Branch stood up. “I’m not leaving.”
“That makes kind of a stalemate, hon. ’Cause I’m not leaving you here.”
“I’ve got enough money for a while. I’ll be fine.”
Rose smoothed her blouse, running her hands over the curve of her breasts to her flat hard stomach. “I’m not leaving you here,” she said.
“Goodbye, Rosie.”
“Not with him,” Rose said.
“Goodbye, Rosie.”
“Not with the likes of him. Your father and I didn’t work all our lives so our money could be spent on people like him.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“I know enough.”
“What do you know?”
“Let’s not go into it, Branch.”
“What do you know?”
“You’re supporting a pervert,” Rose said, “and I’m not leaving you here.”
“You’re funnier than Jackie Gleason, you know that, Rose?” He started to laugh.
“Shut up.”
“What kind of a pervert is he, Rose?”
“I said shut up!”
“Is he a peeping Tom, a voyeur? Is he—”
“Branch, stop!” Rose cried. “Now.” She ran at him, her stubby hands searching for his mouth.
Branch fought her off. “He’s a fag, that’s what you mean.”
“I don’t know that word—”
“Ho-mo-sex—”
“Some things are not said!”
“He’s not—he’s not. I am!”
“Never!”
“Always—” Branch said.
“The girls are crazy for you—”
“Never—”
“Always—” Rose said.
“Watch me walk, Mother—watch me swish—I can swish if I want to—I’m good at it—” he dropped his wrist, shot a hip out, started to walk—“See?”
“STOP.” Rose closed her eyes.
“WATCH!”
Rose’s eyes opened.
Branch paraded for his mother.
“I’ll kill him,” Rose whispered.
“You will?”
“I’ll kill him with my hands.”
“Why?”
“He did this to you. I’ll kill him.”
“Now, Rosie,” Branch said, “we all know who did what to who, don’t we?” He started toward her.
“Branch—”
“Remember when you put me in your clothes? Fun? I’ll tell you something—”
“I brought you up to be a man. Like your father. That’s all I ever did, I swear to God.”
“The last guy I kept—”
“Big and strong,” Rose mumbled. “I swear.”
“Aaron—anyway, old Aaron, he kept trying to make me admit that I had an Oedipus complex—you understand, don’t you?—that I wanted my mother. Well, I used to deny it because frankly, Rose, you fill me with the shudders—every time you’ve touched me, every time you’ve ever pinched me or patted me or run your stubby hands across your goddam breasts it has filled me with such revulsion—”
“Some things ... are ... not spoken aloud ...”
Branch grabbed her. “Let’s face the music and dance,” he said, and with that he began to spin with her, out of the bedroom and down the corridor, around and around and around.
Rose began to cry.
“Put your arms around me, honey, hold me tight.” Branch bawled the words out. “Sing, Rosie. We’re together at last, Rosie. You’ve got a real shape, you know that, Mother? It’s too bad I’m queer, Mother, or I could go for a mother like you, Mother,” and he whirled her into the living room. “Do you know how I have felt year after year cowering in front of you, Rosie?”
Rose slipped to her knees.
Branch dropped beside her. “I don’t think the orchestra’s quite finished, Mother, sweet Mother, come home to me now, Mother, sweet Rosie o’mine, stop crying, stop crying, listen, you should be happy I’m queer, I mean never any daughter-in-law problems, look on the bright side.” He shook her with his hands. “Touch me, go on, don’t you want to sure you do all these years admit it go on I’m here no one can see go on touch me touch me—”
“Jesus!” Rose screamed and she shoved at him, pushing him back and down, and she tried scrambling to her feet, but he recovered and pulled at her, pulled her down, his hands grabbed and she struggled but he was strong, too strong, and for a long moment their mouths were very close—
Branch gagged.
Rose ran screaming.
Branch doubled up on the living-room floor, his hands around his knees.
XXIII
WALT LAY IN HIS bed, trying not to sneeze, but as the urge grew he sat up and began grunting, “Huh-huh-huh—”
“Quick put your finger under your nose!” Tony said.
Walt quick put his finger under his nose, held it there until he sneezed. “You’re what they call a help,” he muttered then. “Merci.” He was wearing red-striped pajamas and he lay down flat again, listening to Tony doing things in the kitchen. His Greenwich Village apartment consisted of a living room-bedroom, a kitchen and a bath. The bathroom was small, but it was bigger than the kitchen, and the two of them together were almost equal in square footage to the living room-bedroom. His lease described the place as a 3½ and Walt wondered for a long time what that could possibly mean, before he finally decided it referred to the distance in feet from the floor to the ceiling.
