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

by William Goldman

Branch wanted to die but he smiled.

  “Oh God,” Rose said happily, hugging him tight. “Ain’t we got fun.”

  Part II

  VI

  ESTHER DIDN’T MUCH WANT the baby.

  She was, in the first place, too young, a scant twenty-one, not ready yet—not nearly. And, besides that, there was her figure to consider. Her waist had never been smaller (a scant twenty-one, like her age), her pink-tipped prizes never so full and firm. The thought of her flat stomach swelling from Sid’s sting deprived her of sleep, while the image of her sublime bosom sagging, webbed with blue veins, provided her with nightmares. (Her mother’s breasts had sagged, nipples and navel a level line; Esther remembered little of her mother, but she remembered that, and it chilled her, it chilled her.) And who the hell liked babies anyway? Not her. Not little Esther. How could you like them? Ugly wrinkled brats, crying all the day, all the night, tying you down, jailing you, and for what crime? Carelessness. Simple stupid carelessness. So where was Justice anyway? Out noshing bagels with cream cheese and no one watching the store.

  And how could she support a kid after her divorce?

  There was no doubt in her mind she would soon be divorced. Her marriage (Ha!) had been one titanic nothing, but after it was over, what then? Back pushing pickles in the deli? Better to die. Sid (the piker) would never come across with anything resembling alimony. Talk? Sure. Hot air? Sure. Money? Don’t hold your breath. She could always marry again (no sweat, not with her looks) but marriage meant another husband around the house and Sid had soured her sufficiently on that score. More than once she fiddled around in her mind with the idea of letting some holvah baron keep her, but that (if you pursued the notion to the end) always seemed unappetizing. Nice Jewish Girls didn’t do it and she was a Nice Jewish Girl. Besides, everybody would whisper. Besides that, where would she be at forty when her looks started going? And (finally) besides that, she had never met a holvah baron.

  As she idly brushed her long hair each afternoon from three to four, Esther stared in her mirror and dreamed. The brush caressed the rich black curls, and Esther, wistful, prayed not for a young knight in shining armor but for an (a) old rich man who would (b) change his will, making her the beneficiary, (c) marry her and then, thoughtfully, (d) die. (Quickly, without suffering; Esther was part romantic.) The chances of all this befalling her were, she knew, remote. (She was also part realist.) Still, she wished it with all of her sad heart, every afternoon, from three to four.

  The rest of the time she busied herself loathing her husband.

  Sid. Good old Sid. Sid old kid. How could she have said “Yes” to his pleas? Compared to her, General Custer was Alfred Einstein. Sid with the bad jokes and his bad breath and his bad taste. Sid the Yid. A child of six could hold a job; could he? If it weren’t for his luck playing poker, his good fortune at snooker, they would have starved long ago. All day long she spent alone in the apartment, the same crummy apartment he seduced her in with that poisoned tomato juice. How could she go out when there was no money? Could you get mink from Marshall Field’s on credit? And no new clothes to wear. Nothing to wear but promises. “Tootsie, I’m working on a deal and if it comes through ... Tootsie, I’m onto something hot, big money, so much if you went into training you couldn’t lift it all. ... Tootsie, tomorrow, if everything goes right, I’m buying you the biggest ... the best ... the finest ... the most ...”

  Baloney. That was all he was. Esther had married a sausage and it was killing her. As bad as he was when they were together, when they went out to one of his crummy friends’ crummy parties he was unbelievable. Telling her how to dress—“No girdle, Tootsie. Let it shake. And wear the black dress without the front. Let the boys drool a little.” And then, always in public, he pawed her, pinched her round bottom or, for variety, slapped it loud with the flat of his hand. Of course, he pawed her in private too. Nightly there was sexual solace, but the thought that she was supplying him pleasure deprived her of hers.

  So there she was, married to the all-time loser, King Schlemiel, and with the possibility of a “little one” an interval of unhappiness might easily become a lifetime of grief. (After all, what were the odds on a rich old bachelor with a heart condition knocking on the door to her apartment?) Life, once the color of wheat, was now rich milk chocolate. With no marshmallow topping in view.

