by Jane Bowles
He looked at her vaguely. “You talk like a society lady,” he said to her.
“I am a society lady,” said Miss Goering. “I am also rich, but I have purposely reduced my living standards. I have left my lovely home and I have moved out to a little house on the island. The house is in very bad shape and costs me practically nothing. What do you think of that?”
“I think you’re cuckoo,” said Andy, and not at all in a friendly tone. He was frowning darkly. “People like you shouldn’t be allowed to have money.”
Miss Goering was surprised to hear him making such a show of righteous indignation.
“Please,” she said, “could you possibly open the window?”
“There will be an awfully cold wind blowing through here if I do,” said Andy.
“Nevertheless,” said Miss Goering, “I think I would prefer it.”
“I’ll tell you,” said Andy, moving uncomfortably around his chair. “I just put in a bad spell of grippe and I’m dead afraid of getting into a draft.” He bit his lip and looked terribly worried. “I could go and stand in the next room if you want while you get your breath of fresh air,” he added, brightening up a bit.
“That’s a jolly good idea,” said Miss Goering.
He left and closed the bedroom door softly behind him. She was delighted with the chance to get some cool air, and after she had opened the window she placed her two hands on the sill far apart from each other and leaned out. She would have enjoyed this far more had she not been certain that Andy was standing still in his room consumed with boredom and impatience. He still frightened her a little and at the same time she felt that he was a terrible burden. There was a gas station opposite the apartment house. Although the office was deserted at the moment, it was brightly lighted and a radio on the desk had been left on. There was a folksong coming over the air. Soon there was a short rap at the bedroom door, which was just what she had been expecting to hear. She closed the window regretfully before the tune had finished.
“Come in,” she called to him, “come in.” She was dismayed to see when Andy opened the door that he had removed all of his clothing with the exception of his socks and his underdrawers. He did not seem to be embarrassed, but behaved as though they had both tacitly understood that he was to appear dressed in this fashion.
He walked with her to the couch and made her sit down beside him. Then he flung his arm around her and crossed his legs. His legs were terribly thin, and on the whole he looked inconsequential now that he had removed his clothing. He pressed his cheek to Miss Goering’s.
“Do you think you could make me a little happy?” he asked her.
“For Heaven’s sake,” said Miss Goering, sitting bolt upright, “I thought you were beyond that.”
“Well, no man can really look into the future, you know.” He narrowed his eyes and attempted to kiss her.
“Now, about that woman,” she said, “Belle, who had neither arms nor legs?”
“Please, darling, let’s not discuss her now. Will you do me that favor?” His tone was a little sneering, but there was an undercurrent of excitement in his voice. He said: “Now tell me whatever it is that you like. You know … I haven’t lost all my time these two years. There are a few little things I pride myself on.”
Miss Goering looked very solemn. She was thinking of this very seriously, because she suspected that were she to accept Andy’s offer it would be far more difficult for her to put a stop to her excursions, should she feel so disposed. Until recently she had never followed too dangerously far in action any course which she had decided upon as being the morally correct one. She scarcely approved of this weakness in herself, but she was to a certain extent sensible and happy enough to protect herself automatically. She was feeling a little tipsy, however, and Andy’s suggestion rather appealed to her. “One must allow that a certain amount of carelessness in one’s nature often accomplishes what the will is incapable of doing,” she said to herself.
Andy looked towards the bedroom door. His mood seemed to have changed very suddenly and he seemed confused. “This does not mean that he is not lecherous,” thought Miss Goering. He got up and wandered around the room. Finally he pulled an old gramophone out from behind the couch. He took up a good deal of time dusting it off and collecting some needles that were scattered around and underneath the turntable. As he knelt over the instrument he became quite absorbed in what he was doing and his face took on an almost sympathetic aspect.
“It’s a very old machine,” he mumbled. “I got it a long, long time ago.”
