The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold

by William Goldman

  If he had never looked better, she had never looked worse. She leaned in the doorway, eyes half closed, pale, a torn gray robe flattening her curves. “Yeah?”

  “Esther, you all right?”

  “It looks like I’m all right?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m sick, fool.”

  “I’m sure sorry about that,” Sid said seriously while someone inside him laughed. “Esther ... ?”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “I’m leaving, Esther.”

  “Leaving? What leaving?”

  “Town. I won’t be seeing you for a while. Maybe longer.”

  “You bothered me for that?”

  “You’re not hearing what I’m saying, Esther. I said I’m leaving town.”

  “So go.”

  God, but she was tough. Sid had to give her credit. Not much, though. Her puny attempt at pride only made him smile.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing. Goodbye, Esther,” and he turned for the door, knowing he would never get his hand on the knob, knowing she couldn’t let him (and still survive), knowing the silence would be broken by her crying out his name.

  “Sid?”

  Why was he never wrong? Sid smiled again. The mark of genius, probably. Did Charlemagne make boo-boos? Sid continued toward the door, waiting for her to plead. She did. On cue.

  “Sid. Sid, please. Wait.”

  At the door he pirouetted (who’s this Nijinsky anyway?) and gave her his Sunday smile. She stood across the room, still leaning against her doorway. “Yes, Esther?”

  “What happened last night?”

  When Dempsey cold-cocked Willard in the summer of ’19, there came a moment—halfway through the first round—when big Jess was done, gone, out; only he didn’t know it yet. His body had the message, probably, but his brain, stubborn, absolutely refused to answer the phone. “What do you mean, what happened last night?”

  “Just what I said—what happened last night?”

  “You mean you don’t remember?” Left to the head, right to the heart, right to the head.

  “I’d ask if I remembered?”

  “You don’t remember anything?”

  “It was hot, I remember that. You took a shower. I felt funny. Then later I got sick on some cheap chili.”

  Sid leaned against the door. Willard was falling; Charlemagne too. “Nothing in between?”

  “Quit with the games!”

  “You don’t remember ... What could he ask? His hands gripped the doorknob for support. “ ... kissing me?”

  “That was a week ago. Outside the front door. You aroused my pity.”

  “Pity.”

  “What else?”

  “Pity!”

  “Fool.”

  “Pity!”

  They charged toward each other like fighters, standing in the center of the hot room, panting, circling, measuring.

  Sid stared at Esther. (Nobody got the best of him.)

  Esther stared at Sid. (Nobody got the best of her.)

  Eventually (inevitably) they married and got the best of each other.

  IV

  JENNY GREW UP IN Cherokee, Wisconsin.

  When she was born, Cherokee’s population was 182; when she left home, nineteen years later, the population was 206. Aside from that, nothing had changed. The town consisted of a general store, a meeting hall, a drugstore, a saloon, all clustered together on a dirt road. Gray wooden structures, square in shape, they differed from one another only in size, like children’s building blocks. The climate was dry, the weather clear—cool in summer, painfully cold from November through March. The houses of the town stretched feebly along both sides of Cherokee Lake, one of the endless small bodies of water that pockmarks the flat face of northern Wisconsin. The entire area was distinguished by two things only: on one side of the lake stood an exclusive camp for boys, while directly across was Cherokee Lodge, a small, luxurious retreat catering to vacationing businessmen who hunted or fished, as the season demanded.

  Jenny’s home was near the lodge. Her father had built it himself. When he became engaged he set to work, and when the living room, bedroom, kitchen and bath were finished, he got married. Then, each time his wife became pregnant, he would build another room for the new baby. It was an ample house, sturdy and clean, set in the woods above the shore of Cherokee Lake.

  Jenny’s was a quiet family. Mary, her mother, was a plain, quiet woman, tall, big-boned. Her brothers, Simon and Mark, were quiet brothers. But her father was the quietest of all. Carl Devers rarely spoke. He was a giant, with light blond hair, great thick shoulders and long, surprisingly thin hands. The hands were remarkable—powerful, supple; there seemed to be nothing they could not do. His large face was unusually expressive; emotion ran close behind his blue eyes. With his hands and his eyes, he could answer almost anything; there was really little need for him to speak. When he did talk, one syllable kept recurring: “Auh?” He said it quietly, always with a rising questioning inflection. “Auh?” Jenny came to know the sound and its almost limitless meanings—yes, no, I’ll think about it, I love you too, good night. “Auh?” It was his word.

