Gonzalo said, “He might say ‘five-fifty’ or something like that.”

  “If he does, I’ll ask him if he means five hundred and fifty dollars or five and a half dollars—after all, does he or does he not see the decimal point?—and he will be sure to say five and a half dollars. He will then repeat that with five-fifty written in other printing styles and with the dollar sign left out. Finally, when I flash the image of a digital clock reading five-fifty and ask whether that is five and a half or ten to six, he won’t even have to answer. The jury will get the point.”

  Levine rose to shake Henry’s hand. “Thank you, Henry. I said that cases depend on trivialities, but I never dreamed that this one would rest on something as trivial as the difference between a digital clock and a dial clock.”

  “But,” said Henry, “on that piece of trivia depends the freedom of a man who is presumably wrongfully accused of murder, and that is no triviality at all.”

  11

  Middle Name

  The Black Widowers club is stag (no women admitted) only because the real-life club on which it is modeled is stag.

  This involves me in a paradox. On the one hand, I am a feminist and fight strongly against sexism in all its aspects. What’s more, I get tremendous enjoyment out of being in the company of women.

  And yet—once in the company of women, no amount of philosophic and intellectual determination to the contrary can keep me from treating them as sex objects. Furthermore, I must admit that when I am in the womb of one of my stag club meetings and am surrounded by men only, there is a certain ease and relaxation that engulfs me.

  Sure, I feel guilty and that’s why every once in a while I am forced to take up the matter of sexism in a Black Widower story. This one temporarily exorcized some of the guilt, for which I am grateful to it.

  Roger Halsted looked a bit doleful and said, “I almost didn’t get here tonight.”

  Geoffrey Avalon looked down at him from his straight-backed seventy-four inches and said, “Automobile accident?”

  “Nothing so dramatic,” said Halsted. “Alice was in one of her feminist moods this afternoon and objected rather strenuously to the fact that the Black Widowers Society is a stag organization.”

  “But she’s known that from the start, hasn’t she?” asked Avalon.

  “Of course, and it’s graveled her from the start, too,” said Halsted. “Sometimes it’s worse than other times, that’s all. And today, well, she may have seen something on TV, read something in the newspapers, had a talk with a friend, or whatever. Anyway, she was upset, and the trouble is, I rather sympathize with her.”

  Emmanuel Rubin walked over from the other end of the room, where he had been exchanging insults with Mario Gonzalo, host at this month’s Black Widowers banquet.

  Rubin said, “Are you talking about your wife, Roger?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “I could tell by the troubled look on your face. Bad form. Black Widowers don’t have wives.”

  “Yes?” said Halsted sharply. “Have you told that to Jane?”

  “I mean during the banquets, and you know that’s what I mean.”

  “I’ve heard you mention Jane at the banquets and, besides, my own discussion is germane to the banquets. I would hate to have to give them up.”

  “Who can make you?” demanded Rubin scornfully, his scanty beard bristling.

  Halsted said, “My own conscience, for one thing. And it’s not worth breaking up a marriage over.”

  “Why should it break up a marriage?” said Rubin. “Even if we grant equality for women—political, economic, and social—why should that prevent me from spending one evening a month with friends of my own choosing who just happen to be male?”

  Avalon said, “You know better than that, Manny. They don’t just happen to be male. They are forbidden by the rules of the club to be anything but male.”

  “And anything but intelligent,” said Rubin, “and anything but compatible. If any one of us takes a dislike to anyone proposed for membership, however trivial or even nonexistent the cause of that dislike might be, that potential member can be blackballed. Just one of us can do it, regardless of the wishes of the rest, and we don’t have to explain either.”

  “Manny,” said Avalon, “you’re not usually so obtuse. A woman can’t be blackballed, because she can’t even be proposed for membership. Don’t you see the difference? Whichever one of us is host for the evening can bring any guest he wishes, even one who would be instantly blackballed if he were proposed for membership. But the guest must be male. No woman can be brought. Don’t you see the difference?”

