Page 19 - WTP Vol. XIII #3

Every time he came to town to see me he would take me to The Oak Room Bar at The Plaza, then some- times The Oak Room dining room, no longer in existence. Often he would become drunkenly ob- streperous, but I made do because I liked to see him. These were fleeting, early evenings where I did my best to keep him in hand, occasionally suggesting we should leave, without mentioning that I wanted to get home to that “dim bulb” in my life, paying the tab and dragging him out of the bar before somebody kicked us out.
Routinely, a few days later I would receive a letter of apology in the mail. The letters were touching and beautifully written. Sometimes I even wondered if he behaved inappropriately simply to obtain the oppor- tunity to write me an elegant letter. But people wrote letters then. It was a common thing to do.
“H
“Dear Margaret:” he would begin:
“Just sitting around up here with my Fig Newton’s, trying to fathom the imponderable.” That was what kept me coming back for more—his words, his droll perceptions.
And at his self-deprecating best, “I can always walk around with my fist in my mouth or some histrionic nonsense like that until I get back to work, and then it’ll be okay. It has always turned out to be okay, sooner or later, in the past.” There seemed to be such doom contained in this supposedly positive pro- nouncement. The reference to his fist had become
a running joke between us, because early on in our friendship I had dared to suggest that Frank Wheeler, the stumbling hero of Revolutionary Road, might have put his fist in his mouth a little less frequently. He had laughingly agreed.
And a writer’s business woes: “...I’m ass-deep in a bewildering novel...and the heavy implication [from Delacorte Press] is that there will be no more dol- lars for me unless they can clearly envision dollars for themselves. But I’ve worked my way out of worse jams than this, and am newly encouraged by your health-giving letter.”
I couldn’t imagine then how a letter from me could be health giving. Now, as I grow older, I can.
Richard Yates became a known name finally, (among more than a few good writers and other artists who have valiantly continue to sing his praises), with the
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I made do because I needed my hero.“
e was not at all
the man I had idealized him to be, but
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