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

by William Goldman

  “A princess?”

  “Auh?”

  “A real princess?”

  “Auh?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Seen her. Met her. Took her fishing once.”

  “You took her fishing?”

  “Auh?”

  “What does she look like?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Like a princess.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Name?”

  “Well, what did you call her?”

  “Princess, I guess. I’d just say, ‘Reel in slow, Princess. Good cast, Princess.’ Like that.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe you.”

  Carl leaned forward. “Have I ever lied? Ever?”

  Jenny looked at him. Then she turned, squinting in at the shore. “No,” she said. “Not ever.”

  “Well, then.”

  “Tell me about her hair. How long was her hair?”

  “How long?”

  “Yes.”

  Carl twisted the canoe paddle in his hands. “Well, it was long enough.”

  “Oh, no. No. More. It has to be more than that. Princesses have long hair.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, now that you mention it, it was very long. Very long indeed. Longest hair I ever saw.”

  “And was it golden?”

  “Yes. Very long golden hair.”

  “She must be a princess, then. No doubt about that.” Carl began to paddle slowly, and they glided in closer to the dark shore. “Why ever is she living here? What’s she doing?”

  “Hiding, I guess. Waiting.”

  “Auh?” Jenny said.

  Carl nodded. “That’s what she told me anyhow.” He moved the paddle slowly through the water and they edged still closer to shore. “ ‘Carl,’ she told me—”

  “She called you by your name? Fancy that.”

  “Very informal princess,” he said. “Not the least uppity. Anyway, she said, ‘Carl, everybody wants me because I’m a princess. Everybody’s always grabbing for me on account of that. Well, I’m sick of it. I’m going to hide out here and wait for a gentle man. I don’t care how long it takes, I’m waiting. Gentle people, they’re harder to find than you think.’ ‘I guess so, Princess,’ I said. ‘I guess maybe you’re right.’ ” He pulled the paddle sharply in the water and the canoe glided up on land. “Hungry?”

  “Here? Won’t she mind?”

  “ ‘Carl,’ she told me, ‘The shores of my kingdom are yours. You ever want to bring your wife or daughter—’ ”

  “She knows about me?”

  “ ‘—your wife or daughter Jenny—’ ”

  “Fancy that.”

  “ ‘—for a meal, go right ahead.’ ” He gestured with his long hands. “Now get us some wood for a fire.” Jenny stepped out and he pushed off, stroking down along the shore. She gathered some good wood, then turned, arms full, watching her father. He was casting out, reeling in, whipping the lake white, a gigantic figure kneeling in the center of the canoe. Again and again he cast and she heard the slap of the bait striking the water, the whisper as he reeled in. The moon began rising, catching his pale hair, holding the color. All the rest of him was dark, shadow, but the pale hair glistened. Fish began hitting the bait and he brought them carefully up to the boat, effortlessly scooping them from the water, dropping them on the floor of the canoe. Then he was casting again, steadily, in perfect rhythm.

  Jenny watched her father.

  When he had half a dozen fish he returned, started the fire, then set to work. She stared at his hands as they scaled and cleaned the fish, moving by memory, cutting, scraping. The fire began to snap, sparks spinning away, as her father, caught in the red glow, concentrated on preparing their dinner. When it was ready, they ate.

  Jenny could not remember having had a better meal.

  Later, as she tired, they paddled back. He led her through the dark portage, then they were on water again. She napped. When they got home she went straight to bed. She slept well until she began to dream. She was running through the woods down to the lake. Far, far on the other side she saw her father and she ran across the lake, but not fast enough because now she could see what was behind her and it was a hand. She fled but the hand was much too fast and it was grabbing at her, pulling her down. In the water there were more hands, hundreds of them, all of them pawing, and she tried fighting but they had her feet and her arms and were covering her mouth when she screamed. She screamed again and he heard her. Carl heard her and started for her and now they were frightened. The hands were frightened and they began swimming away but she kept on screaming until she woke.

