The Incredible Charlie Carewe

by Mary Astor

  Brian had walked to the arbored gate with some of the late stayers, and Charlie still lingered. “Can I help you carry out the trays?” he said. But the blood was pounding in Jane’s temples, and she heard a hoarseness in Charlie’s voice. Glancing out the open doorway, in the dim twilight she could see that the boys and Brian would be jawing for another ten minutes. Without heeding the warning bell in her mind she pressed her body to Charles, feeling the young muscles of his arms hard around her, his mouth urgent and moist upon hers.

  “I knew this was going to happen,” she breathed.

  “Did you?”

  “Didn’t you?” Startled, she looked at him.

  “No.”

  The young fool! He meant that! She had been prepared to handle impetuosity, to push a tray into trembling hands and playfully push him off to the kitchen, where he could regain his poise. She, the one with control. Well, he was a cool one! He had made her feel unreasonably foolish, caught up into analyzing symbols expressing an emotion. Recognition that her words implied a yielding to an emotional “fate” should have been mutual. But his literal question, “Did you?” called for a literal answer. Did you, for God’s sake! It should have been a whispered I know, I know. Wasn’t he aware of the language bargains, the implied meanings below the levels of speech that everyone used?

  He was looking at her, quite poised, his arms still around her, his hands low on her back, pressing her to him. “What’s wrong?”—still in that flat, “how’s the weather” voice.

  It would have been so simple to put a stop to such impertinence. Jane laughed a little at the returning feeling of control of the situation. She could “get even” very easily. Slap his face, and Brian would return and throw him out, and that would be that. Unfortunately. The thought of exciting this boy was in itself an excitement. She could well afford to postpone “getting even.” . . .

  Gasping a little, she worked free of his arms, and picking up a tray of the remains of turkey and ham sandwiches, she carried them into the kitchen. She had the reins again, for he followed quickly and stood beside her while she fumbled in a drawer for waxed paper. “What’s wrong?” he repeated. “Did I make you cross?” Immediately she forgave him, everything, everything—why, he was just a child—a baby with big brown eyes looking at her, concerned that he had been a bad boy! Carefully she selected the unused sandwiches and wrapped them in the paper. Holding one to his lips, she said, “Bite?” Instead of the sandwich he caught her wrist in his teeth gently, and she felt the tip of his tongue on her pulse.

  “Be careful, darling, be careful,” she whispered. “When can you get away——”

  “Friday week? I’m sure I can make it again. I’ve enjoyed this. It’s so kind of you to ask the fellows over.”

  Without a word Jane went back to the living room, and then, seeing Brian coming up the walk, she made no effort to hide her annoyance, as it would be interpreted as fatigue by Brian. In her high lilting voice she said, “I’m so glad you could come, Charles. Mr. Dexter and I enjoy having you boys around. Keeps us young.” She twinkled at Brian and gave him an eyes-to-the-ceiling look of mock despair that said, “Get rid of him!”

  “Still here?” Brian boomed in his friendly, “we’re all pals” voice.

  “Yes sir,” said Charles, “just trying to be helpful—not very good at it, I’m afraid,” and he hung his hands out in a clumsy fashion, to illustrate.

  Brian put a friendly arm around his shoulders and steered him to the door. “Think you can make it next Friday?”

  “I’m sure I can,” said Charles, and then his eyes fell on a thin volume lying on the table back of the divan. “Oh, could I—could I borrow this, please? Mother was always wanting me to read her sonnets.” It was the slim Sonnets from the Portuguese of Elizabeth Browning.

  “Of course,” Jane said. “I’d like to say keep it, but it was given to me and it’s been marked and everything.” She smiled at Brian.

  “Thanks, so very much. I’ll bring it back—soon.” And he was gone.

  “Soon.” Jane felt the blood rise to her face. Her fever chart had risen and fallen so erratically in the past hour that she was in a dizzy state. She put her hands to her cheeks. Idiot, idiot, it was she who was being led around by the nose.

