by Walter Blum
He came stag, of course, and parked on the side of the club so people wouldn’t have to look at the grimy Chevy Belair that was his everyday mode of transportation. Cars were pouring in: big Buicks with fins, little sports cars in colors bright as a morning sunrise, an occasional pickup with a bobbing doll’s head in the back. The country club was just off County Road 24, which took you back to Canelius in one direction, and in the other led to the new suburban tracts that were just opening up to buyers, many of them veterans of the Korean War who had finally qualified for low-cost loans and were beginning to move in with the makings of a family.
Adam waited for the crowd to thin out and then got out of the car. As he rounded the building, he caught sight of a couple climbing out of a white Oldsmobile sedan. The boy he had never seen before; the girl was Gwen Lowenthal, who he knew to be Susan’s best friend since they lived only two doors from each other. She was a sweet, round-faced girl verging on plump, the kind of person who, regardless of her age, always seemed to stay the same. He liked her gray eyes, her frizzy hair and the smile that rarely left her face.
A brass plaque, discreetly placed beside the door, announced the Fairmount Country Club. He waited until Gwen and her date were inside before coming around to the front. The sound of the band filtered through the night. He straightened his tie and patted down his hair, hoping he didn’t look too uncomfortable in the blue suit that always felt a size too large, although he knew that was an illusion, a concomitant of his own awkwardness.
To his annoyance, he was intercepted at the door by Jack Shapiro and a younger man, shaped in almost identical proportions, whom he introduced as his son, Edgar. Together, they looked like a pair of bowling pins waiting to be knocked down at the earliest opportunity.
“Given any thought to my proposal?” he asked.
“Proposal?”
“About joining the club.” Shapiro’s son smiled in unison with his father. “Wonderful bunch of people. The cream of Canelius society congregates here, and you won’t regret signing up, I guarantee it.”
But Adam wasn’t really listening. There she was, no more than twenty feet away, standing at the drinks table, her eyes intense and bright, sipping something pink and innocent-looking from a paper cup. In the years to come he would try to recall what she had on, but since he had never been very good about women’s clothes, what remained from that evening was little more than an impression, a vision in lace, white top with frills, skirt that fell lazily to just below the knee, lots of pleats and bare arms and quite a bit more cleavage than one might have expected.
Did he dare speak to her?
Unfortunately, she was not alone. Standing beside her was a man with a long, crooked nose and dark, intense eyes, tall, rail thin and close to forty. The two were deep in conversation, she bending her head and glancing at him with a smile from time to time. At one point, she touched him on the arm and her fingers lingered there, longer than they should have. He wondered what she could possibly see in someone that old. By the time he mumbled something to Shapiro and disentangled himself from the undertaker’s good graces, she was gone.
The band, which had been taking a break, came straggling back and after a few tentative licks launched into a Cole Porter medley. A young woman named Ingrid came whirling in his direction and asked him to dance. They had been flirting with each other for several weeks, although neither took it seriously. She reminded him of a fountain that burbled incessantly but gave off little water. When the number was over, he detached himself as gently as he could and wandered out on the terrace for a breath of air.
The terrace was deserted except for a couple who had already started down the slope that led from the club house to the lake. Tonight, the sky was dotted with stars, heavy with midsummer ennui. A faint breeze teased the leaves of the big, floppy oak that draped itself over the terrace, and an owl hooted softly in the distance. Adam drank in the sensations. A Glenn Miller number from the band inside mingled with the evening whispers. Through the big plate-glass windows, he could see the figures of dancers, gliding like finger shadows on a bedroom wall. It reminded him of the Bell Tower, only tonight he was on the other side.
She was standing at the far end of the terrace. Her back was to him, and she seemed to be leaning over the rail. Gathering up his courage, he walked over to where she was. She must have heard his approach because she turned and glanced at him with a smile.
“Hi,” she said.
“Nice dance,” he said. Cyrano de Bergerac would no doubt have made a poem of it, but his gift of words stopped at the tower door. Away from the microphone, he was reduced to a helpless, fumbling mortal.
“The band’s a little loud, don’t you think?” Her dancing eyes invited the spinning of moonbeams. The bid was made, but he could think of nothing fanciful to offer in reply.
“They’re—I mean—they’ve got a good beat,” he fumbled.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes,” he said. “How about you?”
“My date had to answer a call of nature.”
“Oh, so that wasn’t who you were talking to?”
“Who?”
“The man with the long nose. I saw you from the other end of the room.”
“Oh, is that—” A smile blossomed on her face. “You were watching me?”
“I thought—”
She started, no doubt surprised at his abrupt manner. He hadn’t meant to come on this strong, but once the words were out he couldn’t very well take them back. For a moment, he thought she was going to run away. And then suddenly, she broke into laughter.
“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” she said.
