“Don’t say one word to me, buster. I was on to her from the word go. I had her number, yes, I did, you bet I did, but you said, ‘Oh, no, she’s coming along fine, just fine’; and now—”
“I was wrong. I admit it.”
“A fat goddam lot of good that does.”
“I love it when you swear.”
“Charley, we’ve got to do something.”
“I’m going to.”
“What?”
“I’ll go to see her psychiatrist and find out.”
“Find out what?”
“If she’s lying or not. He’ll tell me that much, when I explain the situation to him. If he thinks she’s genuinely unstable, that’s one thing, but if he thinks she might be faking or be strong enough to take it, I’ll move out the next day.”
“I know she’s faking and so do you.”
“And so will the psychiatrist.”
“Then why not move out now?”
“You know she makes me feel guilty—she’s good at that. Well, what if that one chance in a thousand were true? What if she really would crack? You’d be racked about it and so would I. Actually it’s a break, her making an appointment to see a psychiatrist. At least now we’ll know.”
“That bitch—she’s liable to turn out crazy just for spite.”
“Don’t even think that,” Charley said.
At lunch hour, on the twenty-seventh of September, as she was hurrying to have lifts put on her heels, it crossed Jenny’s mind that Charley was nothing but a liar, that he had never mentioned to his wife the subject of divorce, that the entire psychiatrist business was simply the latest shovelful in a great pile of bilge, and that she, Jenny, was not one of History’s brighter creatures.
Her reactions were both many and varied.
“You saw the psychiatrist?” Jenny said on the fourth of October as Charley entered her apartment.
Charley nodded.
“What did he say?”
Charley slammed a fist against a blue wall.
“Oh, baby, don’t,” Jenny said, and she hurried to him, kissed the reddened knuckles.
“God,” Charley said.
“From the beginning, tell me. Was he nice? What was his name? Everything.”
“Adler.”
“Was he Viennese, do you know? Did he have an accent or anything?”
“I guess a little one. He spoke English very well.”
“I hope he’s Viennese. They’re supposed to be the best. Go on.”
“I don’t remember all the terms he used.”
“That’s all right; just translate.”
“She’s sick.”
“How sick?”
“Very, I take it.” Go on.
“He’s only seen her a couple of times, and besides, he said, she was the patient, not me, so there was a limited amount he could tell.”
“But he did say she was sick.”
“Psychotic.”
“I just knew it—I had a feeling, Charley. She’s been acting crazy ever since you told her about us. Go on.”
“Betty Jane’s very romantic. If I leave her, it may crack what she considers reality.”
“He said that, this Adler?”
“More or less.”
“Then you can never leave her?”
“Oh no—God no. He’s very hopeful, he says. Her problems—they’re the kind that respond well to treatment. She’s not crazy or anything. It’s just that she would crack if I left her. She needs to come to grips with reality more. Her troubles aren’t really unusual, he said. They respond to treatment. All it takes is time.”
“Thank God for that.”
“We’ll have to have patience.”
“Do you know what love is? Love is supplying what’s needed. Right now I’ve got all the patience in the world.”
On the tenth of October Charley managed to say, “You are?”
Jenny made a nod.
“You’re sure?”
Another nod.
“Have you taken tests and everything?”
“Rabbit and frog. They both say so.”
“Can’t fight that,” Charley said.
“I’ve tried not to tell you; it’s such a rotten time. That’s why I held off until I was sure. That’s why we’ve been fighting, I think; I’ve been so scared. But I’m gonna start showing pretty soon and, well, it’s up to you now, Charley.”
Charley smiled. “Something’s gotta give,” he said.
That weekend was warm, so Charley suggested they all go out and visit Mrs. Bunnel on Long Island. Mrs. Bunnel couldn’t have been more pleased when they called with the suggestion, so Saturday morning they got in the car, Charley and Robby and Paula and Betty Jane, and drove out. They played on the beach the entire afternoon, and for supper they had fried chicken and mashed potatoes and a fresh green salad. Charley ate a great deal of food and called attention to the fact, and Betty Jane commented that it was wonderful seeing him so chipper and he agreed, saying several times that he was chipperer than he had been in years, and he even made a joke out of stumbling over “chipperer” in case anyone might possibly forget his splendid spirits. They went to bed not long after dinner, the old and the young first, Charley and Betty Jane a little bit later. Their second-floor bedroom overlooked the bay and the waves’ beat lulled her immediately into sound sleep. The magic of the rhythm escaped Charley, and after counting Betty Jane’s breaths up to five hundred he found himself bored. Then he remembered the flashlight Mrs. Bunnel always kept in the cabinet by the front door, so he tiptoed down and got it and then scampered back to bed and flashed the light up across the ceiling. It was full of cracks, and they had fabulously wonderful shapes. In the first hour he found seventeen totally different and distinct animals. After that he decided to concentrate on elephants, because he thought he saw a herd lurking in the far corner, so he lay on his back and waved the light and counted and pretty soon he was thinking of Elephant Boy and tiny Sabu and then Shirley Temple and the Jackies, Cooper and Coogan, and Coogan led to City Lights and the great clown smiling at the end, which was probably the saddest of all endings, and then for a little Charley thought about smiles and decided they were all sad, maybe sadder than anything. Flashlights were sad and elephants were sad and Shirley Temple was sad, but not as sad as a smile, and dawn was sad, and when it came Charley got out of bed quietly and put on his bathing suit and kissed Betty Jane and took a towel and crept out to the water. He walked in up to his chest. It was warm, really surprisingly warm considering the month was October, and that was sad too, warm water in October, sad, and he was about to push off when he remembered that he hadn’t left any note.