  “Well.” Brian sighed his pleased relief. “That was very, very nice, my dearest. You are a lovely hostess, and I’m always proud of you. It does those fellows so much good. Tired?”

  “A little,” smiled Jane. “Will you want any supper, I hope not, after all that food? How those kids stash it away!”

  “Oh, lord, not now—maybe later, some soup or something. I have a flock of papers to grade, and then I’m going to bed early.”

  “Up at dawn, I suppose—the bass are biting, or is it perch?”

  Brian ignored her casually. “What did you think of the new man, Gregson?”

  Jane frowned. Gregson? Which was Gregson? Surely he meant Carewe, but play it safe. “Oh, fine, I guess—they all seem pretty much alike to me—like babies behind a hospital nursery window.”

  Brian laughed heartily. “And they think that Mrs. Dexter is just the most wonderful, the most sympathetic, the most charming, etc., etc. You take the place of all their mothers, except that you’re young and beautiful; what more could a boy ask? I’d be good and jealous if I didn’t know you had a peculiar aversion to the callow male.”

  She was lighting the gas in the fake log in the fireplace. “I’ve passed the time of life where I can yell my lungs out—‘Team! Team!’ A chrysanthemum is something to put in a vase, not wave like a banner. I like good talk. I like you. In fact I’m a very discriminating person!”

  He put his arms around her as she stood up. “And I take that as the greatest flattery.”

  She pressed her face into the wool of his cardigan. “You sure you’re going fishing so early?”

  Brian pulled her tighter to him. “At the moment, it does seem ridiculous—you smell so good.” Firmly, playfully he disengaged her arms from around his neck. “Get away, get away, woman. I’ve got a whole slew of papers to correct—I’ll be lucky if I stay awake long enough to finish them.”

  At his study door he paused. “What did you think of Glamor Boy?”

  “Who?”

  “Carewe—the Greek god with a brain.”

  “Oh yes—Charles Carewe. A brain, you say?”

  “Definitely—the real ‘no trouble’ student. Funny guy, though. I can’t seem to ‘place’ him, if you know what I mean. You know how I get to know the men, know how much pressure they can take, how much help certain ones will need and so on. For three years, now, Carewe has sat, smack in the middle of the classroom, and I go for days trying to remember whether he attended or not. Never says a word, hands in beautiful papers, doesn’t mix much. Funny guy. I thought maybe you could chip some of the ice off him—see what makes him tick.”

  Jane promised herself, “I will, oh, I will indeed!”

  A block away Charlie was whistling a blues tune in march time, punctuating the rhythm by scuffing his feet through the freshly fallen leaves. He hunched his collar up around his neck; there was a bite in the air and a hint of rain. He reviewed the afternoon as having been most successful. No doubt the old boy, Dexter, liked him. He’d invited him to his house, hadn’t he, and he’d had to do none of the sucking up the other fellows did to wangle the invitation. This year he was trying out the “quiet one” attitude. It was most profitable. It seemed to attract attention even more effectively than being quick on the uptake. That little moment of delay in answering a question seemed to tell the questioner that you thought that what he had asked contained more importance than was apparent, and you needed a minute to study it. Then, when you answered, and if you were wrong, you could offer a smiling look of helplessness that said, “You’re so wonderfully profound—do you expect poor little me to give a satisfactory answer? I can but flounder in confusion!” It worked in all kinds of ways. Like not talking when everybody else was jabbering. Like s
itting still when everybody was fidgeting or walking around. You became a kind of magnet. And being a magnet was fun.

  He had heard of but paid little attention to the “Friday teas” at Dexter’s house. They sounded like a bore, and usually he had been anxious to get his gear together and get home for a weekend of late sleeping and being waited on and good food. But Jerry Somborn had dropped the information that the attraction at the Dexter home was mainly his luscious wife. “Look, but don’t touch, sonny boy—you’ll get your hands slapped.” She was younger than most of the faculty stiff-necked how-ja-do wives. She didn’t look at one with a condescending “You dear boy—tell me all about your family” attitude. This one was very flesh and blood. She didn’t simper or shake your hand with fish fingers. Jerry said, “She’s got the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, and boy, I’m telling you, that ain’t all!”