His face went all hot. He felt as though he were about to choke. “What makes you say that?” he stammered. “I didn’t say—I mean, I never said—”
“So, I gather you’re going to challenge him to a duel.”
“A what?” Oh God! Everything he said was being turned around and used against him. He was making a fool of himself. “It’s just that I saw you with him, and I thought—he was touching your face.”
“He’s not allowed to touch me?”
“Your face—”
“Any part of me?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that—”
She was so close now, he could almost take her face in his hands and kiss her. But that would require more daring than he was capable of.
Suddenly, she grew serious. “I apologize,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you. It just seemed kind of amusing. You want to know who he is?”
“Not if you don’t want to tell me.”
“He’s my cousin Saul. He and his wife Agnes are visiting from Baltimore—as a matter of fact, they have a six-month-old baby. They brought him along, and we saw him for the first time. Do you like children?”
“I suppose so.”
“They’re not getting along. I think they may be headed for a divorce.”
“That’s too bad.”
“For the baby?”
“For them. For Saul and his wife.”
He knew she was teasing, and usually he would respond with growing anger. But something about her manner reduced him to jelly. They went back inside, where the band, the group calling itself the Mellow Tones, was playing a medley of ballads. He wanted desperately to ask her to dance, but he knew that wouldn’t be possible. No doubt an army of suitors was lined up like dominoes behind him, waiting for this chance to bid for her attention. But to his astonishment, she turned to him and asked if he wanted to be next.
“Yes,” he heard himself say. “I would like that.”
The band’s tempo was just right. He was in the habit of sitting out the jitterbugs and faster Latin American numbers, but a respectable foxtrot, one of the things he had learned in college, gave him a chance to pretend a bit of gracefulness and practice his dip. He held out his hands and—as though it were the most natural thing in the world—she slipped into his arms.
In an instant, the subject o
f her cousin and his marital troubles evaporated. They glided across the floor. She danced like an angel. Little by little he could feel her drawing closer until her cheek was against his. They spent most of the evening in each other’s company—her date, having thrown up in the men’s room after getting revoltingly drunk, had to be driven home. They stayed on, and when it was over, he asked if he could give her a ride home. By now, nothing surprised him, and when she said yes, he took it as just one more small miracle among everything else that had filled the evening.
Of course, by rights he should ask her father for permission to escort his daughter. It was that kind of world, a time when young people hadn’t yet gotten around to doing as they pleased, no questions needed. But Max Goldman was nowhere in sight, although Adam had seen him, earlier, standing in a corner of the room, keeping a close eye on them. He wondered what must be going through the older man’s mind. What would he think of this itinerant radio announcer, a “performer” in some people’s eyes, shepherding his cherished daughter out the door? If he were Susan’s father…but he wasn’t, and right now she was in his car, and that was all that mattered. Why push your luck? he told himself. Don’t ask if you don’t have to.
It was warm enough to drive with the window rolled down, and late enough for Susan to suggest that they take a shortcut, a country lane he didn’t even know existed until then. He had to use the high beams and drive with care. They had gone no more than a mile when the car sputtered to a stop. Adam was stunned. It was the first time since he had acquired the Chevy in college that it had given him any trouble. He glanced at the gas gauge. It registered more than half full, but he knew what she must be thinking.
“That’s an old trick,” she chided. There was a faintly mischievous tone to her voice.
“What is?”
“Pretending you’re out of gas. Or is there really something wrong…”
“…with the car? I don’t know.”
“It’s your…”
“…car? Yes, it’s mine.”
“You didn’t…”
“…borrow it from someone? No. But it’s…”
“…never happened before?”
“I swear it. I mean, I never…”
“You wouldn’t have. You’re not like that.”
He was astonished at how they kept falling over each other’s words; there was something both clumsy and yet quite wonderful about it. But what if she really thought he was using the breakdown to take advantage of her? She might lose all respect for him, and that would be the end of everything. He tried to explain what had happened, although in fact he didn’t know what had happened, and in his confusion he found himself stammering and the words refused to come.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t—I mean, I never intended—”
“Adam!”
“I hope you don’t get the idea that—”
“Adam, will you shut up?” she commanded, and leaning across the seat she took his head between her hands. Suddenly, he found himself being kissed in a way that had never happened to him before. Her lips were pressed against his and her tongue was in his mouth, probing, searching for what only God could tell, and the next thing he knew their bodies were locked and his hand was resting on her right breast, and to his utter amazement she did not push it away.
The moment seemed to last an eternity. In all his life, there had been few intervals of such utter ecstasy, of a pleasure so enormous that it defied definition. He was floating. He was soaring. It would never happen like this again.
When it was over, she pulled away, straightened her hair and adjusted the top of her dress. He could see that the breast he had been touching had almost come out. He was afraid to stare, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He knew what he was aching to do, and he knew she knew it, but neither was ready for that yet. He was afraid of what his raging hormones would lead him to. Of course, he would never do anything without her permission.
