Something Happened

"You do."

"Not really. I want Kagle's job."

"That's good, Bob. Congratulations."

"Thanks, Art."

"We'll tell him early next week. You know him pretty well. How would you guess he'll take it?"

"Bad. But he'll do everything to hide it. He may ask to be the one to tell me."

"We'll let him."

"He'll want to take credit. He may even want to be allowed to issue the a

"That will make things easier. You'll have much to put in order."

"I've made a list."

"I'll probably want to add to it, Bob."

"That's okay with me, Art." I laugh lightly (before tendering my gentle wisecrack) and bow my head in a gesture of self-effacement. "I'm not one of these officials who'll resent advice from his superiors."

"Ha, ha. I didn't think so, Bob. You'll run the convention."

"I've begun making plans. I think I know how."

"There's one more thing we've found out about Kagle, Bob," Arthur Baron tells me. "He goes to prostitutes in the afternoon."

"I've gone with him."

"You'll stop, though. Won't you?"

"I already have."

"That's good, Bob. I was sure you would. By the wayr " he adds, pressing my elbow with a conspiratorial wink and chuckling. "They're much better in the evening."

"Ha, ha."

Almost imperceptibly, my relationship with Arthur Baron has altered already in the direction of a closer conversational familiarity. Shrewdly, discreetly, diplomatically, I make no comment to indicate I've noticed the improvement. I've had a talent, thus far, this footman's talent, for being able to decipher what Arthur Baron and others of my betters (Green is my superior, not my better. Kagle is neither) expect of me and the subtle theatrical instinct for letting them observe they are getting it. (I have the footman's fear of losing it and being turned out of my job for betraying a spaniel's eagerness to please. Holloway in my department is that way again now, stopping people, dogging footsteps, fawning aggressively, extorting attention, demanding praise or benign admonishments. He'll break down again soon. They always break down again. I don't know why they even bother to try to come back. Holloway ca

"I'm sure she must be counting," my wife has repeated worriedly. "They've had us there twice since we had them here. Three times, if you count that cocktail party they gave for Horace White. I never expected to be invited to that."

"He doesn't."

"I'd be so embarrassed if I ran into them."

"I'm sure."

"I'm glad. I would like to give another nice di

Arthur Baron lives not far away in a much better house in a much richer part of Co

A lot that has to do with me. My dentist scraping at one tooth in my socket is more painful to me than my wife's cancer will be if she ever gets one. I get corns in the same spot on the little toe of my right foot, no matter what shoes I wear.

Arthur Baron has had us to his home for di

We had Arthur Baron and his wife to our house for di

"Do it your way, honey," I encouraged her. "Not the way someone else would."

The evening went marvelously. Intuition told me it was the proper time to invite him. (Once we invited Green. He told me he didn't want to come to my house for di

"Yes, Bob?"

"Hello, Art. We're going to have some people over to di

"Love to, Bob. I'll have to check."

"Fine, Art."

Before noon that same day his wife phoned mine to say they were free either weekend and were pleased we had thought of asking them.

They stayed late, and ate and drank more than we would have supposed. (I still wonder with some perplexity about the small amounts of food they prepare when they entertain. I guess they must be hungry too by the time we reach home.) I mixed tangy martinis that everyone drank, and the mood was lightened from the start. I thought of myself as courtly as I stirred and poured. I caught glimpses of myself in the mirror: I was utterly courtly. I wore a courtly smile. (I am vain as a peacock.) I had no one there from the company. I had a copyright lawyer, a television writer, an associate professor of marketing, a computer expert, the owner of a small public relations firm, and an engaging specialist in arbitrage with a leading brokerage, about whose work none of us knew much and all of us were curious (for a while). The wives were all pretty and vivacious. The conversation was lively. There was boisterous laughter. My wife gave recipe tips when asked. The Barons were nearly the last to leave.

"Thanks, Bob. We really enjoyed it."

"Thanks, Art, I'm glad you could come."

My wife and I were aglow and enchanted with our success and made love. The evening went marvelously indeed, but it was written in the atmosphere — and my wily sixth-sense tells me it is still there — that we were not to invite him again for a long time, although it was much more than just okay to have done so then. My wife, a churchgoing Congregationalist, doesn't understand; she is instructed by a minister of God in matters of duty and hospitality. As a registered Republican, though, I know more about protocol.