  “Exactly,” said Halsted. “If it were a black that we ruled out, or a Jew, or an Irishman, that would be bigotry and not one of us could live with it. But since it’s only women, we don’t seem to mind. What moral blindness!”

  “Well, then,” said Rubin, “are you two suggesting that we permit women to join the society?”

  “No,” said Avalon and Halsted in quick and emphatic simultaneity. “Then what are we arguing about?”

  Halsted said, “I’m just pointing out that we ought to recognize the immorality of it.”

  “You mean as long as we know something is immoral, we are free to be immoral.”

  “Of course I don’t,” said Halsted. “I happen to think that hypocrisy aggravates any sin. Nothing is so male chauvinist as to say, ‘I’m not a male chauvinist, but…’ as I’ve heard Manny say.”

  Mario Gonzalo joined them and said with clear self-satisfaction, “I don’t say, ‘I’m not a male chauvinist, but…’ I am a male chauvinist. I expect a woman to take care of me.”

  “That’s just an admission you can’t take care of yourself,” said Rubin, “which is something I’ve always suspected, Mario.”

  Gonzalo looked over his shoulder hurriedly in the direction of his guest and then said, in a low voice, “Listen, keep talking feminism during the dinner, off and on. It’s a stroke of luck you’ve started on your own.”

  “Why?” said Avalon in a voice that had not been hushed since its invention. “What dire plot are you…”

  “Shh,” said Gonzalo. “I want to draw out my guest. He’s got something eating him he won’t talk about. That’s why I brought him. It could be interesting.”

  “Do you know what it is?” asked Halsted.

  “Only in a general way…” said Gonzalo.

  Henry, whose elegant service at the banquets ennobled the occasion, interrupted in his soft way. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Gonzalo, dinner is served.”

  Gonzalo placed his guest immediately to his right and said, “Has everyone met Mr. Washburn now?”

  There was a general murmur of agreement. Lionel Washburn was an almost classically handsome individual with a head of thick, dark hair cut neatly, with black-rimmed glasses, white shirt, dark-blue suit, and shiny black shoes. He looked dressed up without being uncomfortable. He did not yet seem to have passed his thirtieth birthday.

  He said to Gonzalo somberly, “Is there some argument about whether the organization is to be stag, Mario? I heard…”

  “No argument,” said Gonzalo quickly. “It is stag. I invited you. I didn’t suggest you bring a girlfriend.”

  “I don’t have one,” said Washburn, biting off each word. Then, more normally, “How long have you been stag?”

  “From the start, but it’s Jim’s story. Jim, my guest would like to hear how the society got its start—if you don’t mind, that is.”

  James Drake smiled and held his cigarette to one side so that he could see the other’s face clearly. “I don’t mind, though I’m sure the others are pretty sick of it. Still—any objections?”

  Thomas Trumbull, who was cutting into his rack of lamb, said, “Plenty of objections, but you go ahead and I’ll attend to the inner man. Henry, if you can scare up an extra helping of mint sauce, I would be infinitely appreciative. And Jim, I would suggest you get our personal Book of Genesis printed up and handed out at the start of each banquet to the guest. The rest of us can then be spared. Thank you, Henry.”

  Drake said, “Now that we have Tom out of the way, I’ll go on. About thirty years ago, I married, but then we all make mistakes, don’t we? I believe I was fascinated at the time, though I don’t remember why. My friends, however, were not fascinated.”

  Avalon drew in his breath in a long, rumbling sniff. “We remember why.”

  “I’m sure you do,” agreed Drake good-humoredly. “As a result, I found myself outcast. My friends fell away and I couldn’t endure her friends or, after a time, her. It occurred to Ralph Ottur, then—He lives in California now, I’m sorry to say—to start a club for the sole purpose of seeing me without my wife. Naturally, this would only work if the club were stag. So there you are. We called it the Black Widowers because black widow spiders are quite apt to devour their mates, and we were determined to survive.”