“All right,” she said, “you can take me home now.”
“I can’t start the car,” he mumbled but to show that he was not making it up, he leaned over and turned the key in the ignition.
To his amazement, it sprang to life immediately. What a night for miracles! First his desire to dance with her had been fulfilled. Then the car, which only moments before had been at death’s door, followed him like an obedient dog. He put the gear in drive and started down the lane until it ended at a familiar road, only a mile or so from her house.
They drove in silence after that. There were no words he could conjure for what had happened. When they reached the house, he saw that her father’s Cadillac was in the garage, the door to which was still open. Goldman must have arrived only a minute or so earlier. He was sure Susan’s father would be furious if he discovered who had brought his daughter home.
Pulling to the curb, Adam walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for her. Neither said anything. It was not the time to ask if he could come in for a nightcap, as some of the guys in college used to do. Besides, he’d already had his. Next time there would be a refill. More than one, if he just took it slowly.
9
There was something special about the tower that night that stirred his heart. It reminded him of a set for a play. Curtain going up. Stage left, the heavy swinging door through which passed the actors and scenery movers, the directors, the bit players who brought the show to life—stage right, the big tape recorder with its silver reels in its black case against the wall, the machinery of the play—in front of him, and hidden behind the window, the audience in the darkened studio, silent, invisible, waiting to unfold itself. The audience he knew was there, but never saw.
He settled behind the microphone and adjusted the flexible stand from which it hung. The filthy pots, the control board streaked and stained, the turntables that sometimes froze up on him just as a record was about to turn—all irrelevant. He was walking on air. Twenty hours and more had passed, and yet every time he thought about it, the glow returned, every fiber of his being drawing strength from where he’d been and what had happened to him. His body was on fire. The needles on the meters on the board waved parasols at him through their prison bars of glass. The Bell Tower, a creature of the night, had been touched with sun.
“Mr. Bay-ul?”
When Mattie called, some time around eleven, he quickly reached for the copy of Secret Love he had set aside on the rack. It was Arnold tonight, not Vernon or Dexter, but what the hell, the message was always the same, and so was the record. For the first time he understood the game, the rules, the strategy, the little exceptions. He played the song. For the first time, he actually listened to the lyrics and understood.
The last call of the evening came shortly after he had gone off the air, by which time he was up to his ears in final chores. There were commercials to be filed, the log to be completed, records replaced on the library shelves. The tape from the eight-thirty radio “drama” had to be rewound and returned to its box. People who called at this hour should know better, he thought as he picked up the phone.
“I waited until you were finished. I didn’t want to bother you while you were still on.”
A tiny shiver went through him. “It’s no bother,” he said in a voice that had nothing to do with the one that had gone out over the air only minutes before.
“I wish I could come and see you,” she said, “but it’s so…”
“Yes, it’s late.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Do you have any free time?”
“I have lots of time during the day.”
“I was thinking—” She hesitated, apparently aware of being more forward than she had any right to be. “I was thinking, if you’re not busy, if you’re not doing anything, maybe we could have a little picnic—just the two of us.”
“That would be nice, but I wouldn’t know what to bring. I’m not much of a picnic-maker.”
“That’s all right,” she said qu
ickly. He had never spoken to her on the phone before, and she must be very close to the receiver, he thought, because her voice almost overwhelmed him—it was so close, so immediate. He could smell her perfume. He could almost feel her skin. “I’ll bring the basket. You arrange for the bicycles.”
“Bicycles?”
“You know how to ride one, don’t you?”
“Sure. Where would you like to go?”
“I don’t know. Suggest something.” He proposed Eldon County Park. She said that sounded good.
“Do you know where to rent bikes?” he asked. She said there was a shop a couple of blocks from the Jefferson Davis Hotel. “Pick me up at the house around twelve, and we’ll drive over there.”
“Twelve o’clock.”
She gave him the address where she lived—he had driven her home before, but hadn’t noted the house number—and he repeated it over and over in his head, pasting it there so he would never have to ask for it again. He recognized the neighborhood, very rich and probably a little pretentious, and wondered if there were any other Jewish families on that street. Probably not. The Goldmans, like so many others in small towns, made it their business to assimilate, to melt into the countryside.
And yet they never could. Jews were always different. That’s the way it was—in the past, in the future, for all time. There was a kind of pride about being different. These were not the same kind of people he had known in New York. These were the special ones, pointed at, hated by some, a target of bigots and curiosity-seekers and evangelists like Mrs. Warren who wondered why the truth couldn’t be taught even to those who didn’t believe.
He picked her up at the house the next day and they drove to the bike shop. She’d called in advance and there were two bicycles waiting for them, well-worn models with scratches to prove it, a red bike for Susan, a blue one for him. What was there about a bicycle that made it male or female? he wondered. He failed to see the difference, since he had once ridden a girl’s bike without the slightest problem at all.
