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

by William Goldman

  Jenny nodded, staring out the window, away. She suddenly had no idea whom she was with and it frightened her. She could hear him drinking, the liquor bubbling in the bottle, rushing down to his lips.

  “Maybe we’d better go home,” Jenny said.

  “Maybe we’d better go home,” he mimicked.

  “What’s the matter with you? What?”

  “You did it with Pete Johansson. He told me. I know.” Before she could reply he had opened the car door and thrown the pint viciously into the river. It hit a rock and splattered, showering glass. He got back in the car, slamming the door. “And Whitey, too.”

  “That’s not true,” Jenny said. “You know very well they’re lying. Boys talk.”

  “I’ll say they talk. I’ll say.”

  “They never touched me. On my word of honor. Not ever.”

  “They didn’t, huh?”

  “They didn’t.”

  “Liar.”

  “Don’t do this to me!” Jenny was surprised at her voice. “You’re my friend, my best friend in the whole world, so don’t do this to me.”

  He edged over to her, their legs touching. The whisky smell was terrible, so she stared out at the river.

  “Look at me. You like me so much, look at me.”

  Jenny looked at him.

  He lunged at her, his arms circling her neck. For a moment she stiffened but then she stopped, letting his lips press against her mouth. His hands left her neck and they kissed, his mouth punishing hers.

  Jenny pulled her head back. “That’s enough, Tommy.”

  “Tom.”

  “Tom. That’s enough, Tom.”

  “No, it isn’t,” he whispered and he kissed her again. She tried to force herself into enjoying it, but the smell of whisky was too strong.

  “I like you, I do, but—”

  He kissed her a third time, his body crushing hers, and she closed her eyes as tightly as she could and then his hands were on her breasts. She jerked her head away again, staring mutely down at his hands, cupped on her breasts.

  “Not you,” Jenny said.” Please not you.”

  They stared at each other a moment and then his hands began digging into the soft flesh, ripping at the white fabric. Jenny shoved at his hands, but they only dug in deeper, so she threw open the car door and tried escaping. He was still touching her. Finally she burst free. She ran a few steps but he came after her, grabbing her from behind, his hands tearing at her breasts again. They fell to the ground, wrestling, rolling over and over.

  Jenny was stronger.

  In a minute she was sitting on Tommy’s chest, pressing his arms into the ground, pinning him.

  “Please stop now,” she said.

  He kicked on the ground. “Get off me.”

  “If you’ll stop.”

  “Get off me, you cow.”

  “Will you stop?”

  “Yes.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise, I promise. Now get off.”

  She let him go, rolling off him. He started to sit. “You promised, now. Remember.”

  They sat beside each other and in a minute they were both crying. He lay back down on his stomach, his head in his hands, his hands pressing into the soft earth. Jenny brought her legs up and wept openly, rocking back and forth. Tommy rolled over on his back and dried his eyes. Then he stumbled down to the river and knelt beside it, ducking his head into the cool water. His coat was getting wet, so he took it off, his shirt too, and ducked his head, over and over. After a while, he came back to her.

  “I’ll take you home.”

  “Yes.”

  He put on his shirt and coat and they drove east along the dirt road to the highway. Then slowly he drove toward Cherokee. Neither of them spoke until he had the car parked on the shoulder of the highway above her house.

  “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  “It’s all right. You don’t have to.”

  “Please.”

  They got out of the car and entered the woods, moving slowly.

  “I’m sorry about calling you a cow,” Tommy said.

  “Oh, that’s all right.”

  “I had too much to drink was the reason I did it. I’m not much of a drinker. As a matter of fact, I think I’m going to be sick any minute.”

  “Auh?”

  The house was visible now, framed between the trees and the lake.

  “Will you ever let me take you out again?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Well, at least you know you’ll be safe with me. I mean, you’re stronger than I am, so you’ve got nothing to be afraid of. That’s something.”

  Jenny shrugged.