  “There, there,” she heard. “There, there, baby.” It was Carl and he was sitting on her bed, stroking her face with his strong fingers. She relaxed. She could never remember him calling her that before—“baby.”

  “Baby,” Jenny said, and she slept.

  Two months later she made her first dress. Until then her mother had always made her clothing, working quietly at the sewing machine that stood permanently in a far corner of the living room. But when Jenny asked could she please do one by herself, Mary assented. Jenny worked very hard on the dress, carefully copying the pattern, sitting bent over by the machine, squinting hard at the fluttering needle. Finally one afternoon it was done and she tried it on. They were in her bedroom, Mary sitting on the bed, Jenny pivoting before her mirror. “What do you think?” Jenny said.

  “It’s very nice,” her mother answered. “A very nice job, considering.”

  “Considering what?” Jenny pivoted sharply before the mirror. The dress was plain blue cotton and the skirt swirled softly around her long legs.

  “It’s your first try, Jenny.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Well, look.” Mary got up and approached her daughter. “Look, Jenny.” She put her hand to the back of the dress and gathered in a handful of material. “It’s a little loose. A little big.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Jenny, be reasonable. It’s much too big for you. You look lost in it.”

  Jenny smiled at herself. “I like it this way.”

  “But—”

  “I like it.”

  “Don’t shout, Jenny.”

  “I just want you to hear me. I like it. The way it is. And I’m going to make all my clothes. From now on. Just the way I like them. Do you hear me?”

  Mary Devers looked at her daughter a moment. Then she looked away. “Yes, Jenny,” she said. “I hear you.”

  When she was twelve she told Tommy about her ambition. They were walking to school together when she said it. They always walked to school together, down through the woods to the lake, then around the narrow shore half a mile to the school yard—Jenny carrying her books across her chest, shoulders rounded, Tommy walking straight alongside her. Sometimes he would slump his shoulders and press his books to his chest, mocking her. She didn’t mind it when he mocked her; anyone else, yes, but not Tommy.

  “I’m going to be an actress someday,” Jenny said. It was late March but the ground was still thickly covered with snow.

  “An actress?” Tommy said, scooping up a handful of snow, packing it hard, tossing it out into the lake.

  “Yes.”

  “Where’d you get that nutty idea?”

  Jenny thought a moment. “I don’t know, I guess. Besides, it isn’t nutty. And anyway, it’s what I’m going to be.”

  “Have you told your folks?”

  “No.”

  “Well, don’t. They’ll have a bird.”

  “I won’t. This is our secret.”

  “Oh God, Jenny, we got a million secrets already.”

  “Now we’ve got a million one.”

  “Why does everything have to be a secret with you?”

  “Because it’s more fun that way, that’s why.”

  “Who says?”

  “I do. And I also say I’m going to be an actress. You just wait.”

  “Course I
will,” Tommy said. “Course I will.”

  Jenny hated high school. She was indifferent about studying and the other girls ignored her and the boys whistled after her or snickered as she walked by, her books clamped to her chest. She was terribly conscious of her height. When she was a freshman she was already five feet eight, her mother’s height, and at night she would pray silently, kneeling at the edge of her bed, her fingertips pressing against her eyes. Please, God, let me be small. Please, God. Please. When she was fourteen her body was wildly ripe and the sound of derisive laughter seemed always to follow her. Cherokee High was small, the percentage of attractive girls astonishingly small; the boys still whispered about Laverne Elias, a delicate redhead who had graduated five years before and who now gave weather reports weekday evenings on a television station in Minneapolis. Jenny, of course, was no delicate redhead. Her hair was dark blond and it looked peroxided. Her lips were full and pouty and her eyes offered unintentional suggestion. The boys, she knew, thought her face cheap, and she could not disagree. At first, when they asked her out, she accepted, successfully fighting off their inevitable advances. In spite of her defenses, the backwash of stories about her behavior grew too much to bear. Completely untouched, she managed to gather in a few short months the worst reputation in the entire school.