The machine was very small and terribly out of date, and had Miss Goering been sentimental, she would have felt a little sad watching him; however, she was growing impatient.
“I can’t hear a word that you are saying,” she shouted at him in an unnecessarily loud voice.
He got up without answering her and went into his room. When he returned he was again wearing his bathrobe and holding a record in his hand.
“You’ll think I’m silly,” he said, “bothering with that machine so long, when all I’ve got to play for you is this one record. It’s a march; here.” He handed it to her in order that she might read the title of the piece and the name of the band that was executing it.
“Maybe,” he said, “you’d rather not hear it. A lot of people don’t like march music.”
“No, do play it,” said Miss Goering. “I’ll be delighted, really.”
He put the record on and sat on the edge of a very uncomfortable chair at quite a distance from Miss Goering. The needle was too loud and the march was the Washington Post. Miss Goering felt as uneasy as one can feel listening to parade music in a quiet room. Andy seemed to be enjoying it and he kept time with his feet during the entire length of the record. But when it was over he seemed to be in an even worse state of confusion than before.
“Would you like to see the apartment?” he asked her.
Miss Goering leaped up from the couch quickly lest he should change his mind.
“A woman who made dresses had this apartment before me, so my bedroom is kind of sissyish for a man.”
She followed him into the bedroom. He had turned the bed down rather badly and the slips of the two pillows were gray and wrinkled. On his dresser were pictures of several girls, all of them terribly unattractive and plain. They looked more to Miss Goering like the church-going type of young woman than like the mistresses of a bachelor.
“They’re nice-looking girls, aren’t they?” said Andy to Miss Goering.
“Lovely-looking,” she said, “lovely.”
“None of these girls live in this town,” he said. “They live in different towns in the vicinity. The girls here are guarded and they don’t like bachelors my age. I don’t blame them. I go take one of these girls in the pictures out now and then when I feel like it. I even sit in their living-rooms of an evening with them, with their parents right in the house. But they don’t see much of me, I can tell you that.”
Miss Goering was growing more and more puzzled, but she didn’t ask him any more questions because she was suddenly feeling weary.
“I think I’ll be on my way now,” she said, swaying a little on her feet. She realized immediately how rude and unkind she was being and she saw Andy tightening up. He put his fists into his pockets.
“Well, you can’t go now,” he said to her. “Stay a little longer and I’ll make you some coffee.”
“No, no, I don’t want any coffee. Anyway, they’ll be worrying about me at home.”
“Who’s they?” Andy asked her.
“Arnold and Arnold’s father and Miss Gamelon.”
“It sounds like a terrible mob to me,” he said. “I couldn’t stand living with a crowd like that.”
“I love it,” said Miss Goering.
He put his arms around her and tried to kiss her, but she pulled away, “No, honestly, I’m much too tired.”
“All right,” he said, “all right!” His brow was deeply furrowed and he lo
oked completely miserable. He took his bathrobe off and got into his bed. He lay there with the sheet up to his neck, threshing his feet about and looking up at the ceiling like someone with a fever. There was a small light burning on the table beside the bed which shone directly into his face, so that Miss Goering was able to distinguish many lines which she had not noticed before. She went over to his bed and leaned over him.
“What is the matter?” she asked him. “Now it’s been a very pleasant evening and we all need some sleep.”
He laughed in her face. “You’re some lunatic,” he said to her, “and you sure don’t know anything about people. I’m all right here, though.” He pulled the sheet up farther and lay there breathing heavily. “There’s a five o’clock ferry that leaves in about a half hour. Will you come back tomorrow evening? I’ll be where I was tonight at that bar.”
She promised him that she would return on the following evening, and after he had explained to her how to get to the dock, she opened his window for him and left.