  “I mean, I promise I won’t try to rape you again. You can take my word on that.”

  “Auh?”

  “Absolutely. Never again.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Do that. It’s very important to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re my best friend too, Jenny. I love you. I have ever since we were eight years old. But it couldn’t go on like it was. You understand that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it couldn’t, that’s all.” They were nearing the front door now and he lowered his voice. “Please let me see you again. I’ve got to. We’re something to each other, Jenny. Don’t let it go.”

  Jenny stopped and looked at him for a long time. “You ripped my dress,” she whispered finally.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Here,” she said, taking his hand. “See where you ripped it?” There was a small tear in the fabric over her left breast. She raised his hand, placing the tips of his fingers on the tear. “Gently,” Jenny said.

  “Yes.”

  Again she took his hand, raising it, touching his palm to her lips. Then she moved quietly to the front door and opened it.

  “Jenny?”

  She turned in the doorway.

  “I’m going to marry you, Jenny.”

  He waved.

  She waved.

  They were inseparable again.

  V

  “YOU WILL SIT HERE,” Miss Dickens said, indicating the receptionist’s desk. She spoke like a teacher addressing a class full of children, and Rose almost felt as if she ought to repeat what had just been told her, to prove she had learned her lessons well.

  I will sit here, Rose was tempted to say.

  Miss Dickens, an overpowdered maiden lady in her fifties, drummed her fingers on the desk top. “Have you any questions, Miss Mathias?”

  “Mathias,” Rose corrected. “Accent the second syllable. Not Mathias. Mathias.”

  “I’m sorry.” Miss Dickens cleared her throat. “I shan’t do it again; I never make the same mistake twice.”

  The telephone rang.

  Miss Dickens was about to say “Answer it,” but Rose was too fast for her, and by the time Miss Dickens got the first half of “Answer” out, Rose was already talking on the phone. Miss Dickens converted the “Ans-” into a general all-around throat-clearing. “Ans-ah-um-um.”

  “West Ridge Real Estate,” Rose said. “Good afternoon.” She listened a moment, then handed the receiver to Miss Dickens. “For you.”

  “What’s that?” Miss Dickens said a moment later. “Your basement is filling with water again? Call the plumber. He’ll fix it. ... He what? The plumber said what?”

  Bored with what the plumber said, Rose strolled around the office. It was small, two rooms, but the ceilings were high. The office was located on Central Street in West Ridge, set between a dress shop and a hardware store. West Ridge, in turn, was located in northern Ohio, thirty miles west and a little south of Cleveland, a comfortable forty-five-minute drive on Route 10. Rose had only made the trip by bus; by bus it took an hour and a half.

  Although it was her first day on the job, she was not particularly nervous. She knew how to type, file—whatever was necessary. Ros
e looked at her short, strong fingers, then smoothed her skirt. Her skirt was a pleated green cotton (she favored green). Her blouse was also green, neatly pressed, as was the skirt, and her short hair was carefully combed. Rose was neat, proper and clean.

  She was also plain.

  Her nose was too big. Her eyes were too small. Her hair was brown. Just brown. Not dark brown or light brown or curly brown or straight brown. Not even mouse brown. Brown. Brown was the color of her hair. Her lips were thin, but not thin enough to be memorable. Her chin was ordinary, neither weak nor jutting. Her skin was gray. Her body was straight and square and flat, completely devoid of mystery. Only her legs were good—rounded at the calf, trim at the ankle—so good that they came as a shock after the rest of her, as though, at birth, someone had said, “Good God, give her something.” She was not yet twenty-five.

  She looked thirty.

  Plain Rose.

  Miss Dickens was finishing the phone call when the front door of the office opened and Mr. Scudder walked in. He moved up quietly behind Miss Dickens, and as she put the phone down he whispered something in her ear and whacked her on the fanny. Miss Dickens flushed, a pale hand hiding her thin face.