  Carl Devers was a guide. Businessmen came from all across the Middle West to fish with him or hunt in the hushed, snow-covered woods. Partially because of his skill, partially because of his size, stories grew up around him. “Carl Devers,” the businessmen would say, back again safely in the comfort of their clubs. “Let me tell you about Carl Devers. Big, blond sonofabitch. And strong. Why, I’ve seen him grab a couple of packs and hoist a canoe and take off through the woods on a portage and there I am, running like hell to keep up with him, and all I’m carrying is a goddam fishing rod. But that’s nothing. This guy is fantastic. Why, I’ve seen him ... And so the legend swelled.

  Jenny grew up in the woods. Running. Barefoot across the pine-needled ground, then down the gentle slope to the beach, then along the narrow stretch of sand, then up again, back into the tree shadows, darting. She ran like a willowy boy, the movements long, controlled, filled with quick grace. Sometimes she would plead with her brothers to chase her and then she would shout with joy, scampering past trees, bolting through bushes, under limbs. By the time she was five, Mark, who was nine, could barely catch her, and even Simon, eleven, would have to set his mind to his task, biting into his lower lip, scrambling after her. Her hair was long and still light blond, her father’s color, and it flew behind her, sometimes swirling across her pale skin as she turned abruptly, spinning, changing direction. She was tall, but she did not mind it then, and her legs were good, thin-ankled and long. Days she spent with her mother, Simon and Mark being off to school, Carl usually having left before any of the others were awake, at dawn, not to return until near suppertime. One night, after he came home, Jenny copied him. She stuck his pipe into her mouth and slipped into his boots and clumped through the front door, then she kissed her mother on the cheek, as her father did, and said “Auh?” as her father did, and nodded to her brothers the way he nodded. At first they just watched her. Mark was the first to laugh, staring as she sat in her father’s favorite chair and knocked the ashes from his pipe into the ashtray. “Auh?” she said again, and by this time they were all laughing, Carl loudest of all. Jenny was trying hard not to giggle as she put the pipe back into her mouth, adjusting it to her father’s angle. Carl came over to her then and lifted her from the chair, holding her high with his great arms. Slowly he brought her down, folding her gently against his chest, while the others applauded. For a moment Jenny wanted to cry.

  It was her first performance and she never forgot it.

  Jenny’s best friend was Tommy Alden. Frail, dark, he was one year older than Jenny but not nearly so fast a runner. His father, Richard K. Alden, had been a successful clothing manufacturer in Chicago until a heart attack made the further creation of dresses, coats and suits a perilous venture. Recuperating, he had come upon Cherokee Lodge and decided almost immediately to buy it. So
he did, enlarging it, installing his family in one wing, throwing the rest open to his former colleagues at outrageous prices. Because of Carl Devers, the lodge was an immediate and continuing success. They were close, Mr. Alden and Carl. Different as they were—Mr. Alden was short, paunchy, vocal, aggressive—they were close.

  And so were their children. They were always together, Jenny and the boy. He was studious, shy, given to periods of silence followed by quick bursts of speech that only Jenny could understand. He loved to read, and late afternoons they would sit by the water and he would recount tales of knights and kings while she listened, nodding when he glanced at her, urging him to go on. Tommy was the one who wanted to be an actor, a career in which Jenny, at first, had no interest, preferring to run or swim or creep through the woods on an Indian raid. They compromised, eventually, spending the mornings running, the afternoons perfecting their talents as performers. They had a place, halfway between Jenny’s home and the lodge, a semicircle thick with shrubbery, the open half facing the water. There they would act, stumbling through Robin Hood or Cinderella, listening as their words echoed back across the water.

