The Marriage Bed

By H. Vernor Dixon

October 5

Wednesday, 1 a.m.

Tonight I have bruises on my arm. Jeff has just left me. I no longer believe he is the same man I married.

The brother is locked in his study, drinking. His face is the twin of Jeff’s, and sometimes I catch him watching me with the eyes of the man I love. But I cannot tell surely.

Someone in this great cliff house is playing a hideous game with me. I begin to think it is more than a game.

I begin to think of insanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon & Schuster
• Release date: Jan 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781440562914

H. Vernor Dixon

Vernor H. Dixon is the author of The Marriage Bed, a Simon & Schuster book. 

Book preview

Chapter One

LEAVING NEW YORK that night was like having a tooth pulled. The roots went deep, the pain was great, and there was no possible narcotic. With the pain, too, there was a dull feeling, a suggestion of something being badly out of focus. It was like the feeling left from a dream that could not be remembered, as tangible as daylight, but of no greater substance.

There was the cocktail party in Sam’s suite in the Waldorf and too many guests talking too loud and laughing too often and Sam as solemn as an owl in the background. Sam was hurt badly, but he was in perfect focus. Nothing could change Sam.

He had a taxi waiting, a major achievement on a rainy night, but typical of him. There were alcoholic good-bys, cheeks pecked by moist lips, the friendly squeeze of hands, and the bellboy with the baggage grinning his way through the crowd. The door closed in a blur of tears.

Sam said, Take it easy, but he looked more solemn than ever.

Rain was slanting into the Manhattan canyons to become a mist of purple steam embracing the garish neon signs. Traffic crawled in low gear. Seen through the clouded windshield of the taxi, Times Square was a child’s kaleidoscope in a broken bubble. The streets were black and slick, reflecting the blinking signs in broad bands of yellow and red and blue. The surging crowds, the traffic, and the irregular masses of the gray buildings were all smeared by the rain into a soft and subdued portrait. It was the best of all possible nights to be leaving New York.

I closed my eyes for a moment to capture the picture and impress it upon my mind. A rapid pulse was beating in my temples with the first whimper of a headache. I pressed my fingertips to my forehead and again opened my eyes. The taxi had threaded its way through the square and paused at the curb in front of our darkened theatre.

Sam touched my arm and nodded toward the lobby displays. Perhaps, he said, this may be the last time we’ll see our names together, Carol.

I glanced first at the broad white band with the red letters reading Closed, and then at the display boards Angels on a Pin, by Carol Moore and Sam Brandt; pro ducer, Sam Brandt; starring …

It was a good play, I whispered. One of our best. But really, Sam, you were always the clever one, not I. You’ll do so much better without me. Then I qualified my statement by adding, That is, if it turns out that way.

Sam leaned forward and told the driver, La Guardia Field, but take it easy; we’re in no hurry.

He sat back in the seat, opened a cigarette case I had given him years before, and held it toward me. I shook my head. Sam lit a cigarette and looked back at the theatre as we pulled away from the curb and jockeyed into the dense traffic.

I kept my eyes on him, drinking in the picture of the Sam I had known and worked with and enjoyed for so many successful years. He was a tall man, loosely built, with prominent facial bones, dark brown hair that was just beginning to gray at the temples, and the piercingly analytical eyes of a surgeon. He affected a cane, a Homburg hat, stitched gloves, and a Chesterfield coat, the uniform attire of a successful New Yorker, but he was a man at home wherever he happened to be, in a field of Iowa corn or mingling in a Fifth Avenue crowd. He had that inner composure of the true aristocrat that is inherent in the Vermont farmer and the backwoods Tennessee distiller, but is so rarely found elsewhere. To the acting profession, he was known as a cold-blooded producer who climbed to the heights on the backs of others, but it was a false impression. I knew his genius and the deep wells of warmth within the man.

The shame of it is, he remarked, almost reading my mind, that we have been too close. Propinquity, in our case, has meant a biologic vacuum, sexlessness. I might have had a chance, too, if I had had sufficient intelligence to think of you as a body instead of a rather untidy brain.

I had to smile, in spite of the dull pain. You always had a chance, Sam, but you never asked.

He sucked his lower lip between his teeth and glanced at me from the corners of his eyes. That is precisely what I mean. I never asked. I never thought to ask. I took you for granted. But I suppose it was right for you to marry Hamlyne. I’m older and you need someone young, your own age. You’ve worked too hard, and that isn’t good for a woman. You need to enjoy yourself. You’ll do that in California. I’m sure of it. You’ll be very happy.