  If it weren’t for Tommy Alden, she would have had no friends. They saw each other constantly, walking to school together, walking home together, studying together at night either by the fire in the lodge or at her house. He was terribly smart and terribly kind.

  They were inseparable.

  Then, one morning, everything changed.

  They were walking to school together, hurrying along the lake. It was May and the sun was surprisingly warm.

  “Listen to me,” Tommy said.

  “What about?”

  “Nothing,” he answered finally. They walked quietly along for a while. Tommy crossed his arms on his chest, rounding his shoulders, imitating her walk.

  “Stop that,” Jenny said.

  “You’re blushing.”

  “Well, stop it.”

  “Listen to me,” Tommy said again.

  “I’m not talking to you until you stop walking that way.”

  Tommy dropped his arms to his sides.

  “What about?” Jenny said then.

  “You doing anything Saturday?”

  “When Saturday?”

  “Night.”

  “No.”

  “Wanna go out?”

  “With you?”

  “What the hell kind—”

  “Don’t swear so much,” Jenny interrupted.

  “What kind of question is that? Yes, with me.”

  “But we spend Saturday nights together anyway. So what are you asking me out for?”

  “Because this is different. We’re not going to study or anything this Saturday. We’ll go out someplace.”

  “Together? Just the two of us?”

  “You want me to bring my father along? Boy, are you a nut.”

  “A date?” Jenny said. “With you?”

  “Forget the whole thing, fatso. O.K.?” He grabbed a stone and skipped it out across the water.

  She touched his arm. “I’d love to, Tommy. I mean it. It just surprised me, that’s all. I’m sorry. I’d love to go out with you. I would.”

  “It’s a deal then,” he muttered. “Saturday night.”

  “Saturday night,” Jenny echoed. They looked at each other a moment. Then, suddenly, he broke into a run, racing away along the sand.

  He picked her up at eight o’clock but she wasn’t nearly ready. She had started preparing at a little after five, but when she heard him knocking at the front door she was still only half dressed. She didn’t know what to wear, so she tried on every dress she owned, staring at herself critically in her mirror, sharply shaking her head. She finally decided on a white dress she had made herself and that was only a little too big for her. She wore white shoes, with high heels, and earrings and when she finally entered the living room everybody stopped talking and looked at her.

  “Don’t bother waiting up for us,” Jenny said. “There’s no telling how late we’ll be. Good night, all,” and she swept to the front door.

  Tommy opened it for her. He was wearing white buckskin shoes and a blue suit and a blue striped tie. As she stood beside him, Jenny realized suddenly that the high heels were a mistake. Without them they were the same height; with them, she seemed to tower over him.

  “Where are we going?” she asked when they got outside.

  He gestured with his arm and they moved through the woods away from the lake. When they got to the road Tommy stopped, pointing to a new Pontiac that was parked on the shoulder. “Mine,” he said.

  “Yours?” Jenny looked at him.

  “The old man gave it to me. On loan. As long as I don’t drink or smoke I get to keep it.” He pulled a cigarette out of his coat pocket and lit it. “If the old bastard thinks he’s going to buy me off he’s crazy.”

  “You’re too young to be smoking.”

  “I knew you’d say that.” He got into the car. “I just knew it.” He inhaled deeply on the cigarette, then began coughing. “Dammit,” he muttered.

  Jenny sat beside him and they started to drive. “What’s the matter with you?” she said. “Smoking and swearing.”

  “That ain’t all, sister.” He opened the glove compartment and pulled out a pint of whisky. “Want a snort?”

  “No, I don’t. I most certainly do not.”

  “Chicken,” Tommy said, raising the pint to his lips, drinking.

  “Watch the road,” Jenny cautioned.

  “Chicken,” Tommy said again.