  All too quickly Jenny’s childhood passed. She grew taller, towering half a head above her classmates in school. She took to slumping, rounding her shoulders, but she was still tall. Too tall. Taller even than the boys. Then, when she was eleven, her body absurdly began to develop. At an age when everyone else was flat, Jenny’s breasts were slowly starting to fill. She rounded her shoulders even more and did what she could to ignore it. One afternoon when she was alone in their acting place Mr. Norman found her. It was a red day, hot, and even as the sun began falling the heat lingered. Jenny sat cross-legged on the ground, staring out. She wore a white blouse and a summer skirt and her pale skin was stained dark. She turned as she realized a man was watching her, smiling down. “Hello,” the man said.

  “Hi,” Jenny answered. “You staying at the lodge?”

  “Maybe I am,” the man said, “and maybe I’m not.” He smiled again. “What’s your name?”

  “Jenny.”

  The man opened his mouth wide. “Isn’t that amazing? That’s my name too.”

  “Jenny? Your name is Jenny?”

  “Absolutely. What’s your last name?”

  “Devers.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” the man said, shaking his head now. “So’s mine. Jenny Devers. That’s my name.”

  “You’re kidding me. You are.”

  “Word of honor.” He raised his right hand as a pledge. It was a short hand, white and soft, with little pudgy fingers.

  “But Jenny’s a girl’s name.”

  “Sometimes. Not always. Why, some of my best friends are called Jenny and they’re not girls. I’m not a girl either.” He smiled. Jenny said nothing, staring up at him. “The thing that worries me,” the man went on, “is that we’ve got the same last name too. Maybe we’re the same person. Did you ever think of that?”

  “You’re crazy.” Jenny giggled.

  He laughed with her. “There’s one way of finding out. How old are you?

  “Eleven and a half.”

  “Whew.” He gave a tremendous sigh. “We’re not the same person. I’m not eleven and a half, so that proves it. I’m only six. Six going on seven, really.”

  “Oh, you’re not either six. You’re way older than I am.”

  “I just look older than you are, Jenny. I’m really just six going on seven and I can prove it. Here.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette. “See that? That’s my birth certificate.”

  Jenny giggled again. “That’s your cigarette. You really are crazy.”

  “It’s my birth certificate and I can prove it,” the man said. He pulled out a lighter. “See? I’m going to smoke it and I don’t smoke cigarettes. Never smoke cigarettes. Only smoke birth certificates.” He lit it and inhaled deeply, sitting down quietly on the ground beside her.

  “If that’s your birth certificate what does it say on it?”

  The man peered closely at the cigarette, squinting, cupping his hands around it so Jenny couldn’t see. “It says on it, ‘Jenny Devers is six going on seven.’ ”

  “It says ‘Chesterfield,’ ” Jenny cried. “I saw the package.”

  “You’re not very logical, Jenny, are you, Jenny? It did say ‘Chesterfield’ on the package. I admit that. But I always keep my birth certificates in a Chesterfield package.”

  “Why?”

  “So they won’t fly away, Jenny. Like you, Jenny. Are you going to fly away?”

  “I can’t. I don’t know how. Anyway, people don’t fly.”

  “What about pilots? Don’t they fly?”

  “Yes, but they’re in air-o-planes, silly. They couldn’t fly if they didn’t have an air-o-plane around them.”

  “Have you ever asked a pilot if he needed an air-o-plane, Jenny-o-Devers? Have you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I have. Some of my best friends are pilots and I’ve asked them and they all say the same thing.” He picked up a long pine needle and skimmed it along the ground.

  “What did they say?”

  He touched the tip of the needle to Jenny’s skin and ran it down softly along her leg.

  “Don’t do that. What did they say?”

  “What did who say?” He touched the tip of the needle to her skin again. Jenny moved away from him.

  “The pilots, silly. The pilots.”

  “They said you have lovely legs, Jenny. That’s what they said. Every last one of them. That Jenny Devers has lovely legs. Do you want to see my legs, Jenny? Would you like that? Say yes.”