  “The new girl,” she whispered. Mr. Scudder turned. Rose stepped forward.

  “Hello, new girl.”

  “Hello, Mr. Scudder.”

  “Howard.”

  “Howard.”

  He held out his hand.

  “Miss Mathias,” Rose said. “Rose.” She held out hers.

  “Glad to have you aboard, Rosie. Dickens show you around?”

  “More or less.”

  “You’ll like it here. We don’t make money but we have a helluva lot of fun.”

  Behind him, Miss Dickens inhaled audibly.

  Howard turned on her. “Helluva,” he repeated. “I said it and I’m glad.”

  Miss Dickens flushed.

  “Anything happen of late?”

  “Mr. Traphagen called. It seems his basement is flooded again.”

  “Poor Mr. Traphagen,” Howard said. “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  He walked into his office, returning a moment later with a briefcase. “I’m off to show a house. Hold the fort.” He winked at Miss Dickens and left.

  “Mr. Scudder is a terrible kidder,” Miss Dickens said when he was gone.

  “I can see that.”

  “He’s very nice, though.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll like him, I’m sure.”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” Rose said.

  It was late afternoon before Howard returned. He breezed into the office, patted Miss Dickens on the head and disappeared into the back room. A moment later he stuck his head through the doorway. “We eat,” he announced. “I sold it.” Then he pulled his head back and closed the door.

  Rose waited until it was nearly time for her to leave for the day. Across the room Miss Dickens was already adjusting a faded spring hat, decorated with what once must have been flowers. Rose walked to Howard’s door and knocked.

  “Entrez, s’il vous plaît.”

  Rose closed the door behind her.

  “If you’re trying to hit me for a raise,” Howard began, “your timing is bad.”

  Rose made herself smile.

  “What is it, Rosie?”

  “I just wanted you to know,” Rose said, “that I take dictation.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s wonderful, Rosie.” Howard smiled at her. He had a nice smile. He was better than average looking to begin with, but he was handsome when he smiled. Medium tall, he had a trim, athletic build. Even though it was still only early April, he was deeply tanned.

  “So if you want, you can dictate some letters tomorrow.”

  “I can’t do that, Rosie.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t do that?”

  “I get flustered. I have to write everything out in longhand.”

  “But I take dictation.”

  “Maybe Dickens has some letters she’d like written. Why don’t you ask her?”

  “Miss Dickens is an employee. You’re the boss. There’s all the difference in the world.”

  Howard pulled at his chin a moment. “We seem to be at an impasse, Rosie. What do you think we should do?”

  “I think you’d better learn to dictate. That’s all there is to it.”

  Howard stared at her.

  She could feel herself starting to blush, so she stopped it. “After all, Mr. Scudder, there’s no point in wasting me.”

  “Right you are, Rosie. No point in wasting you. I’ll just learn to dictate and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Thank you,” Rosie said, and she turned, starting for the door.

  “You’re a funny girl, aren’t you, Rosie?”

  Rose glanced back at him. “Funny?” she said. “Me?” she said. “No,” she said.

  It was a pretty day, so she decided to walk home. She walked along Central Street, then turned two corners down, crossing over to Beach, then to Elm, then to Cedar. When she reached Oak, she turned again, moving to a house in the middle of the block. A sign in front of the house read “Furnished Rooms.” Rose moved under the sign. Her room was on the top floor. Small, perfectly square, it reflected nothing. The small closet was neatly filled with clothes. The bed was made and already turned down for the night. On her bed table were a book and a picture from a newspaper. The book was the Bible. Rose never read it, but she was never without it either. The picture was clipped from the West Ridge Weekly Sentinel. Dated mid-March, it had already begun to curl. “Returns from vacation,” the picture said. And underneath, some society doggerel that began, “Howard Scudder, one of West Ridge’s most eligible bachelors, returned recently ...” Rose did not bother reading the rest. She knew it by heart anyway.