  The first month, when she missed her “time” (her word), she ignored it. It had happened before when she was nervous and she was nervous now. She buried the thought beneath a heaping mound of bile and slept, all things considered, soundly. The second month, though, she began to panic. She felt well enough; there was no morning nausea; her stomach was still beautifully flat. But her carefully tended red fingernails took to clawing the base of her thumb, and sudden sounds gave her a start. All this was endurable, but when her complexion began spotting and the skin beneath her eyes started to darken unattractively, Esther hied herself to Dr. Fishbein. The good doctor borrowed some urine, played around for five days, and then reported the good bad news.

  In the privacy of her apartment, Esther wept. She might have gnashed for hours except that on passing her beloved mirror she noted the dark skin beneath her dark eyes was both wrinkled and puffed and that was too much. Calling down vanity, she showered, perfumed her soft body, donned her best bra, her sheerest slip, ironed a black dress, draped it subtly over her curves, and slaved over her face, disguising it, banishing the dark skin, so that when Sid returned flush from a triumphant afternoon of eight-ball, had he bothered to give her a glance, he would have seen a dark vision, scented and soft and round. But the Racing Form held more allure for his blind eyes and he buried himself in half-mile resumes and abilities to leg it in the mud. But when Esther said “Hey, Sid, guess what—I’m pregnant,” it was goodbye to all that.

  * * *

  Sid didn’t much want the baby.

  He was, in the first place, too young, a virile twenty-five, not ready yet—not nearly. Inside him, he knew, were those same seeds that formed all the titans, the Rockefellers, the Fords, the Julius Rosenwalds. He was a Man on the Move; direction: Up. And he doubted whether Greta the great Garbo could have provided him with permanent joy, much less the dark shrew he had bedded himself with, a voluptuous monster who could play Lady Macbeth without makeup. Witch Esther was certainly part of his present, but his golden future? Thanks but no thanks. Of course, Esther was good in the sack (but not that good. Winifred Katz, a remarkably athletic secretary he had met one night peddling cutlery door to door, was at least her equal). And there would be others, just as pretty, not as tart, just waiting to be plucked (joke) once he had the loot. But baby spelled complication, baby spelled not-only-alimony-but-support-yet (oh, and she’d kill him with that; just for spite she’d kill him), baby spelled Esther.

  So no baby.

  On warm nights, when Esther was asleep, Sid would sometimes pull the sheet away from her body, open the curtain wide so the moon touched her skin, and stare. Partly he did this for pleasure, but partly it was to reassure himself that anybody might have slipped the way he had, anybody might have married this rounded slut, anybody. She looked so sweet that, if you tapped her veins, maple syrup would run out. No flaws showing; all inside. How could she look like that and still he like that? How could she fail to see why the selling jobs he quit were nowhere? Couldn’t she tell just from looking at him he was going someplace? And all the kvetching about money. Did she have to buy out Field’s every day? Didn’t he make enough at pool and cards to keep any ordinary hunk happy? And the way she dressed when they went out. It was humiliating. No girdle and dresses cut to the navel. “Jesus, Esther. Why don’t we just go naked, Esther?” And at parties, slapping her body up against every available man, inhaling and bending over all night long. Did she have to give away what he had married her to get? Well, forget it and smile. Divorce was just around the corner. And fame was right there too. And love-and money and trips around the world and cashmere suits and half a million broads and ...<
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  “What’d you say, Esther?”

  “I said guess what—I’m pregnant.”

  Down went the Racing Form. “For sure?”

  “For sure.”

  “Oh God, Tootsie, that’s wonderful,” and he took her in his arms.

  “Isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

  Sid ran his hand across her stomach. “I can feel it. I swear.”

  Esther giggled. “Oh, Sid, you’re crazy.”

  Sid held her very close. “It’s just like a dream. You’ve wanted a baby so bad.”

  “So have you.”

  “I know. After all the talking we’ve done about it and now it’s here. Oh, Esther, it’s a dream come true.”