  Washburn said, “And does your wife know the nature of the origin of the club?”

  “She’s not my wife,” said Drake. “Anymore, that is. I divorced her after seven years.”

  “And were you all members at the start?”

  Drake shook his head. “Jeff, Tom, and I are charter members. The others joined later. Some members have died or now live too far away to attend.”

  “But the reason for the men-only character of the club is gone. Why do you…”

  “Because we want to,” said Gonzalo quickly. “Because I like women in their place and I know exactly where that place is and here isn’t it.”

  “That’s a disgusting statement,” said Halsted, with the slight stutter that came when he grew emotional.

  Gonzalo said coolly, “You’ve got to say that because you’re married and you’re afraid that if you don’t keep in practice, you’ll let something chauvinistic, so-called, slip in front of your wife and then you’ll be in trouble. I’m not married so I’m a free man. My girlfriends know where I stand, and if they don’t like it, they can leave.”

  Avalon said, “There’s an uncomfortable Don Juanism about that statement. Don’t you care if they leave?”

  “Sometimes,” admitted Gonzalo, “but I’d care a lot more if they stayed and argued with me. And there are always others.”

  “Disgusting,” said Halsted again.

  “The truth usually is,” said Gonzalo. “Why don’t all you highly moral feminists tell me why you don’t want women at these meetings and see if you can make the reason nonchauvinist?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence about the table, and Gonzalo said, “Henry, you’re a Black Widower, too, and I’m not letting you escape. Would you like to see women at these meetings?”

  Henry’s face crinkled into a pleasant smile. “No, Mr. Gonzalo, I would not.”

  “Aha,” said Gonzalo. “Now, you’re an honest man, Henry, unlike these Black Hypocriticers you wait on. Tell me why not.”

  Henry said, “Like you, Mr. Gonzalo, I am not married, but I’m afraid I lack your variegated experience with young women.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  Henry said, “I was merely explaining the situation in case my theory on the subject should prove to be childishly foolish to other, more experienced men. It seems to me that most men during their childhood have had their mothers as their chief authority figures. Even when the father is held up as a mysterious and ogreish dispenser of punishments, it is, in fact, the mother whose outcries, yanks, pushes, and slaps perpetually stand in the way of what we want to do. And we never recover.”

  Rubin said, in a voice of deep, masculine disdain, “Come, Henry, are you trying to say that men are afraid of women?”

  Henry said, “I believe many are. Certainly, many feel a sense of relief and freedom when in the company of men only and feel particularly free when women are not allowed to intrude. This society originated as a haven from women under the guise of being one from a particular woman. That particular woman is gone but the haven is still needed and still persists.”

  Avalon said, “Well, that is at least not an example of outright chauvinism.”

  “And totally untrue,” said Rubin, his eyes flashing behind the thick lenses that covered them. “How many here are afraid of women?”

  It was Washburn who intervened at this point. With his handsome face contorted into a mask of fury, he brought his fist down with a smash that rattled the dishes and caused Henry to pause in his task of pouring the coffee.

  Washburn said, “You don’t expect anyone to admit it, do you? Your waiter is correct, but he doesn’t go far enough. Of course, we’re afraid of women. Why shouldn’t we be? They’re man-eaters, cannibals, harpies. They’re bound by no rules, no canons of sportsmanship. They’re the ruin of men and of all that is decent and human. I don’t care if I never see another one in my life.”

  He paused, drew a deep breath, then passed a hand over his forehead, which had dampened with perspiration and said, “Pardon me, gentlemen, I did not mean to lose my temper.”

  Trumbull said, “But why…” and stopped at Gonzalo’s raised hand.

  Gonzalo was grinning in triumph. “Later, Tom. It’s almost grilling time and I’ll choose you as inquisitor and you can ask your question.”

  And, indeed, it was not long before Gonzalo began the ritualistic tapping of the water glass as the brandy was being distributed. He said, “It’s up to you, Tom.”