  Instead, she stared at the picture.

  The next afternoon, on her way home from work, Rose stopped at the West Ridge Public Library. Ordinarily she did not read much; books made her impatient. She stood in the doorway of the library for a moment, quietly looking around. Rose always did that; whenever she had to enter a new room she would stop and fix it carefully in her mind, so that when she moved she could move directly. Rose had little patience with indecision. Nodding to herself, she walked quickly to the library desk and made out a card. When it had been processed, she hurried to the shelves. She took out two books on selling and two more on the fundamentals of real estate. They were heavy, and she resented their weight, but she took them anyway, charging them on her card, nodding curtly to the elderly librarian behind the desk. When she got home she brewed herself a pot of strong coffee—strong coffee was a weakness of hers—and began to read. It was nearly four in the morning before she allowed herself to stop.

  Two days later Miss Dickens came down with the flu, and the day following that Rose appeared in the office carrying a large paper bag. She worked efficiently for an hour, answering the phone when it rang, typing correspondence, changing the photographs of houses for sale that served as a display in the window facing on Central Street. It was after eleven when she made her move.

  Howard emerged briefly from his inner office, watching her as she typed. “Slave on,” he said.

  Rose finished the letter she was copying.

  “New dress?” Howard asked. “It’s very nice.”

  “Thank you.” Rose brought the paper bag up and set it on her desk.

  “What’s in the bag, Rosie?”

  “You were supposed to ask that.”

  “Always on cue. That’s me.”

  “Food,” Rose said. “You see, I had some friends to dinner last night and we had roast beef, except that I bought too much, so instead of letting it go to waste—I could never finish it all—I made sandwiches for us. And potato salad. A picnic lunch. Right here in the office.” Howard was watching her and she wondered briefly if he knew that there had been no friends, that the food was purchased earl
y that morning from the grocer on the corner.

  “Sounds great, Rosie.”

  Rose allowed herself a smile.

  “But I can’t make it.”

  Rose said nothing.

  Howard hurried on. “I eat lunch at home, Rosie. Every day. Rain or shine.”

  “At home? Alone?”

  “With Mother, of course,” Howard answered.

  “Oh,” Rose said, looking at him. That was all. Just “Oh.”

  Late in the afternoon Dolly Salinger appeared.

  Rose was alone in the office when the front door opened. Rose glanced up. The woman in the doorway looked to be twenty-one or -two, tall, slender, dark. Her skin was pale and clear, her lips red, her hair raven black. She entered the room and Rose examined her. She was almost unfairly pretty, and she moved with athletic grace. My legs are better, Rose thought. My legs are better.

  “Yes?” Rose said.

  “Howard here?”

  “Mr. Scudder is out just now.”

  The other woman shrugged. “Just tell him Dolly stopped by.”

  “I certainly will,” Rose said, jotting it down on a note pad. “Dolly who?”

  “Salinger.”

  Jew, Rose thought. “I’ll tell him, Miss Salinger.”

  They stared at each other a moment. “You do that,” Dolly said. She continued to stare.

  Rose busied herself with some papers. When she heard the front door close she looked up. “Stay away,” Rose said out loud. “You hear me? Stay away.”

  The next morning Miss Dickens returned, more powdered than usual. “The doctor urged me to spend another day in bed,” she began, hanging up her coat. “But I told him ‘Absolutely not.’ I can be very stubborn when I want to.”

  Rose waited for her to sit down.

  “Influenza is a dreadful disease. I seem to get it at least once each year. Usually I get it in the wintertime and—”

  “Who’s Dolly Salinger?”

  “Dolly Salinger?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why, she and Mr. Scudder are keeping company.”

  “For how long?”

  “Several years now.”

  “She rich?”

  “I don’t believe so. Not anymore. Her family was hit badly by the crash.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” Rose said.

  “Yes. Yes, it was. Her father took his own life soon afterwards. Or so the story goes. At any rate, he died.”