Should he leave one?
Charley glanced along the completely deserted beach and tried to figure it out. In a minute he shook his head, because why had he bothered stumbling over “chipperer” if he was going to reverse himself and spoil everything and leave a note? No note. The answer was no and that was what had stopped him pushing off before and now nothing was, so he pushed off and began to swim. He was a good swimmer and he was a strong man, so he knew he would have to beat himself down at first, so he plunged his head into the water and began a brutal Australian crawl, his arms cracking into the water, his legs kicking straight and frantically as his big body cut through the bay away from shore. He swam and he swam and as he felt his breath getting harder to catch he stepped up his pace, flailing at the bay with all his considerable might until he could not swim anymore. Then he rolled over onto his back and smiled at the sun, gasping, waiting for his second wind. He had to kill that and completely before he had a chance of going through with anything, and already he could feel his breath coming easier. When he had his second wind he flipped off into the crawl again, and the water was cooler here, and that revived him somewhat more, and he was surprised at what a strong swimmer he was. On he swam, stroking with more speed than he could manage, kicking his powerful legs much too fast, and when his second wind started to go he smiled again and
rolled over for a final look at the sun. His throat was on fire, worse than when he had vomited violently that day on the train, and then he thought of the various women in his life and that drove him back into motion again, so he rolled forward, forcing his arms to churn, ordering his legs to kick, and then he began to cramp. His left calf was gone and Charley screamed at the unexpected pain, and he pounded at the calf with what remained of his strength, and he greeted the fact that there was little left with mixed emotions. The cramp eased and he swam again, slower now, slower, then slowly, and then he could barely move his arms and his legs trailed like dead snakes in the water. He slapped feebly with his arms, slapped again, but there was little splash, and he tried for air but he opened his mouth under the water and that surprised him, and with what power remained he clawed his way forward and up, and then he was in the air and gasping and that gave him a final burst of strength and he slapped at the water and kicked at the water and all of a sudden there was nothing left, not a thing, it was over, he was done. He began to sink. He could not stop. He was sinking. One foot. There was nothing he could do. Two feet. He could not stop. Three feet now and Charley felt nothing, nothing at all. He wondered whether he had the strength to open his eyes and see the blue water as he descended and he did, finally, open his eyes, and the water was gold, like the sun, and Charley blinked and blinked, staring dully at the sun, and then he felt he was not sinking anymore and he looked around.
He was on a sandbar.
For a moment he could do nothing. Then he realized how funny it all was, how paralyzingly funny, so he started to laugh, kneeling there in the nice cool water beneath the blinding rise of the sun. He laughed and laughed because it was all so funny, not sad, nothing was sad anymore, least of all him, because he was indestructible now, nothing could touch him, and he laughed and slipped off the bar and started stroking his way back to shore. The water was wonderfully refreshing, and even though there was a steady ache behind his eyes he felt really marvelous and the cramps didn’t start actually to worry him until he was almost halfway back. Then at once both of his calves knotted and his stomach grabbed and Charley screamed out loud, sinking down below the surface, balling his hands, hitting at his calves, and they felt just the slightest bit better but his stomach was dragging him down. Charley fought for one sweet breath, got it, sank again, and when the first thought of death as an actuality crossed his mind he was able barely to realize that it would be funny too, if he died now on his way back, just as the sandbar had been funny a little while ago. The next time he made it to the surface he vomited, so the air was of little use, but the time after that was better and his calves were fine now, or almost fine, and if only his stomach would stop he felt he had an excellent chance of floating in to shore. But his stomach would not stop, and he doubled up in agony, vomiting again and again, and he realized what he had to do was straighten, but it hurt more than anything he had ever known and he doubted that he had the strength, but he tried, tried to straighten, and his stomach tightened, fighting him, and he made it to the surface one more time and filled his lungs with air and then, like some great fish, he broke water, jerking back with his head, kicking out with his feet, and his stomach fought him, tried to clench, but he was too much for it, and in a moment it began subsiding. Charley lay stretched straight out in the water facedown. His calves started knotting again but he ignored them easily.
Then he made a suede jacket in his mind and it floated him to shore.
Awakened by a kiss, Betty Jane watched her husband’s swim from their second-floor bedroom. At first she thought it was merely odd to swim so far, at dawn, in October. It was only when she found herself glancing around the room for some kind of note that she allowed herself to realize the other ramifications of his jaunt, and by that time he was floating safely, if weakly, in toward shore. He lay spent on the beach, half in, half out of the water, the larger waves covering him briefly with foam. She stared at him for the longest time. Then, when he tried getting to his feet, she hurried to him. He explained that he had gone out too far.
