Magician's Wife by James M. Cain Page A

trees, it seemed modest in size, even small. It was of brick painted white, and in five sections: a center hall, two wings a short distance off, and two “hyphens” connecting. Its lines were thus broken, in the form of a careless sprawl, or what appeared to be a sprawl. Close up, however, from the rose garden out front, the illusion of happenstance, of small informality, vanished, and reality appeared, in the form of a stately, full-fashioned mansion. Ordinarily Clay loved it, though just as ironical as anyone at the regency of the Granlund tenure, and he often stood admiring it, perhaps imagining himself as owning it or some place not too unlike it some time in the future. Today, however, as he pulled up on the oyster-shell drive, all he could see was Sally’s coupe parked near the door. It was the only car out there, as Pat had reminded Clay that he was the guest of honor, and as such bound to come early, “as a grand entrance later just louses the hostess up.” So no one else had come, and Clay was even more nervous than he had been at the office, during a hectic morning hour of shaking hands with everyone.
    And sure enough, once a colored functionary had let them in, she met them in the hall, trim in a black silk print with red poinsettias, holding her hand out to Pat. “Mr. Grant,” she said prettily, “welcome to Calvert Hall—I’m Mrs. Alexis, and I’ll present you to the Granlunds.” Then, turning to Clay: “Mr. Lockwood, so nice of you to come, so nice to see you again.” She didn’t shake hands with him, and he made no effort to. Holding up a finger to wait, she went to the great arch of the east hyphen and stood as though waiting for some signal. “Clay,” whispered Pat, “I see good manners aplenty—it’s all you do see nowadays. I don’t see easy manners—but that girl has ’em .” Clay agreed, fighting off pride in her. Then she nodded to someone, came over, took Pat’s arm, and led through the hyphen, a bower of green things in boxes, to the great drawing room beyond. There the Granlunds were drawn up in the middle of the floor: Mrs. Bunny Granlund, a large woman of forty, who proclaimed every whim, endearment, confidence, joke, and considered opinion at the top of her lungs, as though all within earshot were deaf; Mr. Steve Granlund, a tall, dour man, with the icy affability that seems to be the interchangeable mark of grand dukes, bishops, and headwaiters. He greeted Pat cordially and congratulated Clay on his promotion, which he had read about in The Pilot. Mrs. Granlund fell on Pat’s neck, then put her arms around Clay, calling him “Dear boy” and “Our own Clay.”
    When she had placed Pat beside her, where the guests could be presented, Clay wandered off to a corner, relieved that nothing special seemed to be expected of him. There Sally followed, telling him: “Bunny asked me to take you in, as your partner, for lunch—and I said I would. Was that all right?”
    â€œWhy, yes,” he said, sounding queer. “Sure.”
    â€œWell, you don’t act very pleased.”
    â€œI’m surprised, that’s all, that you’d want to take somebody in that had mock-orange juice in his veins.”
    â€œMock-orange love is what I got—I’ll say it was quite a letdown. But who am I to complain? If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”
    â€œNow, what’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œYou’d like to know, I bet.”
    Her look had guile in it, and he tried to growl something, but nothing seemed to come. Then, lamely, he said: “So—I guess we’re partners.”
    â€œO.K.—wait for me.”
    The guests, when they began arriving, were mainly men, bringing regrets from wives all over the earth, the sea, the mountains, and Europe. But a few women came too, heavily sunburned, in silk, cotton, and linen suits, all