At least, for once, Sally Draper is happy. Let's take some consolation in that phenomenon, because virtually everyone else with a thread in Sunday's episode of Mad Men plunged into equally phenomenal chasms of fear, paranoia, subterfuge, loathing, despondency, lovesickness and whatever else Matt Weiner and co. could conjure in the space of just under an hour. Oh, what we all wouldn't give to be an innocent, imminent witness to history, even if it meant witnessing it with the father against whom we're harboring equally totemic resentments. Because clearly the alternative sucks. The only question this morning is who really has it worst.
I think we can all agree it is not a great time to be Lane Pryce. Don may be the one suffocating and puking through his allergic reaction to G-men, and Pete may be the one who has to surrender his lucrative (if politically sensitive) North American Aviation account to save Don's ass, and Joan may be the one schlepping out to Morristown for an abortion, and Roger may the one with 30 days to save the Lucky Strike account that keeps the lights on at Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce and which, out of nowhere, Lee Garner Jr. is planning to yank in favor of another agency. Peggy wasn't even anywhere to be found, but she was most certainly experiencing some sort of row with Stan or some beatnik poet or her mother, wherever she wound up.
But no one quite faced the bundle of indignities dumped in Lane's lap -- or smacking him in the head, more literally. It wasn't supposed to be like this, of course; his son Nigel was supposed to pay a visit from London, as announced last week, but instead Lane got his own old man Robert Pryce as a surprise guest in the SCDP lobby. "I'm bringing you home," he tells an incredulous Lane, whose locks his spine as tight as gets and begins laying the groundwork for a naturalization case of sorts. The first, probably imprudent step involves an evening at the Playboy Club, where Lane's a keyholder and where his paramour happens to be a waitress. This dating-the-customers business is a big no-no, but Lane can barely help but give the game away both that night ("She's the finest waitress," he tells them, all but fluttering) and particularly the next day, when he catches the woman entering the club to tell her Nigel's not coming. She shoos him away affectionately. "You know that I love you," he reminds her.
Yes, and now so do the rest of us. And none of it would matter were the woman not -- wait for it -- black. We don't even know her name yet (rude, Mr. Weiner, so rude), but the more important thing to remember here is that the stakes for Lane -- for Mad Men as a whole -- have skyrocketed. His love affair is emblematic of the civil-rights tensions gripping the country; despite her job description, the woman is also set up to be the first non-servile African-American character on the show.
So it's not lightly that Lane receives the news that his father wants him to return to England. And Robert Pryce will not be dissuaded, certainly not by the presence of any black cocktail waitress finally introduced to him (and to us) as Toni Charles. He won't even have dinner with her and Lane -- not that he winces with shame or evinces the slightest hint of embarrassment or disgust when the pair kiss goodbye in front of him. This guy probably isn't what you'd call color blind; he's just all business. "You're coming home, Lane," he says, prompting his son's indignant inquiry if he's more upset that a Pryce is dating in a different class or dating a Negro. We'll never know, alas, because Robert Pryce does not deign to engage such petty socio-romantic arguments. That's what his cane is for. Next thing you know, Lane is clocked upside his head, down on all fours, reaching for his glasses, and stopped by his father's exquisitely polished shoe stepping on his hand. "Put your home in order," Robert growls. "Yes," Lane whimpers. "Yes?" Robert follows. "Yes, sir." Ouch. And damn.
I'd love to say Don and the rest of the crew balanced out this freefall into filial bitchery, but, well, you know. The episode actually began with Joan confiding to Roger that her period is late; this arrives a month or so after their post-mugging sex, and seven weeks after Greg's departure for basic training and, eventually, Vietnam. Roger tells her not to be upset -- these things happen, and they can be resolved with relative ease. "Relative" being the operative word here; a pair of Harris-Sterling Unplanned Pregnancy Summits result in the foregone conclusion that Joan will "take care of it," while a baffled Roger say's he'll do it. But dropping the $400 on an abortion and getting an earful from his revolted doctor ("I came here for your discretion, not your judgment," he barks; had he only been so impotent that fateful night, none of this would have happened) isn't quite the same as the abjection of Joan's waiting-room experience. "How old is your daughter?" asks the tearful, classless 32-year-old mother whose own 17-year-old just stepped into the doctor's office. "15," Joan fabricates in response. You do the math. Not nice, Joanie.