I leaned back and thought of what it would be like and it was all a blank. I had been born and raised in New York and had never left the eastern seaboard. The Monterey Peninsula, where the Hamlynes had lived for generations, was totally unknown to me. I could not even picture what it was like.

But worse than that, it was even difficult to know what my own husband was like. I had never met anyone before quite like Jeffrey Hamlyne. I had known Westerners, yes, but the more obvious kind; big men, hearty, quick-tempered extroverts. Jeffrey was that way and he was not that way, if that makes sense. He was tall, an inch or two over six feet, but he was slim and light and knitted together with wiry muscle. He had the Western quality of earthiness and was also a bit of an extrovert, which was evident in his athletic skill, but he was not really the hearty kind and he was far from the hail-fellow-well-met sort. He was gregarious and he loved people with a great and abiding faith, and yet there was a selective reserve within him that belonged to the bystander, the observer, rather than to the participant.

I had noticed that contradictory quality the first time I had seen him, when he was dancing with the young Miller girl at the Stork Club. I had gone there that night with Glenn Baldwin, the new Broadway star, who wanted to celebrate something I have since forgotten, probably the signing of a good contract. The Millers had noticed our arrival and insisted that we join them. They were celebrity conscious and boring in their attitude toward glamour, so called, but they also backed occasional shows, so there was no refusing the invitation to their table.

Jeffrey was one of the group, someone they had met at Del Monte and introduced as if we should know all about him without being told, but whom they did not seem to know too well, either. I paid little attention to him at first, as the Miller girl had captured him for herself and was wearing him like a banner. But as the night wore on I sensed a change in the character of the party and then realized that Jeffrey had unobtrusively taken full command of the group. We went where he wanted to go and he paid the checks, but he managed it all so quietly that no one else was aware that we, New Yorkers all, were being taken on a conducted tour of the city’s night life.

That was one of the few things I knew about Jeffrey and that I had learned the first night; he knew how to manage people. His technique captured my interest and then I was fascinated by him. He had been the guest, the host, the entertainer, and the audience all rolled into one person. But to the others he was simply a nice Westerner, well scrubbed, pleasant, a cheerful conversationalist, a beautiful dancing partner, and young enough and wealthy enough to be eligible, but still just another member of the group. And he had had them all dancing on strings, myself included.

I was wondering how any one man could turn on so many facets of character at one time when Sam broke into my reverie by saying, The thing to do when you get out there, Carol, is to relax. We have been working together now — let’s see — over six years, and in all that time I’ve never known you to relax.

I squeezed his arm. "You held the whip over me, Sam.

I knew dialogue and I knew how to write, but you had the ideas. You did all the driving."

That, he smiled, was necessary. When you turned up with that first play you were a lazy little wench. Mental anemia. And you were far too young to have good sense. I had to drive you or you would never have gone anywhere. Nor, he added, would I. We made a good team. But now you can rest. You need it.

I’m going to sleep and sleep and sleep. They do sleep in the West, don’t they?

He chuckled and then his eyes caught mine and the smile died and it was no longer possible to pretend. He tapped his fingers on my knee and said softly, You really don’t know what you’re getting into. Do you?

I was leaning back against the seat, feeling the vibrations of the car up my spine, and shook my head. I haven’t the faintest idea. I was just thinking, a moment ago, that I hardly know my own husband. I’ve written so much about boy meets girl that I’ve lost perspective. Do you realize, Sam, that two weeks after I met him we were married? We had a one-week honeymoon four months ago and I haven’t seen him since.

That wasn’t to be the schedule when you married him. The two of you were to divide your time between here and California. He paused a moment, pursing his lips, turning some matter over in his mind, then said, You have been keeping your own counsel so I haven’t intruded. But now I think you should tell me what’s wrong. What changed your plans?

I was wondering, too, about the change. Everything had been planned so nicely. I was to continue with my career and spend the time between shows with Jeffrey in the West. He had assured me that he had no liking for his own business, whatever that might be, and that he wanted to transfer his interest to his brother John, who was also his partner and seemed to possess all the business acumen of the two. I remembered his exact words on the subject with no difficulty:

John is a shrewd trader and likes nothing better than to be involved in some complicated business deal. But that sort of thing bores me. I’ve only gone along with him because — well, I love the guy, for one thing, and for another, it was a help to him not to divide the estate. But we had it understood that when I got married I’d pull out. This is it. I’ll hop out home and give him the nod and come right back.

