Heart Troubles by Stephen; Birmingham Page B

interested any more. “I know.” And then she said, “Hugh, let’s not talk about it. I’m sorry I started it—truly I am.”
    â€œYou were brave,” he said, “to put up with it all for nine years.”
    â€œOh, look!” she said. “Look at the gulls, how low they’re flying! Look at that one swoop!”
    He looked at the birds against the fading sky. He reached down and turned on the low-beam headlights. “I wish you could remember,” he said.
    â€œRemember what?”
    â€œWhat it was I said a year ago.”
    â€œOh,” she said. “Well, as a matter of fact, I do remember.”
    â€œWhat was it?”
    â€œI’m sorry. I don’t want to spoil it by repeating it to you.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œIt was one of the few rather sweet things you’ve ever said. That’s another thing about people like you, about geniuses. You’re very lucky; the right thing pops into your head at just the right moment, and you say it. Your whole life can be about to collapse around you, and something steps in and saves the day. It’s almost uncanny, the narrow escapes that geniuses have—by sheer fool’s luck.”
    â€œIf I could remember the lucky thing I said, I’d say it again now,” he said softly.
    â€œYou’d put it into the script, you mean.”
    â€œNo, I—”
    â€œDon’t bother,” she said. “This script, this particular script, is over. We can’t use another installment.”
    â€œWell, you know me,” he said. “I always love a happy ending.”
    â€œIt’s not in the cards for this one, I’m afraid.”
    â€œToo bad,” he said. “I had such high hopes.”
    He felt her look at him again, then look away. He thought, Perhaps she was right; perhaps he had been writing this script for too long. Possibly he had been writing too much of it by himself and had been resisting her collaboration. But surely it was too late now to go back over their marriage and make revisions.
    The trouble was, he was not a genius. He knew that. Smart, yes. Clever, yes. Resourceful, good at keeping his eye on the main chance. He was all those things, but not a genius. Of course, he had been called a genius before. Genius is perhaps the cheapest word in show business. “Hugh Martin is a genius.” “Call in Hugh Martin; he’ll save the script. The guy’s a genius.” He’d heard it over and over again; but, he thought wryly, at least he was smart enough not to believe it. As for the other part—well, she was wrong there, too. He had it in him. Someday he would contribute to the great library of human culture. There was plenty of time. It was still early; he was only thirty-five. The big thing, the important thing, would come in due course. He’d planned his life pretty well so far; it had gone off without too many hitches. He’d plan the rest, too, and find a slot for everything.
    He knew how things should be. Life is like a poker game; to get through it successfully requires certain dodges, a certain manner, a sense of situation, knowing when to bluff and when to play it straight. He had tried to teach her how things should be, which included how to dress, how to use makeup, how to talk, and how to mix a memorable cocktail. But on the whole she had been a reluctant student. That, essentially, always had been the difficulty between them. “You criticize me,” she said. But of course, he criticized her! He had to criticize her, didn’t he, when she made mistakes?
    Suddenly sad, he remembered Lucille’s little attempts to show that perhaps she, too, knew how things should be. At parties, for instance, she would be solemn when everyone else was being witty, and when the conversation was serious she would make jokes. And her jokes, he often had told her flatly, did not come off; her timing was all wrong. Be charming without