Roger loves her anyway, but his biggest preoccupation is yet to come: There is a very real chance that in another 30 days Joan will be calling movers and they'll be packing a lot more than an unwanted baby. Lee Garner Jr., whose appearances of course always promise a new existential low for Roger and the gang, dropped his latest bombshell over lunch with Roger: The Lucky Strike board has gotten more "aggressive," deciding to consolidate all their brands and business under one agency umbrella. Trouble is, it's not Roger's umbrella, but rather BBDO's. Lee says the decision is final, but like any man faced with the looming, hooded, closeted self-loathing specter of Death itself, Roger bargains with a passion. "You owe me!" he says. "I don't owe you squat." Lee replies, like, obviously. Nevertheless, he allows Roger a 30-day window to arrange SCDP's appeal.
They'll need it, because the Don Draper/Dick Whitman subplot is back with a vengeance. This time it's attributable to Pete's blossoming relationship with North American Aviation, a $4 million account with the purpose of making the manufacturer of deadly Minuteman missiles look like anything but merchants of death. The heavily redacted documents should have been Don's first clue that he was involving himself in matters of national security, and thus slipping perilously close to the same government agencies that would sooner throw the book at him than money should his Korea secret be unearthed.
But Don being Don, complacent with his ghosts until they hungrily lash out for reckoning, he inadvertently rubber-stamps the paperwork authorizing a Dept. of Defense background check. There are three lies out of eight questions on the form, he tells Pete, all glowering, simmering panic. Pete's a bit more optimistic, arguing that Don's transgression occurred years ago, surely outlasting the statute of limitations. "It's desertion," Don hisses. "There is no statute of limitations." The only solution for him is to stop the paperwork -- which means stopping the account, which means a whole new crisis of confidence in Don's ability to evade his past. He simply can't afford it any more. I mean, the Department of Defense actually paid a personal visit to Betty to interview her about her ex -- his allegiances, his trustworthiness, and, most importantly, if there's any reason to believe he's not who he says he is. Betty does her best, calling Don with the heads-up. "What did you tell them?" he asks. "What do you think I told them?" Betty answers, dragging on her cigarette. "Nothing."
Don can't even be that discreet himself, a sweating, panting, vomiting mess to whom Faye attends when he leaves work early -- only to run into a couple of strange men he thinks are government spooks there to grill him. They're really just two dorks with the wrong address. Moments later, having done the courtesy of diagnosing that Don isn't having a heart attack as he believes (but not getting the answers she wants about why the men outside scared him), she then sees him off to rest. Two sleepless hours later, checking up on him, he quietly confesses his identity thievery.
It's quite the stunner for a few reasons -- not so much for his candor and acknowledgment that he's tired of running from the past (like we didn't see that coming in recent weeks), but more so for Faye's reaction and its aftermath. Not a lot of women survive this treacherous terrain immediately bordering Don Draper's soul; it's almost too toxic for him to even bear, and for all we know Miss Farrell is still walking home after Don deserted her outside last season. We know that when relationships with this man get serious, they get fraught. But when someone purports to be sympathetic, even good to him despite his misdeeds, they achieve a sort of sainthood. This was never more evident than with Anna, whose spirit -- or at least whose spiritual role -- Faye may have inherited since the other woman's death earlier this season. Faye will never be Anna for Don, of course, but she will do for now, soothing him with her reassurances and laying next to him in the early evening. Is this love?
We didn't have time to think about it, alas, because Pete eventually breaks up the party with a house call; Faye slinks out without a word. It's just another of Don's secrets he resents (and at least he's honest about it), but as far as the No. 1 Secret, that one is currently tabled at the Defense Department awaiting further instruction from North American and SCDP. Despite all the earlier talk about wanting to come clean, Don isn't about to risk any more inquiries; this is the end of the NAA account and the beginning of a whole new crop of Campbell-Draper bitterness. And can you blame Pete? "I grew this account from cocktails to $4 million," he says, later taking an even more devastating blow for the team at the partner's meeting. Roger, under no small strain himself (and equally cagey about its sources), unloads on Pete. Bert prompts an apology, but Lane deflects the whole catastrophe by announcing a leave of absence, effective, like, now.
So who knows where this leaves SCDP for next week, beyond a roiling snakepit of dysfunction and deceit? There's always the Beatles' famous concert at Shea Stadium, though, to get Don through. He's taking Sally, whose thrill knows no equal, but all his beleaguered secretary Megan gets out of the deal is a long day and a seemingly longer gaze from Don just outside his door. Lesson? Good question. I guess it's that people never change -- they just get whacked with canes. But I'm open to alternatives.