It was eighteen minutes after nine when Mr. Martin turned into Twelfth Street. A man passed him, and a man and a woman talking. There was no one within fifty paces when he came to the house, halfway down the block. He was up the steps and in the small vestibule in no time, pressing the bell under the card that said «Mrs. Ulgine Barrows» When the clicking in the lock started, he jumped forward against the door. He got inside fast, closing the door behind him. A bulb in a lantern hung from the hall ceiling on a chain seemed to give a monstrously bright light. There was nobody on the stair, which went up ahead of him along the left wall. A door opened down the hall in the wall on the right. He went toward it swiftly, on tiptoe. «Well, for God’s sake, look who’s here!» bawled Mrs. Barrows, and her braying laugh rang out like the report of a shotgun. He rushed past her like a football tackle, bumping her. «Hey, quit shoving!», she said, closing the door behind them. They were in her living room, which seemed to Mr. Martin to be lighted by a hundred lamps. «What’s after you?», she said. «You’re as jumpy as a goat». He found he was unable to speak. His heart was wheezing in his throat. «I — yes», he finally brought out. She was jabbering and laughing as she started to help him off with his coat. «No, no», he said. «I’ll put it here». He took it off and put it on a chair near the door. «Your hat and gloves, too», she said. «You’re in a lady’s house». He put his hat on top of the coat. Mrs. Barrows seemed larger than he had thought. He kept his gloves on. «I was passing by», he said. «I recognized—is there anyone here?’’ She laughed louder than ever. «No», she said, «we’re all alone. You’re as white as a sheet, you funny man. Whatever has come over you? I’ 11 mix you a toddy.’’ She started toward a door across the room. «Scotch-and-soda be all right? But say, you don’t drink, do you?» She turned and gave him her amused look. Mr. Martin pulled himself together. «Scotch-and-soda will be all right», he heard himself say. He could hear her laughing in the kitchen.
Mr. Martin looked quickly around the living room for the weapon. He had counted on finding one there. There were andirons and a poker and something in a corner that looked like an Indian club. None of them would do. It couldn’t be that way. He began to pace around. He came to a desk. On it lay a metal paper knife with an ornate handle. Would it be sharp enough? He reached for it and knocked over a small brass jar. Stamps spilled out of it and it fell to the floor with a clatter. «Hey», Mrs. Barrows yelled from the kitchen, «are you tearing up the pea patch?» Mr. Martin gave a strange laugh Pick up the knife, he tried its point against his left wrist. It was blunt. lt wouldn’t do.
When Mrs. Barrows reappeared, carrying two highballs, Mr. Martin, standing there with his gloves on, became acutely conscious of the fantasy lie had wrought. Cigarettes in his pocket, a drink prepared for him—it was all too grossly improbable. It was more than that; it was impossible. Somewhere in the back of his mind a vague idea stirred, sprouted. «For heaven’s sake, take off those gloves», said Mrs. Barrows. «I always wear t hem in the house,’’ said Mr. Martin. The idea began to bloom, strange and wonderful. She put the glasses on a coffee table in front of a sofa and sat on the sofa. «Come over here, you odd little man», she said. Mr. Martin went over and sat beside her. It was difficult getting a cigarette out of the pack of Camels, but he managed it. She held a match for him, laughing. «Well,’’ she said, handing him his drink, «this is perfectly marvelous. You with a drink and a cigarette».
Mr. Martin puffed, not too awkwardly, and took a gulp of the highball. I drink and smoke all the time», he said. He clinked his glass against hers. «Here’s nuts to that old windbag, Fitweiler», he said, and gulped; again. The stuff tasted awful, but he made no grimace. «Really, Mr. Martin», she said, her voice and posture changing, «you are insulting our employer». Mrs. Barrows was now all special adviser to the president. «I am preparing a bomb», said Mr. Martin, «which will blow the old goat higher than hell». He had only had a little of the drink, which was not strong. It couldn’t be that. «Do you take dope or something?» Mrs. Harrows asked coldly. «Heroin», said Mr. Martin. «I’llbe coked to the gills when I bump that old buzzard off». «Mr. Martin!» she shouted, setting to her feet. «That will be all of that. You must go at once». Mr. Martin took another swallow of his drink. He tapped his cigarette out in the ashtray and put the pack of Camels on the coffee table. Then he got up. She stood glaring at him. He walked over and put on his hat and coat. «Not a word about this», he said, and laid an index finger against his lips. All Mrs. Barrows could bring out was «Really!» Mr. Martin put his hand on the doorknob. «I’m sitting in the catbird seat», he said. He stuck his tongue out at her and left. Nobody saw him go.
Mr. Martin got to his apartment, walking, well before eleven. No one saw him go in. He had two glasses of milk after brushing his teeth, and he felt elated. It wasn’t tipsiness, because he hadn’t been tipsy. Anyway, the walk had worn off all effects of the whiskey. He got in bed and read a magazine for a while. He was asleep before midnight.