  “A dream come true.”

  “Do you love me, Esther?”

  “Yes, yes. And do you love me?”

  “Oh yes.” He raised his hand from her stomach to her breasts. Then slowly he began to undo her buttons.

  “Sid. Careful.”

  “I’ll be careful. You’re a mother now. I’ve gotta be careful.”

  Esther unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it out from his trousers, running her hands across his chest. “You’re a papa now. I’ll be careful too.”

  “You know what I’m gonna do now, Tootsie? To celebrate? Something I’ve never done before.”

  “What, Sid?”

  “I’ve never done it before but I’m gonna treat you like a queen, Esther—I’m gonna carry you in my arms into the bedroo—What’s the matter, Esther? What’re you looking like that for?”

  “Nothing. I just was afraid you might drop me.”

  “Never.” Sid picked her up. “Esther the queen.”

  “You happy, Sid?”

  “I’m happy.”

  “I’m happy.”

  “We’ll be that way forever.”

  “Forever.”

  “Say it again.”

  “Forever. Now you.”

  “Forever.”

  “Forever.”

  “Queen Esther.”

  “King Sid.”

  The next morning, His Highness was awakened by the Queen’s groans.

  “Ohhhhhh,” Esther said. “Ohhhhhhh.”

  “Hey, Tootsie.” Up on one elbow. “What is it, Tootsie?”

  Pale smile. “Nothing. Nothing, darling. I’m fine.”

  Two mornings later, the King awoke alone. “Esther?” he called. No answer. Again: “Esther?” No Esther.

  Out of bed he hopped and into the next room. The Queen lay doubled up across the sofa, her arms gripping her stomach.

  “Esther, what?” She bit her lower lip hard.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “But, my God, you’re in pain.”

  “What’s a little pain?”

  “But—”

  “Women get this way. It’s natural. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m human. I worry.”

  “My sweetheart.”

  “Can’t I do something?”

  Pale smile. “I’m fine.”

  The next morning he again awoke alone. But this time the sofa was vacant. Likewise the kitchen. Sid pounded on the bathroom door, then opened it.

  Esther knelt by the toilet.

  “Esther?”

  “Get out.”

  “No.”

  “I said get out!”

  Sid stood in the doorway. “But—”

  “You think I like having you see me like this? Get out. Out! Out!”

  Sid closed the door, heard it lock. Then the sink was going full, both faucets hard. Sid pressed his ear against the wood. He did not hear her retch, but later the toilet flushed, so she must have. When the door opened she came (weakly) out, looked at his face and then dazzled him with her smile.

  At two o’clock on Saturday morning Esther began to scream. Sid jumped from the bed in panic, staring at the creature clawing at the sheets.

  “What?” Sid said. “What?”

  “I hurt,” Esther muttered. “Oh God, I hurt. I want to die.”

  “I’ll call the doctor.”

  “No.”

  “But, Esther—”

  “Some women have difficult pregnancies. I’m like that. There’s nothing wrong. I just hurt, that’s all.”

  “Where?”

  “Here,” and she clutched her left side.

  “A second ago you were grabbing your stomach.”

  “I hurt all over.”

  “God,” Sid said.

  “Oh, Sid. Make it stop.”

  “Tomorrow you go to the doctor.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Tomorrow you go!”

  “I hate doctors.”

  “Tomorrow!”

  “All right. All right.”

  “Promise?”

  Esther nodded. “You take such care of me.”

  “We don’t want anything to happen to the baby now, do we?”

  “Sweet Papa,” Esther whispered.

  “Good Mama,” Sweet Papa said.

  “Well?” Sid put down the Racing Form and waited.

  Esther said nothing, took off her gloves and her hat.

  “You saw the doctor?”

  Esther unzipped her dress and stepped out of it, hanging it in the closet.

  “You saw the doctor?”

  “I saw him.”

  “And?”

  Esther shrugged.

  “And? And?”

  “I want the baby. Do you want the baby?”

  “As God is my witness.”

  “Good.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  Esther tried to smile. “It’s going to be a difficult pregnancy.”