  She tried to scramble clear but he was too quick for her. With one hand he flicked the cigarette away and grabbed her ankle, pulling her down. She was about to scream when his other hand clamped down hard across her mouth and for a moment she could not breathe. He held her with surprising strength, the palm of his hand imprisoning her mouth, his other arm locked around her kicking body. Then he threw one of his own legs over hers, pinioning her. He smelled of tobacco and she wanted to open her eyes but she was afraid of what she might see. Then his hand began moving up her leg. “Relax, Jenny,” he whispered. She tried to kick but she couldn’t and his hand was under her skirt, above her knees, moving slowly higher. He was breathing harder, the heavy sound exploding in the quiet afternoon. The sun must be beautiful now, Jenny thought, all red and beautiful, and she wanted to look at it, but she knew his face would be in the way and the thought of his face made her shiver. “You stop that,” he whispered. “We’re friends, Jenny, so you stop that. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” But you are, Jenny wanted to scream. You are. His hand hurt her and the weight of his body hurt her terribly and she could feel herself growing faint with the pain when suddenly the pain was gone. Jenny opened her eyes. The man was suspended above her in midair and Carl Devers was holding him. Carl’s great shoulders shrugged and the man spun upward through the air, crashing down like a rag doll ten feet away. Carl was on him quickly, lifting him, and the back of Carl’s hand caught the man flush on the mouth and he spun toward the earth again, starting to bleed. Again Carl was on him, dragging him silently to his feet. Again Carl’s great hand swung and again the man spun down. Blood dripped from one side of the man’s mouth as Carl took him by the shirt front and slowly, with his left arm, lifted him off the ground. Clenching his right fist, Carl drew it back slowly and carefully, taking dead aim.

  Abruptly the man started to cry.

  Carl hesitated. The man was sobbing, his face wrinkled up, tears streaming down his cheeks, mixing with the blood along his mouth. Carl watched him a moment. Then he put the man down.

  “I almost hurt you, Mr. Norman,” Carl said.

  Mr. Norman turned and ran into the woods toward Cherokee Lodge. Carl dropped to one knee beside Jenny. Gently he lifted her, carrying her down to the lake. A canoe was half dragged up on shore, Carl’s fishing rod and tackle box lying alongside. He put Jenny down, gestured
for her to get in. She did. “Face me,” he said. She faced him. Pushing off, he began effortlessly to paddle in an easy rhythm, and the canoe sped along the shore of the lake, gliding through quiet patches of shadow as the red sun settled. He watched her with concern, and every so often he smiled, nodding his great blond head, and she smiled back at him, her hands gripping the sides of the boat.

  “I’m all right,” Jenny said. “I am.”

  “Auh?”

  “Yes. I’m fine.”

  He nodded, continuing to paddle. The rhythm was faster now and the canoe cut through the still water. Jenny turned, staring out ahead of them. Then she looked back at her father.

  “That’s the end of the lake,” she said. “The very end.”

  “Auh?”

  “I’ve never been there before. Never. Not once.”

  He smiled, slowing as they approached the shore. Holding the boat steady, he gestured for her to step out. He handed her his rod and tackle. Quickly he lifted the canoe, shouldering it, setting off through the woods, Jenny skipping alongside.

  “Where ever are we going?”

  He shrugged his great shoulders.

  “Wait till I tell Tommy about this,” Jenny said. “He’ll just die.”

  They moved through the woods a minute more and then Jenny stopped, staring. They were on the shore of another lake. Very small, almost perfectly round, it seemed, as she stared at it, with the final soft rays of the sun splashing it deep red, to be a magic place if ever there was one. Carl lowered the canoe, beckoned for her to get in. He pushed off from shore and they glided quietly toward the center of the circle. The sun was gone suddenly. Shadows slipped out to meet them, covering them. The constant summer sound of insects and birds seemed distant, muted. Jenny locked her arms around her knees, rocking gently back and forth.

  “Princess lives in there.”

  Jenny looked at her father; his hair seemed almost to shine in the dusk. He sat holding the canoe paddle in one hand, pointing with it toward an area of shore where the trees were thickly bunched, interlaced with bushes. It was a dark place. Jenny stared at him, then at the dark place, back and forth, back and forth.