  It had been no trouble at all. Charlie simply delayed his departure from the classroom that afternoon, as though he wanted to ask Dexter a question. And when he was passing out the invitations: “See you at the house, eh, Joe? Oh, and, Andy, we’re looking forward to seeing you too,” he had just been standing there with a pleasant, questioning look on his face, and Dexter acted delighted that he had waited and asked him to join the others. All this to-do about “wangling an invitation”! And surely it wasn’t going to be such a difficult job to get to go to bed with her. He must tell that to Jerry—no, better not, he might say something like, “But, Charlie, she’s Dexter’s wife! ” or “She’s Dexter’s wife!” something, anyway, that would make him look in the wrong. The hell with it!

  And he knew that Jane knew that he wasn’t going to wait till next Friday to see her, either. He had no classes after eleven on Monday, and Dexter had study hall till five, so the decks would be clear. Meanwhile, what was in this Browning thing? He’d give her a real good time—quote a few hot passages maybe.

  He opened the book and peered at the pages in the fading light, walking slower, and just then, in another part of the city, a switch was automatically thrown, the street lamps faded up quickly, and Charlie bowed to the nearest one. “Thanks,” he said, looking back at the illuminated page.

  When we met first and loved, I did not build

  Upon the event with marble.

  He laughed, “And that’s no lie!” Here, here was something:

  I think of thee!—my thoughts do twine and bud

  About thee, as wild vines, about a tree.

  He mused, thinking how he could improve on it. Turning a page, he found one he thought had a familiar ring:

  How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

  I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

  My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

  For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

  I love thee to the level of everyday’s

  Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. . . .

  A rising wind fluttered the pages and a few drops of rain pattered the dry leaves. Charlie stood quite still, absorbing the words, “I love thee to the level of everyday’s Most quiet need——” My Jane—my beautiful Jane. He raised his head and let the rain touch his face, breathing the crisp air. Then he gave a shake to his shoulders and strode on. “That ought to do it,” he said, and resumed his whistling. “Am ah blue . . .”

  Jane glanced at the little Sheffield as it gave its little whir, promising that it would announce the hour in the proper time. She ought to rouse Charlie, but it was so good to hold him like this. He seemed to belong to her as he never did when he was awake. She’d wait a little while—at least he was dressed, and at the last minute she could shoo him out, fast. They’d come down for a cup of coffee and a few minutes of talk. But he was always so sleepy and relaxed afterward—he never really wanted to talk, just to stumble into his clothes and leave.

  Jane was fully aware of her predicament. Always the clever woman. Proud of her cleverness. Proud of being able to get any young male, when she wanted to, and then pull the dignity bit, without injuring the young man’s ego: “What have we done! We must never see each other again, etc.,” sending the frightened creature back to the halls of ivy.

  But Charles, Charles the strong, cool maddening one. Without realizing it she had become involved to depths of which she had never realized she was capable. It wasn’t that his skill as a lover was anything unusual. Actually, if comparisons were in order, there was no skill at all, but even this intrigued her. At first she had wondered if he were a virgin, so crude, so sudden and brief were his demands. She was too clever to ask, for many reasons. It might hurt his vanity to learn that he had appeared inept—or if he had had other experience it might have been something cheap, some education garnered in a house of prostitution. It all didn’t seem to matter any more.

  All her energies were spent in contriving to continue their relationship, because she felt she wouldn’t be able to live without him. She carefully learned the patterns of Brian’s activities, without betraying her new interest in them. She had it down to a science, his goings and comings, his schedules, where they were predictable, where they could break down and for what reason; all plotted so that with a minimum of effort on Charles’s part, with a minimum of concern to him, she would find the hours, and occasionally the whole nights, that had become her only reason for existence.

