A Wild Surge of Guilty Passion

Haddon grinned and wagged his finger in a schoolmarmish way. “‘Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.’”

“You’ve been there, too, pal o’ mine.”

Haddon became stern. “Hey, one out of every three husbands do

it. Scientific fact.”

Judd watched for the waitress to head into the kitchen and he got his flask of brandy from his suit-coat pocket, tipping an inch into each of their cups. He smiled as he whispered, “Let’s see if we can’t make that coffee stand up on its hind legs.”

Haddon lifted his cup in salute and sipped it and pleasurably exhaled. He frowned some and said, “I’m trying to remember your nickname for her.”

“Momsie,” Judd Gray said.

Walking from Pennsylvania Station to Macy’s on Herald Square, Ruth decided she would soon be rich and hailed a taxi to instead convey her and Lorraine up to Joseph and Lyman Bloomingdale’s luxurious store at 59th and Lexington. With wide-eyed surprise, Lorraine watched her mother overspend on a girl’s white sateen middy dress with Bulgarian embroidery, a girl’s felt hat with side tassel, and a girl’s size-ten lamé coat, its collar and cuffs trimmed in dyed Viatka coney.

Ruth helped her daughter carry the paper-bundled Easter clothes to Women’s Apparel, where Lorraine overheard her mother whisper to a saleslady, “I have to attend a funeral.” Lorraine then watched, evaluated, and voted as her mother purchased patent-leather pumps, a black silk dress designed by Jeanne Lanvin, and a silk coat with a collar of dyed ermine.

And then they went to the Palm Court of the Plaza Hotel for an extravagant lunch. Looking at the steep menu prices, Lorraine asked, “What can I have?”

And Ruth smiled. “Anything you want, baby. From now on. Anything your heart desires.”

Haddon returned to his office at one forty-five and Judd went upstairs to write a letter to Ruth on Onondaga Hotel stationery, penning Syracuse, N.Y. Sat. 6 p.m. in the upper right corner because the last train to Manhattan left at four. He wrote: How the dickens are you this bright beautiful day anyway? Gee, it makes you feel like living again after all that rain yesterday if we only have a nice day tomorrow now we will be all set—as we have had so many miserable Sundays they are lonesome enough as a rule without adding rain. He mentioned Haddon stopping by for a little smile and that he might run out for a movie or vaudeville at the Strand after supper, but this warm weather doesn’t give one a heap of pep. I feel tired when the day is done. Inquiring if tonight wasn’t the occasion for another bridge party with Mr. and Mrs. Fidgeon, he innocently hoped you have a lovely time and have one for me—but see you behave yourselves. He added that he planned on visiting his aunt Julie in Cortland on Sunday since he hadn’t seen her since Xmas time.

Sealing and stamping the letter, he addressed it to Mrs. Jane Gray in Queens Village and then composed a similar letter to his wife, signing it All my love, Bud, and addressing it to 37 Wayne Avenue, East Orange, New Jersey. After that Judd filled out his weekly sales report for Benjamin & Johnes. Angling the three letters on the pillows of the hotel bed so Haddon couldn’t fail to find them, he washed up and brushed his wavy, chestnut-brown hair; changed into a fresh starched shirt with French cuffs since the morning’s was soaked through with anxious sweat; got into his gray herringbone overcoat, gray buckskin gloves, and fedora; and sauntered down to the Elks lodge for a toot and a chance to fill his flask with whisky.

The Syracuse-to—New York City run was so familiar to him he had the railway timetable memorized and he would normally be so casual that he got to the station just minutes before the four o’clock Empire State Express pulled out. But on March 19th he was earlier and was forced to loiter in a men’s room stall so no one would recognize him. Crude penciled drawings of bosoms and vulvas defaced the stall walls, and as if he were preserving Ruth’s honor, he wetted his handkerchief at the sink to scour them away. Loverboy, he thought.

Haddon fulfilled Judd’s request. Around three forty-five, he left his insurance office to see the newsreels at the Strand Theater and ache his sides through Buster Keaton’s The General. Walking back to the office at five thirty, Haddon scanned his mail and telephone messages, locked up his desk and file case, then waited for ten minutes on the sidewalk in front of the Guerney Building for his wife and the old Studebaker, the flivver he would be getting painted on Sunday. The sky was cobblestoned with clouds. He whistled “Ain’t We Got Fun?”