Tony shrugged. “Sometimes it works.”
Walt pulled the quilt up to his neck. “Who gets colds in the middle of May? Ridiculous.”
“Fools and Kirkabys,” Tony told him, and she hurried to the bed, holding a large steaming glass. “Drink this.”
Walt took it, looked at it dubiously. “What’s in it?”
“Tea and honey and sugar and brandy and lemon.”
“No saltpeter?”
“You poor feeble creature, your body supplies enough of that naturally.”
Walt slapped the empty side of the bed. “Put your money where your mouth is.”
Tony sat down in the one overstuffed chair. “Drink the drink.”
Walt slapped the bed again. “I dare you.”
“Oh God,” Tony said. “Ever since I was fool enough last fall to let you spend the night you haven’t given me a moment’s peace.”
Again Walt slapped the bed. “A moment’s piece—that’s what I’m talking about.”
Tony got up from the chair. She wore a white blouse and tight black slacks and sandals. “If you’re not going to drink that, I’ll take it back to the—you should pardon the expression—kitchen.”
As she reached the bed, Walt grabbed for her.
“Now, dammit! You get me to come down here tonight because you’re so sick. All right, I came. That’s my part of the bargain. Now you act sick, phony.”
“I am sick,” Walt said. He coughed for her. “Hear that?” He took a sip of the drink. “Yum.”
Tony went back and sat down. “Your apartment depresses me.”
Walt glared at her. “It so happens I’m not a big-deal copywriter jingle girl.”
“I don’t mind that it’s small. I don’t even mind the corny way you’ve got it decorated.” She gestured to the Lautrec prints and the bullfight posters. “I simply object to the dirt, Walt. Is that so terrible?” She shook her head. “I mean, I passed my Village phase. Why can’t you?”
“You’re no Jane Russell,” Walt said.
“What?”
Walt sighed. “Nossir, you haven’t got half the compassion Jane Russell had.”
“What are you talking about? I said that you should grow up and get out of Greenwich Village and live someplace clean and—”
“Jane Russell had heart.”
“Will you shut up about Jane Russell?”
Walt locked his lips and threw the key away.
“Explain first.”
Walt gestured to his closed lips and shook his head.
“You know it driv
es me right up the walls when you do this.”
Walt nodded vigorously.
“All right, if I get you the key, will you talk?”
Walt continued to nod.
Tony got up, mimed finding a key on the floor, handed it to Walt.
Walt reached for a pad and paper and wrote, “That’s the wrong key” and handed it to Tony.
“The horrible thing is you really think you’re funny.” She got another key and handed it over.
“When-Billy-the-Kid-got-sick-in-The-Outlaw-Jane-Russell-got-in-bed-with-him-so-he’d-feel-better-faster-because-she-had-heart-and-compassion-not-like-some-people-I-might-mention!”
“I don’t want to get in bed with you!” She began to pace around the room.
“I’m very sick,” Walt said. “I’m not responsible for my actions.”
Tony sank into the chair and stared at the cracked ceiling.
“Now don’t say, ‘Maybe we’re seeing too much of each other, Walt.’ ”
“You have an amazing gift for anticipating me, you know that?”
“Just ’cause we’re fighting a little doesn’t mean anything. Lots of people fight a little.” He pushed his glasses up snug against the bridge of his nose with his left thumb. “I’m only kidding about the sack. I’m glad you’re a virgin; you know that.”
Tony shook her head. “You’re trying to make me ashamed of what I am and I don’t like it all that much.”
“The only thing I don’t like about your being a virgin is the word ‘virgin.’ It’s got to be one of the ten worst words in the language, along with ‘crotch’ and ‘pimple’ and ‘bowels.’ Please say you believe me.”
Tony nodded. “I do. And ‘belly.”
“And ‘urine specimen,’ ” Walt said.
“And ‘fungus.’ ”
And the phone rang. “Yeah,” Walt said. “Yeah. Hi ... Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sure. Great. ... All the way west on Eleventh. When you hit the Hudson, swim back half a block and you’re here. S’long.” He hung up. “Branch Scudder,” he said. “What do you know?”
“Who he?”
“You know; that guy I didn’t introduce you to that night, remember? The one I put the show on with back at Oberlin. To this day, so I’m told, we are fondly remembered.”
“What did he want?”
Walt shrugged. “Beats me. Branch claims to be like an off-Broadway producer; except what that is is probably wish fulfillment.” He looked at Tony. “Don’t say it.”