Mr. Martin got to the office at eight-thirty the next morning, as usual. At a quarter to nine, Ulgine Barrows, who had never arrived at work before len, swept into his office. «I’m reporting to Mr. Fitweiler now!» she shouted. «If he turns you over to the police, it’s no more than you deserve!» Mr. Martin gave her a look of shocked surprise. «I beg your pardon?» he said. Mrs. Barrows snorted and bounced out of the room, leaving Miss Panel anil Joey Hail staring alter her. «What’s the mullet with that old devil now?» asked Miss Paird.
«I have no idea», said Mr. Mail in, resuming his work. The other two looked at him and then at each other. Miss Paird got up and went out. She walked slowly past the closed door of Mr. Fitweiler’s office. Mrs. Barrows was yelling inside, but she was not braying. Miss Paird could not hear what the woman was saying. She went back to her desk.
Forty-five minutes later, Mrs. Barrows left the president’s office and went into her own, shutting the door. It wasn’t until half an hour later that Mr. Fitweiler sent for Mr. Martin. The head of the filing department, neat, quiet, attentive, stood in front of the old man’s desk. Mr. Fitweiler was pale and nervous. He took his glasses off and twiddled them. He made a small, bruffing sound in his throat. «Martin», he said, «you have been with us more than twenty years». «Twenty-two, sir», said Mr. Martin. «In that time», pursued the president, «your work and your — uh — manner have been exemplary». «I trust so, sir», said Mr. Martin. «I have understood, Martin», said Mr. Fitweiler, «that you have never taken a drink or smoked». «That is correct, sir», said Mr. Martin. «Ah, yes». Mr. Fitweiler polished his glasses. «You may describe what you did after leaving the office yesterday, Mr. Martin», he said. Mr. Martin allowed less than a second for his bewildered pause. «Certainly, sir», he said. «I walked home. Then I went to Schrafft’s for dinner. Afterward I walked home again.
I went to bed early, sir, and read a magazine for a while. I was asleep before eleven. «Ah, yes», said Mr. Fitweiler again. He was silent for a moment, searching for the proper words to say to the head of the filing department. «Mrs. Barrows», he said finally, «Mrs. Barrows has worked hard, Martin, very hard. It grieves me to report that she has suffered a severe breakdown. It has taken the form of a persecution complex accompanied by distressing hallucinations». «I am very sorry, sir», said Mr. Martin. «Mrs. Barrows is under the delusion», continued Mr. Fitweiler, «that you visited her last evening and behaved yourself in an — uh — unseemly manner». He raised his hand to silence Mr. Martin’s little pained outcry. «It is the nature of these psychological diseases», Mr. Fitweiler said, «to fix upon the least likely and most innocent party as the — uh — source of persecution. These matters are not for the lay mind to grasp, Martin. I’ve just had my psychiatrist, Dr. Fitch, on the phone. He would not, of course, commit himself, but he made enough generalizations to substantiate my suspicions. I suggested to Mrs. Barrows when she had completed her — uh — story to me this morning, that she visit Dr. Fitch, for I suspected a condition at once. She flew, I regret to say, into a rage, and demanded — uh — requested that I call you on the carpet. You may not know, Martin, but Mrs. Barrows had planned a reorganization of your department — subject to my approval, of course, subject to my approval. This brought you, rather than anyone else, to her mind — but again that is a phenomenon for Dr. Fitch and not for us. So, Martin, I am afraid Mrs. Barrows’ usefulness here is at an end». «I am dreadfully sorry, sir», said Mr. Martin.
Il was at this point that the door to the oilier blew open with the suddenness of a gas-main explosion and Mrs. Barrows catapulted through it «Is the little rat denying it?» she screamed. «He can’t get away with that!» Mr. Martin got up and moved discreetly to a point beside Mr. Fitweiler’s chair. «You drank and smoked at my apartment», she bawled at Mr. Martin, «and you know it! You called Mr. Fitweiler an old windbag and said you were going to blow him up when you got coked to the gills on your heroin!» She stopped yelling to catch her breath and a new glint came into her popping eyes. «If you weren’t such a drab, ordinary little man», she said, «I’d think you’d planned it all. Sticking your tongue out, saying you were sitting in the catbird seat, because you thought no one would believe me when I told it! My God, it’s really too perfect!» She brayed loudly and hysterically, and the fury was on her again. She glared at Mr. Fitweiler. «Can’t you see how he has tricked us, you old fool? Can’t you see his little game?» But Mr. Fitweiler had been surreptitiously pressing all the buttons under the top of his desk and employees of F & S began pouring into the room. «Stockton», said Mr. Fitweiler, «you and Fishbein will lake Mrs. Barrows to her home. Mrs. Powell, you will go with them». Stockton, who had played a little football in high school, blocked Mrs. Marrows as she made for Mr. Martin. It took him and Fishbein together to force her out of the door into the hall, crowded with stenographers and office boys. She was still screaming imprecations at Mr. Martin, tangled and contradictory imprecations. The hubbub finally died out down the corridor.