Stupidly enough, Miss Goering had forgotten to take her key with her and she was obliged to knock on the door in order to get into her house. She pounded twice, and almost immediately she heard someone running down the steps. She could tell that it was Arnold even before he had opened the door. He was wearing a rose-colored pajama jacket and a pair of trousers. His suspenders were hanging down over his hips. His beard had grown quite a bit for such a short time and he looked sloppier than ever.
“What’s the matter with you, Arnold?” said Miss Goering. “You look dreadful.”
“Well, I’ve had a bad night, Christina. I just put Bubbles to sleep a little while ago; she’s terribly worried about you. As a matter of fact, I don’t think you’ve shown us much consideration.”
“Who is Bubbles?” Miss Goering asked him.
“Bubbles,” he said, “is the name I have for Miss Gamelon.”
“Well,” said Miss Goering, going into the house and seating herself in front of the fireplace, “I took the ferry back across to the mainland and I became very much involved. I might return tomorrow night,” she added, “although I don’t really want to very much.”
“I don’t know why you find it so interesting and intellectual to seek out a new city,” said Arnold, cupping his chin in his hand and looking at her fixedly.
“Because I believe the hardest thing for me to do is really move from one thing to another, partly,” said Miss Goering.
“Spiritually,” said Arnold, trying to speak in a more sociable tone, “spiritually I’m constantly making little journeys and changing my entire nature every six months.”
“I don’t believe it for a minute,” said Miss Goering.
“No, no, it is true. Also I can tell you that I think it is absolute nonsense to move physically from one place to another. All places are more or less alike.”
Miss Goering did not answer this. She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders and of a sudden looked quite old and very sad indeed.
Arnold began to doubt the validity of what he had just said, and immediately resolved to make exactly the same excursion from which Miss Goering had just returned, on the following night. He squared his jaw and pulled out a notebook from his pocket.
“Now, will you give me the particulars on how to reach the mainland?” said Arnold. “The hours when the train leaves, and so forth.”
“Why do you ask?” said Miss Goering.
“Because I’m going to go there myself tomorrow night. I should have thought you would have guessed that by this time.”
“No, judging by what you just finished saying to me, I would not have guessed it.”
“Well, I talk one way,” said Arnold, “but I’m really, underneath, the same kind of maniac that you are.”
“I would like to see your father,” Miss Goering said to him.
“I think he’s asleep. I hope he will come to his senses and go home,” said Arnold.
“Well, I am hoping the contrary,” said Miss Goering. “I’m terribly attached to him. Let’s go upstairs and just look into his room.”
They went up the stairs together and Miss Gamelon came out to meet them on the landing. Her eyes were all swollen and she was wrapped in a heavy wool bathrobe.
She began speaking to Miss Goering in a voice that was thick with sleep. “Once more, and it will be the last you will see of Lucy Gamelon.”
“Now, Bubbles,” said Arnold, “remember this is not an ordinary household and you must expect certain eccentricities on the part of the inmates. You see, I have dubbed us all inmates.”
“Arnold,” said Miss Gamelon, “now don’t you begin. You know what I told you this afternoon about talking drivel.”
“Please, Lucy,” said Arnold.
“Come, come, let’s all go and take a peek at Arnold’s father,” suggested Miss Goering.
Miss Gamelon followed them only in order to continue admonishing Arnold, which she did in a low voice. Miss Goering pulled the door open. The room was very cold and she realized for the first time that it was already bright outdoors. It had all happened very quickly while she was talking to Arnold in the parlor, but there it was nearly always dark because of the thick bushes outside.
Arnold’s father was sleeping on his back. His face was still and he breathed regularly without snoring. Miss Goering shook him a few times by the shoulder.
“The procedures in this house,” said Miss Gamelon, “are what amount to criminal. Now you’re waking up an old man who needs his sleep, at the crack of dawn. It makes me shudder to stand here and see what you’ve become, Christina.”