  Trumbull frowned ferociously under his white and crisply waved hair and said, “I will assume, Mr. Washburn, that Mario has explained to you that the payment, for what we hope you will agree is a fine dinner and at least partly edifying conversation, is a grilling. To our questions, you will be expected to answer fully and truthfully, even when that may be embarrassing. I must assure you that nothing said here ever leaves these four walls.

  “With that preamble, let me say this. I am not a judge of masculine pulchritude, Mr. Washburn, but it seems to me that women would judge you to be handsome.”

  Washburn flushed and said, “I would not try to account for women’s tastes. Still it is true that I have found that I can, on occasion, attract women.”

  “That’s a very modest way of putting it,” said Trumbull. “Does the converse hold as well? Do women attract you?”

  For a moment, Washburn looked puzzled. Then he frowned and said, “Are you asking me if I am gay?”

  Trumbull shrugged and said in a level voice, “In these times, it is a permissible question, and it is even permissible to answer in an open affirmative, if that should happen to be the case. I ask out of no personal interest, I assure you, but merely out of curiosity over your earlier angry remarks about women as a group.”

  Washburn relaxed. “I see your point. No, I’m interested in women. Far too interested. And it was not the sex as a whole that I was really berating. I was striking out at one! One woman! And myself!”

  Trumbull hesitated. “The logical thing,” he said, “would be to question you, Mr. Washburn, concerning this woman who so distresses you. Yet I hesitate. On the one hand, it is a peculiarly private matter, which I do not wish to probe and, on the other, if you don’t mind my saying so, the details are likely to be peculiarly uninteresting. I suppose every one of us in our time…”

  Avalon interrupted. “If you don’t mind, Tom, you are displaying an uncommon combination of delicacy and insensitivity. I am prepared, with your permission, to take over the grilling.”

  “If you think you can do so, Jeff, within the bounds of good taste,” said Trumbull huffily.

  Avalon lifted his dense eyebrows to maximum and said, “I think highly of you, Tom, and yet have never considered you an arbiter of good taste. Mr. Washburn, I have no wish to probe wounds unnecessarily, but let me guess. Your outburst came during a discussion of the pros and cons of feminism. May we take it, then, that your unhappy experience, whatever it was, involved feminism?”

  Washburn nodded and said, “It sure as hell did.”

  “Good! Now it may be superfluous to ask this, but was whatever it was that happened something that has happened to many others? Putting aside the great pain it may have caused you and the unique unhappiness you may consider you have felt, would you in your calmer moments think that it might be the common lot of male humanity?”

  Washburn seemed lost in thought, and Avalon went on as gently as he could. “After all, millions have been jilted, millions have been sold out, millions have been betrayed by their lovers and their friends.”

  “What happened to me,” said Washburn, between remarkably white and even teeth, “has in a way happened to very many, as you suggest. I recognize that. To lose the woman one loves is not so rare. To be laughed at and humiliated,” he swallowed, “may be the lot of many. But in one respect, I have been ill used particularly. In one respect.”

  Avalon nodded. “Very good. I won’t ask you any leading questions. Just tell us about that one respect.”

  Washburn bent his glance down to his brandy snifter and spoke in a hurried tone of voice. “I fell in love. It wasn’t the first time. She was—she was not the most beautiful woman I have ever known—nor the pleasant-est. In fact, we did not get along. Her company was always a maddening bumpy ride in a springless cart down a rough road. But, oh God, I couldn’t help myself. I still can’t seem to. Don’t ask me to analyze it. All I can say is that I was caught, tangled, trapped, and I wanted her. And I couldn’t get her.

  “She acted as though she hated me. She acted as though she wanted me to want her, just so she could show the world I couldn’t have her.

  “She was a feminist. Her nerve endings stuck out six inches beyond her skin on that subject. She was successful. She was a magazine illustrator at the top of her field and commanded high fees. It wasn’t enough, though. To make it right for her, I had to fail.