She called him a silly and helped him up to bed.
Cowards die many times before their deaths. “Hi, Jenny.”
“Hello, Mrs. Fiske.” Jesus—
“Busy, I see.” You are through with my husband. I am here to tell you that.
“Oh, not so very.” What the hell is she doing here?
Say it. Tell her. Stay away from him. “Good. It never pays to work too hard, I always say.”
“Not at these prices.” How much do you know?
“You’re looking well, Jenny.” When you age—when that day comes—when you age and your body sags, the sound you hear will be my laughter.
“So are you.” God damn it. “Where’s the boss?” Bitch.
“He won’t be in today.” Slut.
Why? “Oh?”
“Oh.”
“Yes; he swam a bit too much over the weekend. He’s still exhausted.” You are killing him.
“Well, we’re none of us as young as we used to be.” You bitch, you stupid bitch, say something!
“I was just in the area, so I thought I’d drop in; I do that sometimes.” You will stay away from my husband. You will keep your sweating whore hands away from Charley.
“Yes.” You stupid insipid—
Tell her. Tell her! “You really are looking well.”
“You’ll make me blush.” Say what’s on your mind. Compose yourself, you clinging bitch, and say something. “Coffee?”
Thank God. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Cart was just here. How do you take it?” He loves me, bitch. The thought of him touching you ...”
“Black.” Look at her, slut with a whore’s face, and how can he touch a thing like you?
“Be right back.” She’s here to beg for him. Well beg, bitch. Screw up your courage and beg!
She is killing my husband and destroying me and there is no excuse for her existence in my life. She must be told and told firmly! That he is mine! That she is not wanted! That her services are no longer needed! That she is loathed! That she must leave! Leave! Him! Take your whore’s body and go!
“Black it is.” All right, say it. Say it!
“Jenny—” Tell the whore!
“What?” Say it.
“There’s something—” THE WHORE MUST BE TOLD!
“What?” SAY IT! SAY IT!
“My heavens, look at the time.” Of course, eventually she’s got to bore him to distraction. You sleep with a whore but you live with a wife. Nothing to be gained by telling. Not really.
“Can’t you stay?” How can he stand it with you? Well, he won’t much longer.
“I’ve really got to dash.” I’ll never leave him.
“Well, if you have to, you have to.” I’ll never let him go.
“Take care now, Jenny.” God, how I pity you.
“You too.” Poor thing.
Both: “Biiiiiiieeeee.”
Two days later, when he came to work, Charley stopped by Jenny’s desk to report that his wife had left him that morning.
She followed him into his office and requested details.
He demurred, saying there were none, that she simply had packed up the children and gone, asking would he please not follow.
Jenny asked if he was happy.
He said he was.
She wondered why he didn’t look it.
He explained it was because of the suddenness of her departure.
She went into his arms and asked did he really think it was over.
He said he really thought it was.
She said she almost felt let down since it ended so quietly.
He agreed, saying a good screaming match might have provided catharsis.
Then she told him her news, how she wasn’t pregnant after all.
He mused at the oddity of both the tests being mistaken.
She hastened to inform him of her miscarriage over the weekend.
He nodded.
She explained that she deemed it unwise to contact him over the weekend, and, besides, she wanted him to be there when she told.
He asked after her present health.
She said she was fine.
He said she certainly looked it.
She said how she loved him.
He said how it was his lucky day.
Betty Jane stared at the bay, then jerked around, grabbed for the phone. She told the long-distance operator that she wanted to place a call to a Mr. Mark Sanders in Manhattan. The operator, for some reason, thanked her. Betty Jane gripped the phone, listening to the clatter coming from the kitchen, where her mother was trying to quiet her son from urging her daughter into making an even greater racket with a frying pan. Paula loved banging frying pans around more than almost anything. Betty Jane took a deep breath and when a man answered she said “Mark?”
“Mark’s not here.”
“Betty Jane Bunnel—no, Fiske—tell him Mrs. Fiske called and he knew me from school last winter—Princeton, tell him—and would you tell him too to call me? Collect. Please.”
“I meant not here, Mrs. Fiske. Mark’s in Ann Arbor.”
“That’s in Michigan,” Betty Jane said, though she couldn’t for the life of her think why.
“Yes.”
“Well, will he be back soon?”
“I don’t think so. He was offered a teaching fellowship. I’m a friend of Mark’s—I’ve got his apartment now. Can I help you?”
“No.”
“Then it’s not important?”
“I didn’t say that.” She hung up.
“Who was that?” her mother asked.
Betty Jane shook her head.
“Was it Charley?”
“No, it wasn’t Charley.”
“Well, maybe he’ll call soon.”
“I told him not to, Mother.”
“Well, don’t bite my head off.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank God Penny’s coming.”
“What are you talking about?”
Mrs. Fiske glanced at the grandfather’s clock in the corner. “She’ll be here any minute.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mother. Penny’s my friend. If I’d wanted her here I’d’ve told her to come.”
The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold Page 74
