Start getting the National Mental Health Committee incorporated.”

  “I’ve done the spade work on that already.”

  “Good–make sure the lawyers have it done as soon as the Exploratory Committee meets.”

  Hopkins continued to pace as he spoke. He ordered drafts of the preliminary program readied for the foundations, lists of possible members, bylaws, and news releases announcing the formation of the committee.

  “Now the program,” he said. “First, your general publicity barrage–and while you’re on that, make sure that mats are sent to all newspapers and that plates are made up for the magazines. See if the Advertising Association will foot the bill. The advertising boys ought to arrange for outdoor posters and car cards for buses and subways, too. Second, we’ll want a small study group to develop a long-range plan for attacking the problem. I’ve already got foundation support lined up for that. Don’t worry about the money on this–all the foundations are interested in the study part of it.”

  He paused, walked over to a table, and poured himself a drink. “Now Tom,” he said, “I want you to carry the ball on this. You did a grand job on that speech–I think I can count on you. You’ve got the signal. I’m not going to be able to give this project much time, other than to arrange the financing and look over your plans just before they’re final. I’ve got several new projects underway. Wrap this whole thing up for me. Figure out the details for yourself. Just remember that nothing can go until after the Exploratory Committee meets, but you’ve got to be ready to jump the next day. The Exploratory Committee won’t do anything but approve what we submit to them, and you can’t expect any work from them.”

  “We’ll get everything ready,” Tom said.

  “And while you’re making your publicity plans, don’t forget the outdoor advertising boys. I want this campaign to break in all media within a week after the full committee is formed, and I want the full committee formed within a month after the Exploratory Committee meets. So you’ve got to work fast.”

  “We can do it,” Tom replied.

  Hopkins smiled. “Thanks, Tom,” he said.

  Tom stood up to go. He was surprised when Hopkins added, “Don’t rush. Sit down and have a drink.”

  “Sure,” Tom replied, sitting down again. “Sure.” Expecting more directions concerning the mental-health committee, he took his pad out of his pocket and held it ready.

  “Put that thing away,” Hopkins said, and then with unusual hesitation in his voice, “I don’t know, I just thought it might be fun to sit and talk a little while.”

  “Of course,” Tom said, feeling curiously embarrassed. There was a moment of silence. Hopkins got up, mixed two strong highballs, and handed one to Tom. Tom was astonished to see him drink his very fast. The silence became painful.

  “Do you have any children?” Hopkins asked suddenly.

  “Yes,” Tom said.

  “How many?”

  “Three.”

  “That’s a nice family,” Hopkins said. He mixed another drink
for himself and to Tom’s surprise stretched out comfortably on the couch. He seemed to be staring at Tom–he never turned his eyes away from him. On his face was an expression Tom had never seen there before: a look of exhaustion, confusion, and, incongruously, great kindness.

  “Do you like working on this mental-health committee?” Hopkins asked after an awkward interval of silence.

  “Yes,” Tom said. “I like it very much.”

  “What are your plans?”

  “I don’t know,” Tom replied. “I want to do my job here as well as I can, I guess, and see where it leads.”

  “That’s the best way. When I was your age, I didn’t have any plans–I was just thinking about the job at hand.”

  There was another interval of silence, during which Hopkins apparently was thinking, but he never took his eyes off Tom’s face.

  “I had a son once,” Hopkins said suddenly. “He was killed in the war.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Tom said, although he had heard it before.

  “Were you in the war?”

  “Yes.”

  “Back in the First World War, I was a lieutenant, but I never got overseas. The war ended about two days after I got my commission.”

  “You were lucky.”

  “I guess I was,” Hopkins said.

  Tom sipped his drink. He was tense and wary, terribly conscious that it was important for Hopkins to like him.

  “How did you happen to get interested in working on this mental-health project?” Hopkins asked abruptly.

  Tom started to say, “I’ve always been interested in mental health,” but he remembered how ridiculous that had sounded the last time he said it. I made up my mind I was going to play it straight with him, he thought, and I will. Aloud he said, “I was working over at the Schanenhauser Foundation. I needed more money, and a friend told me there was an opening in your public-relations department. I applied for it, and Mr. Walker steered me into this.”

  “That’s the way I got started in radio,” Hopkins said. “After I got out of the Army, I worked a few years for a brokerage house, and I hated it. A friend told me a magazine was hiring people. I walked over there, and they didn’t have a place for me, but the personnel man said a new broadcasting company was being started in the same building. I walked in and was hired.”

  There was a pause. “When I was a boy, I wanted to be an actor,” Hopkins continued, “a Shakespearean actor. That was my ambition for about five years. I used to try out for all the high-school plays, but I wasn’t much good, and they always got me to be stage manager.”

  “I don’t think I ever knew what I wanted to be,” Tom replied.

  “I wonder whether this mental-health project is right for you,” Hopkins said contemplatively. “I think you have a lot of capabilities. You look at things straight–I like the way you brought that speech down to the ground. And you’re at an important stage of your career. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  “That’s an important age. In the next six or seven years, you should really be on your way.”

  “Do you think there will be many opportunities with the mental-health committee?”

  “Yes–of a kind. Of course, there’s always a limit to that sort of thing. Organizations which don’t make money never pay much, and the top planning is done by volunteers. There’s a limit to how far you can go as a staff member on that sort of thing.”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “I don’t know,” Hopkins said thoughtfully. “It depends on what you want, I guess. Is money important to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I could look around the company and see if I could find a spot for you.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Tom said. Under Hopkins’ kindly but steady gaze he felt as tense as though he were waiting for a parachute jump.