He had wanted me to go with him, but that had not been possible at the time. So he was supposed to see his brother and help start the division of the estate. He would come back to New York immediately, at least within two weeks. That had been four months ago. He had further planned, with considerable enthusiasm, to divide his time between the two coasts, and he also wanted to back the next show that Sam and I had scheduled.

It was the latter point that had placed me in a decidedly embarrassing position. Because Jeffrey was going to back our next effort, Sam and I had not bothered with our regular financial channels. We had gone ahead with our plans, naturally assuming that the money would be available when we needed it. But Jeffrey had allowed that whole idea to die a slow death and Sam was out on a limb. He was now forced into jockeying for a Hollywood contract to cover the commitments he had made. It had been a rotten thing to have happen, yet Sam never said a word about it.

I wondered how to explain to him and had little that could be put into words. I said, It’s all pretty vague and disconcerting, but it has something to do with his brother and business. He calls me every Saturday promptly at midnight, you know, and writes twice a week. That is — I mean — he used to write twice a week. Now his letters are brief and farther apart.

Doesn’t he explain?

"Well, he does and he doesn’t. The first two months he was gone he was going to fly back any day. That faded and now he claims he doesn’t know when he can leave. He ran up an enormous long-distance bill the other night. We talked almost two hours. Frankly, Sam, I was angry and demanded to hear a little sense from him. But he quibbled and hemmed and hawed and we got nowhere. I tried to help him by suggesting that perhaps he was having difficulty with his brother, but then he became angry, too. We had words and I hung up on him. So today I just couldn’t go on this way any longer and made up my mind to find out for myself just what is wrong. Did yon send that wire, by the way?"

This afternoon, yes, as soon as I had your reservation. Carol, this marriage, it’s really a serious matter with you?

Yes. Very much so. I fell in love with him, Sam, blindly, all the way, no reservations. Because of its suddenness it may seem adolescent to you, but —

No, darling. He patted my hand and said, I know you well enough to know how you feel about it. I was just wondering, looking at it from his angle, perhaps he doesn’t feel the same way. He seemed a very likable person, with an obvious masculine charm that would attract all sorts of women. I have no doubt that more than one Western heart was broken when he married you.

"I know what you mean. Why don’t you say it? Now he’s home, among his own friends and romances, and regrets his marriage. Another woman? Maybe. I don’t know.

It could be. Yet he impressed me as one of the most honest men I’ve ever known. He admitted that he’d had his full share of romance, but now that was all a closed book. He was starting another life with me. He was even eager about it, you see. It was like the honesty and cleanliness of a small boy the way he explained the division in his life. He said that he had always felt that way."

How?

Well, he knew himself pretty well. He knew — or so he explained — that when he would fall in love it would be the way I feel, all the way, for life. He stated flatly that he had never been in love before, though, like most men, he had played around a good deal, and that he had no tolerance for extramarital activities. His attitude toward marriage was so powerful that it rather frightened me. It was like facing someone out of another century, another age, a man easily capable of destroying his wife if she did anything to endanger their marriage. There was nothing false about the vigor of his feeling.

Sam nodded, but had nothing to say. We were now on the parkway and I could see the beacons of La Guardia Field in the distance. It was still raining, but the fog had lifted and thinned to a fine mist. The tires of the taxi made a musical hum on the wet road and in the back of my mind. The promised headache had faded. I was beginning to feel better. Perhaps, I thought, that was because the first step was in sight. In a few hours I would know the answers to many questions.

I said, So there’s that to consider. He could have been lying and my judgment of him could be all wrong. Truly, Sam, I don’t know. I do know, of course, that he is unusually attractive to women. That masculine charm you mentioned has the impact of an explosion where a woman is concerned. And I don’t say that just because I felt that way. I’ve watched the same reaction in other women.

Meaning, I take it, that there will be much keening and wailing of old loves about his home?

Yes. I smiled. Something like that. But there’s something else to consider. The situation is a little like an obvious story line. Jeffrey has been very frank about the fact that he enjoys being married to a so-called celebrity. Somehow or other, the thought of his brother’s reaction seemed to amuse him. He has hinted, too, that it will make quite a stir in the set he travels with. So, you see, he could have been lying about the Hamlyne name and could actually be only moderately well off.

Sam was laughing. Rest your fears. Even if you didn’t know better —

I do know better, of course.