  How had he got such a hold on her? Jane felt ruefully that perhaps at last she had found out what love was. At first it had simply been the familiar chemical attraction. The little ringing of a bell inside her that gave notice that it must be eventually answered. That after a few preliminary, mutually agreed upon, unspoken half yieldings, little flights and pursuits, there would be the frantic surrender, the stifling entanglement, the grasping, driving, urgent need for release—never found, never found. Nothing but exhaustion and ennui.

  It was no different with Charlie. Why, then, did he seem to wipe out all others from her mind? Some taunting, vague quality, which she had sought to analyze, eluded her. He had an unusual amount of just plain male attractiveness, impulsive and demanding, coupled with a little-boy sweetness that made her want to do all sorts of absurd things like feeding him, and covering him up—babying him! But how stupid Brian was, when he said that Charlie had a brain. Perhaps he was a good student—he had a prodigious memory, and learning was to him simply an effortless skill, simply the amassing of more and more information. But it had taken her no time at all to see that he had no development as yet, that once she broke into his thought pattern, listening, drawing him out, he chattered on and on like a monkey. He was gifted with a great imagination, she had found, but also it was a gift that she mustn’t call by that definition—as she had learned almost to her grief.

  She had not been particularly surprised to hear that he had been to Europe. They had been walking by the river one Sunday afternoon. He had a new Cord and had wanted to show it off to her. It had been risky—but Brian was away at a convention, and she had taken the bus into town where he had met her. They had picnicked and napped and made love and his tongue had been loosened by the wine she had brought. They talked of Paris and Florence and he spoke of having skied in Switzerland with a friend of his, Jeff Shelley. A place she had been once or twice a few years before she met Brian. It was up very high in a range of mountains and a field that was too tricky for all but the finest skiers. The inn was small, priding itself on its un-touristy atmosphere—the haven of the experts. Delighted, Jane said, “You must be very good indeed, my darling.” He put an arm around her, saying, “I’ll take you there someday—it’s magnificent, I’ll show it all to you.” Shaking her head, smiling to stop him, she put in, “I’ve been there, darling, I’ve been trying to tell you—don’t you remember the Guntner twins, the guides? I remember you could never tell them apart, and Mama Liesel?” He stopped and added rather airily, “Jane, I hate to remind you, but you are before my time—no, I never knew the twins and Mama Liesel—they’re probably dead and buried.” She said, “But, Charles, I had a Christm
as card from Mama—last Christmas.” He had grown a little sullen and quiet. “Why, Charles, I do believe you made it all up—what in the world for!” He shrugged. “I thought you wanted to talk about skiing.” And for some reason, for the rest of the afternoon, she did nothing but apologize. He had never been near Europe but he was hurt because, as he said, he was trying so hard, just to amuse her, and what difference did it make?

  It was a peculiarity, to say the least. In a strange way her recognition of these odd facets of his make-up made her tremendously possessive. She knew they made him vulnerable, and she wanted to find out more and more about him so that she could be armed and be able to protect him. How to protect him, practically, actively, was as yet no more than a vague mission. She had found that he was not particularly “teachable.” She had tried, oh, she had tried. “Charlie, don’t you know it’s wrong to tell such whoppers? Don’t you know you could get into a lot of trouble by lying?”

  “Certainly. I’m not stupid.”

  ’Do you realize that in some other circumstances you might get called a ‘lying son of a bitch’ and get hit in the jaw?”

  “Jane, my beloved beautiful goddess! Such language!”

  “I’m being colorful just to impress you, to shock you into thinking about consequences for a moment.”

  “Don’t you worry about me, my fair one. Anybody hits me is going to get hit back.”

  “Oh, Charlie, that’s not the point!”

  “And nobody’s going to put me in jail or anything, I’m just too smart.”

  “Wow! Are you conceited!”

  “I am not conceited. Now take Ellerbe, for instance, you know Ellerbe, boy, oh, boy, he talks about himself all the time! ”

  And thus the conversation would degenerate, with Charlie picking up a word or phrase and running away with it. It only served to spoil an afternoon. She would feel irritated at his stupidity, and irritated that he did not seem to notice her irritation. And so it would end, with his chattering endlessly, purposelessly—a Niagara of words that meant nothing.