His wife stayed in the driver’s seat as he got in and instructed her to go to the Warren Street side of the Onondaga. “I have to do something for Judd,” was all he said. Haddon took the elevator up to the seventh floor, tipping the operator a penny, and found three addressed envelopes propped up by the pillows, one to Judd’s employers, one to Isabel, and another to a Jane in Queens Village whom Judd addressed by his own last name. The guy gets around, Haddon thought. He lifted up the telephone and held the hearing piece to his ear as he flicked the cradle. The night manager at the front desk answered. Like a functional character onstage, Haddon stated, “This is Mr. Gray in seven forty-three. I’m feeling ill and I’m going straight to bed. Please hold all calls for me until at least midmorning.”

“Very good, sir,” the night manager said.

Haddon hung the blue “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob, locked the door, and fitted the stamped envelopes in the mail chute so they would be postmarked at the eight o’clock collection.

His wife failed to ask what he’d been doing as she drove them home.

The invitation to the card party at the home of Mr. and Mrs. M. C. Fidgeon on Hollis Court Boulevard had instructed the guests to arrive at eight, but stout, wealthy Milton, a formal sort of man who still wore spats, heard the doorbell at seven and was astonished to see Albert on the front porch in a navy blue, doubled-breasted suit and a regimental tie with that gold stickpin in it. Water from his hair-combing still trickled down his neck and was blotted by his stiff shirt collar. Ruth stood behind him, chagrined, and their pretty daughter found harbor under the mother’s arm.

Milton stabbed at a joke. “Have you come for dinner?”

Walking past him inside, Albert said, “We were just cooling our heels at home. You go ahead with what you were doing and don’t mind us. We’ll just sit in the front room and wait.”

Ruth offered Milton a woe-filled look, like This is what I have to deal with every day.

Riding most of the way to Manhattan with just three others in the smoking car, Judd noticed an Italian newspaper front-page section on the floor under the sole of his shoe. L’Arena from Venice. Tilting forward with drunken effort, he fetched it up and found the language was gobbledygook to him. But Italians were dangerous, were Sacco and Vanzetti or the wild and violent immigrants on Mulberry Street and Staten Island, so he thought he could put the pages to use, fling them somewhere in the house as a false clue, a red herring. With the elaborate movements of alcohol impairment, Judd wrapped the chloroform bottle within the pages, snapped the lid of his briefcase shut, and congratulated himself by finishing his flask of whisky.

And then he found himself in Grand Central Station at 10:20 p.m. Walking across the upper level, he halted at a Pullman window to purchase his return ticket to Syracuse. Reginald Rose, a dark young ticket seller who would be described in the Queens trial as “sheikish,” would remember Henry Judd Gray because of the peculiarity of requesting a Pullman sleeper for a midmorning journey to Albany, as if the harried passenger in fine clothes had figured he would be up all night.

Judd hadn’t eaten, but the odors from the diner at Grand Central Station were so off-putting that he exited the terminal at 42nd Street. Although it was raining, he headed by foot down Fifth Avenue to Pennsylvania Station. Why I walked to Penn Station I do not know, unless it was to kill time. There seemed to be no sound to his footsteps so he threw pennies in front of him just to hear them ring on the sidewalk. Walkers dodged aside when he staggered.

At Penn Station, he bought a hot dog with sauerkraut and tried to read the newest scandals in a New York Evening Graphic but the overhead lighting hurt his eyes, so he just stared at the erotic sculptures of Audrey Munson, imagining Ruth as even lovelier, then walked out into the night and caught a bus for Queens Village, claiming later that he was still undecided about what h

e would do when there.

Serena Fidgeon sought to entertain Lorraine with Favorite Fairy Tales, the only children’s book in the house, but the girl discovered a stack of Motion Picture magazines and filled the night hunched over articles about Colleen Moore, Ramón Novarro, and Norma Shearer. At the folding table, Cecil Hough and his wife, from Far Rockaway, were joined by Howard Eldridge and his wife, from just down the street, while Albert, Milton, Serena, and Serena’s kid brother, George Hough, played contract bridge in the dining room. Dr. George Stanford, of St. Mark’s Hospital, switched between tables when players wanted a break while Ruth just kibitzed, genially chatted, or flipped the pages of Motion Picture with her daughter. All through the evening, Milton served his famous martinis to the card players, but Ruth had found the host in the kitchen with the chrome shaker and requested of Milton, “Will you give my share to Al?”

George Hough and Albert both could be hot-tempered when intoxicated, and by midnight George could no longer let the sleeping dog lie, loudly recollecting for Howard Eldridge the altercation with Albert three weeks earlier when he’d been accused of stealing Albert’s wallet.