  “What does that mean? I don’t understand.”

  “It means ...” And she shrugged again, disappearing into the bathroom.

  “It means?” Sid shouted through the door.

  “The baby is fine,” came Esther’s voice. “Couldn’t be better.” Go on.

  Nothing from the bathroom except perhaps a stifled sob.

  “Esther, for God’s sake go on! The baby is fine and—”

  “Chances are I’ll be fine too.”

  “Chances are! Chances are!”

  The door swung open and naked Esther raced into his arms. “Hold me. Sid, don’t talk—just hold me.”

  “You mean you’re liable to ...”

  “Don’t say it. Just hold me.”

  “You mean it’s possible that you might—”

  “Anything’s possible,” Esther said.

  “Esther?” Later that night, lying side by side.

  “Yes, darling.”

  “There’s something I’ve got to say.”

  “Of course, darling.”

  “This is very important, Esther. Now you’ve got to listen to me. Every word, it’s that important. Will you promise to hear me out?”

  “What is it, Sid?”

  “You’ve got to promise to hear me out. No matter what, I’ve got to finish telling you what I’ve got to tell you.”

  “I promise.”

  Sid sat up in bed, locking his hands around his knees. “My father’s closest friend all his life—I can’t tell you how close, like brothers they were—well, this man, he had a daughter and she got, you know, like girls do sometimes, and, well, she was ashamed to tell him about it, so she went to a butcher and he did this thing to her and she died.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible.” Esther shook her head. “The crazy things kids do. A story like that, it just makes me want to cry.”

  “Yes, well when that happened to this close friend of my father, he swore that it would never happen to anybody he knew and cared for, what had happened to him.”

  “Don’t go on, Sid.”

  “This man is a doctor, Esther—”

  “Don’t say any more. Not one word—”

  “He’s a surgeon.”

  “No!”

  “He’s a great surgeon. A great surgeon, you hear?”

  “Nothing! I hear nothing. I want my baby. I
want my baby.”

  Sid pulled her close. “You think I don’t,” he said.

  “Esther?” The next night.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Last night what I said?”

  “Yes?”

  “I didn’t say it.”

  Esther (into his arms): “You’re so good.”

  Sid (rubbing her fanny): “Solid gold.”

  “Oh God.” Esther writhing on the floor. “God ... God ... God.”

  “Tootsie, can’t I help?”

  “Make me stop hurting. Oh God.”

  “The doctor. Can’t he give you something?”

  “Oh God.”

  “Tomorrow. You go see him.”

  “Sid ... make it stop hurting, Sid ...”

  “You make him give you something for the pain. Understand? I don’t care what it costs. Something for the pain.”

  “Yes ... tomorrow ... something for the pain ...”

  “Well? Where are the pills?”

  “He wouldn’t give me any.”

  “Wouldn’t give you any?”

  “Pills won’t help, he said. Nothing will help, he said. Just for me to be brave.”

  “I’ll call up that doctor right—”

  “No!”

  “But, Tootsie—”

  “Just hold me, Sid. And tell me you love me. That’s the best medicine.”

  “I love you.”

  “Do you really mean it?”

  “Have we ever lied to each other?”

  Some Thursdays Old Turk would come to dinner. Or, more accurately, bring dinner, since Esther, never Fanny Farmer, doubled up now in agony whenever she caught sight of the kitchen. So Old Turk came, and with him he brought corned beef and cole slaw and rolls and more than a dozen crisp garlic pickles (his weakness), plus three celery tonics to wash it down.

  “What have you done to my daughter?” Old Turk inquired. “She just sits and stares.” Chomp-chomp-chomp—the old jaws on the new pickles.

  “Worries she has,” Sid explained. “A dear friend of hers makes Job look chipper.”

  “So?” Chomp-chomp-chomp.

  “Yes, this dear friend of hers is with child, and the child is fine, but this dear friend is in terrible danger and the husband of this dear friend has a dear friend of his own who is a great surgeon sympathetic to such dilemmas but as yet no one has done nothing. What do you think?”