At last Arnold’s father awakened. It took him a little while to realize what had happened, but when he had, he leaned on his elbows and said in a very chipper manner to Miss Goering:
“Good morning, Mrs. Marco Polo. What beautiful treasures have you brought back from the East? I’m glad to see you, and if there’s anywhere you want me to go with you, I’m ready.” He fell back on his pillow with a thump.
Miss Goering said that she would see him later, that at the moment she was badly in need of some rest. They left the room, and before they had closed the door behind them, Arnold’s father was already asleep. On the landing Miss Gamelon began to cry and she buried her face for a moment in Miss Goering’s shoulder. Miss Goering held her very tightly and begged her not to cry. Then she kissed both Arnold and Miss Gamelon good-night. When she arrived in her room she was overcome with fright for a few moments, but shortly she fell into a deep sleep.
* * *
At about five thirty on the following afternoon Miss Goering announced her intention of returning again that evening to the mainland. Miss Gamelon was standing up, sewing one of Arnold’s socks. She was dressed more coquettishly than was her habit, with a ruffle around the neck of her dress and a liberal coating of rouge on her cheeks. The old man was in a big chair in the corner reading the poetry of Longfellow, sometimes aloud, sometimes to himself. Arnold was still dressed in the same fashion as the night before, with the exception of a sweater which he had pulled on over his pajama top. There was a big coffee stain on the front of his sweater, and the ashes of his cigarette had spilled over his chest. He was lying on the couch half asleep.
“You will go back there again over my dead body,” said Miss Gamelon. “Now, please, Christina, be sane and do let us all have a pleasant evening together.”
Miss Goering sighed. “Well, you and Arnold can have a perfectly pleasant evening together without me. I am sorry. I’d love to stay, but I really feel that I must go.”
“You drive me wild with your mysterious talk,” said Miss Gamelon. “If only some member of your family were here! Why don’t we phone for a taxi,” she said hopefully, “and go to the city? We might eat some Chinese food and go to the theater afterwards, or a picture show, if you are still in your pinch-penny mood.”
“Why don’t you and Arnold go to the city and eat some Chinese food and then go to the theater? I will be very glad to have
you go as my guests, but I’m afraid I can’t accompany you.”
Arnold was growing annoyed at the ease with which Miss Goering disposed of him. Her manner also gave him a very bad sense of being inferior to her.
“I’m sorry, Christina,” he said from his couch, “but I have no intention of eating Chinese food. I have been planning all along to take a little jaunt to the mainland opposite this end of the island too, and nothing will stop me. I wish you’d come along with me, Lucy; as a matter of fact, I don’t see why we can’t all go along together. It is quite senseless that Christina should make such a morbid affair out of this little saunter to the mainland. Actually there is nothing to it.”
“Arnold!” Miss Gamelon screamed at him. “You’re losing your mind too, and if you think I am going on a wild-goose chase aboard a train and a ferry just to wind up in some little rat-trap, you’re doubly crazy. Anyway, I’ve heard that it is a very tough little town, besides being dreary and without any interest whatsoever.”
“Nevertheless,” said Arnold, sitting up and planting his two feet on the floor, “I’m going this evening.”
“In that case,” said Arnold’s father, “I’m going too.”
Secretly Miss Goering was delighted that they were coming and she did not have the courage to deter them, although she felt that it would have been the correct thing for her to do. Her excursions would be more or less devoid of any moral value in her own eyes if they accompanied her, but she was so delighted that she convinced herself that perhaps she might allow it just this time.
“You had better come along, Lucy,” said Arnold; “otherwise you are going to be here all alone.”
“That’s perfectly all right, my dear,” said Lucy. “I’ll be the only one that comes out whole, in the end. And it might be very delightful to be here without any of you.”
Arnold’s father made an insulting noise with his mouth, and Miss Gamelon left the room.
This time the little train was filled with people and there were quite a few boys going up and down the aisle selling candy and fruit. It had been a curiously warm day and there had been a shower of short duration, one of those showers that are so frequent in summer but so seldom occur in the fall.