So do I. I had him investigated. He is a third-generation Californian, one of the finest names in the state. I couldn’t determine his exact financial status, but the estate runs deep into the millions. Let me be the last to assure you, my dear, that you are married to one of the wealthiest men in the West.

The news was not surprising, yet it seemed to have little connection with Jeffrey. He had talked about Lynecrest, the family home at Pebble Beach, and about an estate manager and stables and planes and various other trappings of wealth, but he had been so casual about it and I had been so much in love that his background had not been important. And during our honeymoon, the one week we spent at Marblehead, he had not dipped very deeply into his pocketbook, to put it crudely. We had lived on a small cruiser borrowed from a friend, which cost nothing, and went practically nowhere, which was the way he wanted it. Jeffrey had made two calls to his brother, reverse charges, and, on one occasion, had borrowed a hundred dollars from me and had then forgotten to pay it back. There had been nothing about him, except his manner, that indicated great wealth.

As the taxi stopped before the field administration building, I was trying to recapture that manner of his. He had one habit that annoyed me, that of counting his small change and being very watchful in all matters where small sums were involved. But toward anything really expensive he was so indifferent as to be maddening. The morning he left he had escorted me into a shop to try on a blue mink. Naturally I had liked the coat. It was a lovely thing. Jeffrey then told the saleswoman that I would be in later for a fitting and to send him the bill. He had not even asked the price. But you just don’t buy blue minks that way, at least not I, who had always had to work for what I wanted. I had walked out of the shop shaking my head, thinking he had a perverted sense of humor.

Sam, I said, as we got out of the cab, I could kick myself. I could have had a blue mink and haven’t even dropped around for a fitting. That I could never make anyone believe.

Nevertheless, I felt some satisfaction about it. It was proof positive, if any was needed, that Jeffrey was a singular image in my mind divorced of all else, even his wealth.

Sam took care of my ticket and baggage at the airline counter. The flight had already been called, so he walked with me to the end of the ramp. We stared at the glistening metal skin of the four-engine plane and this was definitely farewell and that headache was returning. It was not easy leaving Sam. There had been times when I had thought I would marry him. There had been times when he almost proposed. And then another play would interfere.

He stood there looking solemnly down into my eyes and placed his bony hands on my shoulders. Take care of yourself, Carol.

I will.

Write to me often. And if anything goes wrong, for God’s sake, let me know.

You think I made a mistake, don’t you?

This isn’t the time or place to talk about that.

But I know you think that way.

Recently, yes. At first I thought your Jeffrey was a very admirable person, even though he had used an ax on my life.

Now you’ve changed your mind. Tell me the truth, Sam.

Very well. I think Hamlyne is simply one of the spoiled rich, a playboy, a chameleon, as changeable as a woman’s hair-do. I think he fell in love with you, head over heels, but even his too rapid courtship indicates instability. Now he realizes his new responsibility, or his brother has made him realize it, which I imagine is closer to the truth, and he regrets the whole thing. Under the community-property laws of California he is in a very difficult situation.

Oh, Sam.

I won’t lie to you, Carol. You asked for it. He has allowed four months to go down the drain because he hasn’t sufficient character, or courage, to make up his mind. And yet I think I know what will happen when you arrive. One look at you and he’ll be head over heels in love again.

Sam’s eyes were searching mine, looking for the answer to a question pertinent to him. I made the correct guess by saying, You expect me to see that, too, and have enough character, myself, to walk out. Isn’t that it?

That’s what I hope. You’ve relegated me to the role of the second husband. I have no pride, you see. I accept the part. His hands tightened and he shook my shoulders. I’m talking nonsense. He smiled. Run along. You’ll have a wonderful time. But if anything goes wrong —

I was halfway up the steps to the plane’s cabin when I realized that I had not kissed Sam good-by. I stopped and turned around. The gate was closed. I waved to Sam, brushed away the surprising tears, and was thankful for the mist.

The door closed behind me and the stewardess took my coat. As soon as we were airborne she brought me the latest novel, a corsage, and my favorite chocolates. That, I thought, is not included in the price of the ticket. Jeffrey or Sam?

The stewardess smiled and informed me, A Mr. Brandt, I believe. Maybe I’m talking out of turn, Mrs. Hamlyne, but from the scuttle butt I heard in the office he has candy and flowers waiting for you at every stop,

I sighed, Lucky me. But it should have been Jeffrey. He had time to make such arrangements after getting my wire.

The girl adjusted a small