«I regret that this has happened», said Mr. Fitweiler. «I shall ask you lo dismiss it from your mind, Martin». «Yes, sir», said Mr. Martin, anticipating his chief’s «That will be all» by moving to the door. «I will dismiss it». He went out and shut the door, and his step was light and quick in the hall. When he entered his department he had slowed down lo his customary gait, and he walked quietly across the room to the W20 file, wearing a look of studious concentration.
Exploring Ideas and Questions for Discussion
1. Why does the author use so many legal terms that suggest the image of a courtroom (reviewed his case, crimes, peccadillos, entering an objection and sustaining it...) in the story? Find the terms and explain their use in relation to the story.
2. What language does the author use to describe Mr. Martin and Mrs. Barrows? In what case is the language highly expressive? What are the expressive means the author employs? What adds to the negative characteristics of Mrs. Barrows and to the positive characteristics of Mr. Martin?
3. What are the peculiarities of the composition of the story? How different are various parts of the story?
4. Analyse the words of the story and try to define the genre of it. Is the «Catbird seat» a believable story? Do you think the author intended it to be?
It’s queer, the things you remember. When life has crumbled suddenly, and left you standing there, alone. It’s not the big important things that you remember when you come to that: not the plans of years, not the love nor the hopes you’ve worked so hard for. It’s the little things that you remember then: the little things you hadn’t noticed at the time. The way a hand touched yours, and you too busy to notice; the hopeful little inflection of a voice you didn’t really bother to listen to...
John Carmody found that out, staring through the living-room window at the cheerful Tuesday-afternoon life of the street. He kept trying to think about the big, important things, lost now — the years and the plans, and the hopes. And the love. But he couldn’t quite get them focused sharply in his mind, just now. Not this afternoon.
They, those important things, were like a huge but nebulous background in his mind. All he could remember, now, was a queer little thing: nothing, really, if you stopped and thought about it in the light of the years and the plans and the — the great love. It was only something his little girl had said to him. One evening, two — perhaps three weeks ago. Nothing, if you looked at it rationally. The sort of thing that kids are always saying. But it was what he was remembering, now.
That particular night, he had brought home from the office a finished draft of the annual stockholders’ report. Very important, it was. Things being as they were, it meant a great deal—to his future; to the future of his wife and his little girl. He sat down to reread it before dinner. It had to be right: it meant so much.
And just as he turned a page, Marge, his little girl, came with a book under her arm. It was a green-covered book, with a fairy-tale picture pasted on it. And she said: «Look, Daddy». He glanced up and said: «Oh, fine. A new book, eh?» «Yes, Daddy», she said. «Will you read me a story in it?» «No, dear. Not just now», he said.
Marge just stood there, and he read through a paragraph which told the stockholders about certain replacements in the machinery of the factory. And Marge’s voice, with timid and hopeful little inflections, was saying: «But Mummy said you probably would, Daddy». He looked up over the top of the typescript. «I’m sorry», he answered. Maybe Mummy will read it to you. I’m busy, Dear». «No», Marge said politely. «Mummy is much busier, upstairs. Won’t you read me just one story? Look it has a picture. See? Isn’t it a lovely picture, Daddy?»
«Oh, yes. Beautiful», he said. «Now, that picture has class, hasn’t it? But I do have to work tonight. Some other time»...
After that, there was quite a long silence. Marge just stood there, with the book open at the lovely picture. It was a long time before she said anything else. He read through two more pages explaining in full detail, as he had directed, the shift in markets over the past twelve months, the plans outlined by the sales department for meeting these problems which, after all, could safely be ascribed to local conditions, and the advertising program which after weeks of conferences had been devised to stabilize and even increase the demand for their products.
«But it is a lovely picture, Daddy. And the story looks so exciting», Marge said.
«I know», he said. «Ah... mmmmmmm. Some other time. Run along, now».
«I’m sure you’d enjoy it, Daddy», Marge said.
«Eh? Yes, I know I would. But later».
«Oh», Marge said. «Well, some other time, then. Will you, Daddy? Some other time?»
«Oh, of course», he said. «You bet».
But she didn’t go away. She still stood there quietly, like a good child. And after a long time, she put the book down on the stool at his feet, and said:
«Well, whenever you get ready, just read it to yourself. Only read it loud enough so I can hear, too».
«Sure», he said. «Sure. Later».
And that was what John Carmody was remembering. Now. Not the long plans of love and care for the years ahead. He was remembering the way a well-mannered child had touched his hand with timid little fingers, and said:
«Just read it to yourself. Only read it loud enough so I can hear, too».