  “Sometimes I don’t think I know you, Tommy. Lately—”

  “Call me Tom. My name is Tom, not Tommy. Call me that.”

  “Tom,” Jenny managed to say.

  He took another swallow of whisky, then replaced the bottle in the glove compartment. After that, they drove in silence for a while.

  “Where are we going?” Jenny said finally.

  “Dancing.”

  “Auh?” She was conscious again of the white high-heeled shoes. “Wouldn’t you rather go to a movie or something?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m not a very good dancer,” Jenny said.

  Tommy shrugged, continuing to drive. Every Saturday night the meeting hall in Cherokee was used for dancing. A phonograph was placed on the platform and popular records were blasted through the night, until one in the morning. It was nine o’clock when they got there but the hall was already crowded. Tommy parked the Pontiac, took another long swallow of whisky, stuck a Lifesaver in his mouth and led her toward the noise.

  There were a number of high-school students grouped around the perimeter of the big room. Jenny stood very close to Tommy in the entranceway, conscious of the stares, trying not to hear the whispered laughter. A group of boys were standing in a distant corner and Tommy left her, moving to them, talking, gesturing. She waited, alone, feeling awkward, oversized. A man came up and asked her to dance but she shook her head. The man looked at her closely, his eyes traveling up her body. Jenny gave him a nervous smile and retreated back to the wall, standing rigid. When Tommy came back he grabbed her arm and they moved onto the floor. He put his arms around her, pulling her very close, pressing his body against hers. She pulled away. Patti Page was singing “The Tennessee Waltz” and they struggled on the floor.

  “Not so close, Tommy,” Jenny whispered. “Please. Whatever is the matter with you?”

  He glanced over to the group of boys and waved one hand.

  They moved awkwardly across the floor. Jenny began to perspire lightly. “I remember the night and the Tennessee Waltz,” Patti Page sang. Jenny stepped on Tommy’s foot. A burst of laughter exploded in a corner of the room.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered.

  He tried pulling her close again, her breasts grazing his shirt. She resisted a moment, then
let him hold her. She buried her head in his neck and closed her eyes.

  “Attago, Tom, boy,” somebody shouted.

  The song ended. Another record began, louder, and they danced, awkwardly as before. When it was over, Jenny dropped her arms. “I want to go outside,” she said. “Right this very minute.”

  They walked to the car and stood listening to the music as it pierced the soft evening. Tommy got out the pint and took a long swallow. Then another. His face was beginning to redden.

  “You’ll never be able to drive if you keep that up.”

  In answer, he drank again.

  “I’m not going back in there,” Jenny said. “I promise you. I won’t.”

  “Why did you have to wear heels?” Tommy said quietly. “I don’t want to go back in there either. I never wanted to go there in the first place but word got out. About us. Tonight. They dared me to bring you. So why did you have to wear heels?”

  She touched his hand gently.

  He jerked his hand away. “Come on, let’s get outta here.” They got in the car and began to drive.

  They drove for a long time without speaking. The night was warm and bright, the moon a tilted crescent spilling yellow light across the ground. Finally he pulled off the main highway onto a dirt road that curved continually west. At the end of the road Tommy stopped the car, parking at the edge of a narrow river. The river was filled with rocks and the water whispered as it rushed along. Jenny listened.

  “There’s trout in there,” Tommy said. “Sometimes your father, he brings people here to fish. Pretty, huh?”

  Jenny nodded.

  “You’re pretty, too, Jenny. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “No. Not ever.”

  “Well, you are. Especially tonight. I love your dress. I like white. I do.” Abruptly he reached over and grabbed her, forcing her face toward his, trying to kiss her. She pulled away sharply, breaking his hold, moving to the opposite side of the car.

  “Boy,” Tommy said. “Boy.” He grabbed for his pint and began to drink, shaking his head, glaring at her. “Boy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jenny began.

  “Just shut up,” he told her.