  “The business world is different than it was when I was young,” Hopkins said. “It’s tougher and more competitive.”

  “I guess it is.”

  “A young man has to get started right. The ideal thing is to find a job which always expects a little more than you can deliver, but not so much that you get snowed under. A job should always keep you straining at the limits of your abilities. That’s the way men learn.”

  “I guess it is,” Tom repeated.

  “How do you assess your own abilities? What do you like best? If you could choose any branch of the business, what would you take?”

  There was a pause while Tom wondered whether honesty should be pushed to the point of self-depreciation. I can’t fool him, he thought–he’s not a guy who can be fooled. I’d better go on telling him the truth. “I don’t know what my abilities are,” he said. “I’d like to find out. I’m afraid that the branches of the broadcasting business I’d really enjoy are probably the ones I know least about, and if I got into them, I might not like them as much as I think.”

  “What are they?”

  “I’d like to analyze the news,” Tom said, entirely to his own astonishment. “I’d like to study the news and give my views on it. I know I don’t have any qualifications at all for that kind of job.”

  Hopkins smiled wryly. “That’s like me wanting to be an actor,” he said. “If you wanted to be a news commentator, I’m afraid you’d probably have to put in a long apprenticeship on a newspaper, and there might be a good deal of voice training involved. There aren’t many jobs for news commentators–there are at least a hundred applicants for every opening.”

  “I know,” Tom said, “but you asked me what I’d really like, and that came into my mind. It’s not a thing I’ve thought about. To tell you the truth, I’ve always just gone along taking what I could get.”

  “If you really wanted to broadcast news, and were willing to devote the time and effort to it, you probably could,” Hopkins said. “I’m afraid the job isn’t as good as you think it is. It pays comparatively little, and unless you’re something special, it’s pretty routine.”

  “I know,” Tom said. “With me, it’s probably just a case of far fields looking greener.”

  There was a pause, during which Tom regretted his frankness. I’ve made a fool of myself, he thought. I should have told him what I really want to be is a good administrator. That’s a field in which he could really help me. Hopkins’ eyes were still upon him. It was disturbing, that steady, unabashed gaze, the eyes tired, the whole face exhausted, yet so curiously intense and kind.

  “How would you like to be my personal assistant?” Hopkins asked suddenly.

  “What?”

  “I mean, not just on this mental-health thing–someone to help me with everything I do. I don’t really have a personal assistant. Walker is in public relations, and Ogden is going to be a vice-president before long. I’ve never had a personal assistant–I’ve never wanted one. But I like the honesty of your approach, and it strikes me that you might be able to help out in many ways. The job would give you a chance to watch lots of operations in the company and see what you’re best fitted for. Who knows? Maybe you could learn something.” These last words were said with an attempt at jocosity and self-disparagement which was utterly unlike Hopkins. Seeming ill at ease, he got up and poured himself another drink.

  “I’m sure I could learn a lot,” Tom said. “It would be a great opportunity.”

  Hopkins stood with his back toward him, putting ice in his glass. When he turned around, his briskness had returned, and he seemed his old self again. “I’ll talk to Bill Ogden about it in the morning,” he said. “We’ll see what we can work out. I’m afraid it’s getting late–your wife will be angry at me. Thanks for coming up. It’s so nice of you to give up your evening.”

  When Tom got to Grand Central Station that night, he bought a paper to read on the train home. On the front page he saw a story about the marriage of Susan Hopkins to Byron Holgate, whose age was given as forty-eight, but who, in an accompanying photograph, looked much older. After reading the article, Tom folded
the paper and sat thinking about Hopkins all the way home to South Bay. When he got to his house, he found Betsy waiting up for him. “Hopkins wants me to leave the mental-health committee and become his personal assistant,” he said.

  “Why, that’s wonderful,” she replied. “What a marvelous opportunity! It must mean he likes you.”

  “I guess it does.”

  “You don’t sound very excited about it.”

  “I don’t know,” Tom said. “I’m trying to figure it out. It is a marvelous opportunity–there’s no doubt about that. But I’m not sure I want to be given a job simply because a man likes me. I’m not sure it’s good business.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t want to have to depend on somebody’s friendship. I want to feel that any time I want to quit a job, or any time my boss dies or retires, I can walk two doors down the street and get something as good or better. It’s not smart business to depend on friendship–it’s too risky.”

  “What makes you think he’s hiring you because of friendship? He liked that speech you wrote. He must think that you’re simply the best man for the job.”

  “I don’t know,” Tom said. “He’s never had a personal assistant before. And the way he was tonight–it’s hard to explain. He was trying to do something for me.”

  “Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “No–I should be grateful. But I don’t know what he can do for me. For a child, yes–a man can make sure a child gets a good education, and all the rest of it. But for another man, no. After all, what could Hopkins do for me? Keep me on as a ghost writer? I’d hate that as a full-time career. There’s nothing dishonest about ghost writing, really, but the whole idea of it makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like being the shadow of another man. Should I ask him to give me a top administrative job? I wouldn’t know what to do with it if I had it. I must be getting old or something–I’m beginning to realize my limitations. I’m not a very good administrator–not compared to guys like Hopkins and Ogden. I never will be, and the main reason is, I don’t want to be. This sounds like a silly way to put it, but I don’t think you can get to be a top administrator without working every week end for half your life, and I’d just as soon spend my week ends with you and the kids.”