“Don’t say what?”
“That I claim to be a director but that’s wish fulfillment too.”
“I wasn’t going to say a thing like that. I would never—”
“Oh, come on, admit it; it was on the tip of your tongue. I don’t blame you. I say I’m in the theater but who’m I kidding? Every time I think of that show we did and how easy it was and how well it went and I think about now and the way things are going—” He pounded one fist suddenly into the other. “Goddam but I was a stupid bastard in those days. It’s so humiliating. It just is.”
“You are really paranoid if you think I would have said a thing like you said I was about to say.”
“Yeah-yeah-yeah, maybe I am,” Walt said, getting out of bed. He went to the bathroom and turned on the hot water and took off his pajama top.
“What are you shaving for? You hot for this guy or something? You don’t shave for me.”
Walt splashed some water on his face. “Maybe it’s business.”
Tony folded her arms. “I’m insulted.”
“Well, don’t be. Branch and me, we’ve got what you call a ‘New York Relationship.’ We never see each other, and when we do, what we talk about is how we never see each other, and then we never see each other again for a while.” He spread lather on his face and started shaving.
Tony stood up and stretched. “I shall disappear discreetly into the night.”
“Hang around.”
“You said it might be business.”
“Just don’t listen. If we handle it right, maybe he’ll taxi you back uptown.”
Tony sat back down. “Sold,” she said.
“I wonder what he wants,” Walt said. “It’s after nine o’clock. You’d think it could’ve waited till morning. Maybe it’s important, what do you think?” He continued to shave.
Tony watched him. “What a build,” she said.
Walt made a muscle, did a double-take, then started looking around for it. “I could’ve sworn it was here this morning.”
Tony smiled. “Boys like talking about girls’ bodies all the time, don’t they?”
“Some do. Frankly, I have never stooped to anything so common.” He finished shaving, splashed on some cold water, then some aftershave. “What the hell could old Jiggles want?” he muttered as he put on his pajama top and walked past Tony, back to the bed.
“That does it,” Tony said.
“Huh?”
“For the first time all night you look like a human being and you walk right by me without even—”
“Baby,” Walt said, and he grabbed for her, brought her into his arms, tried to kiss her.
“Don’t,” Tony said. “I can’t afford to catch your cold.”
Walt held her tight with one hand, tried unbuttoning her blouse with the other.
“Not that either,” Tony whispered. “Your friend’s coming, remember?”
Walt let her go. “What can I do?”
“You can’t kiss me on the mouth and you can’t take my clothes off.” She held out her arms to him. “Anything else is fine,” she whispered.
“I don’t know what’s left but it’s a deal,” Walt said, and he buried his head in her neck, then blew in her ear.
“You must shave more often,” Tony said. “You’re practically irresistible.”
“Damn that ‘practically,’ ” Walt said. His hands moved across her white blouse until they reached her breasts.
“Oh, Walt, God,” Tony whispered.
“Stay after he’s gone,” Walt said. Gently, he squeezed her breasts, started backing her toward the bed. “I’ll get rid of him fast.” Again he blew in her ear.
“What is that aftershave?”
“Aphrodisiac Number Six,” Walt whispered. “I love you.”
“Why do you only say that when we’re having physical contact?”
“Only a Sarah Lawrence girl could ask a question like that at a time like this.” He held her very tight, pressed her close.
“Answer me.”
“Lemme kiss you.”
“No; you’re sick.”
“I’m dying this way.” He lowered her to the bed, followed her down.
“You think I’m not?”
“Stay when he’s gone? Promise? I’ll have him out of here so fast—”
“No, business is business; it’s liable to be important. You said so.”
“You’re all that’s important, dammit, so please—”
“Don’t ask me—”
“I’ve gotta kiss you. I can’t just touch you and not kiss you—I can’t and survive,” and he reached for her face.
“No.” Tony sat up and took a deep breath. She ran her hands through her hair. “What must I look like? Oh God, why is he coming?” She hurried to the bathroom and shut the door.
Walt lay in bed, eyes closed, and mouthed the word “bitch” over and over.
When the buzzer sounded a few minutes later, Tony was sitting prettily in the overstuffed chair. Walt went to the door, opened it, buzzed back. “Jiggles,” he said then, stepping into the hallway.
“Egbert,” Branch said.
“Egbert?” from inside the room.
“Me and my big mouth,” Walt said, following Branch into the apartment. “Tony Last, this is Branch Scudder. Branch—Tony.”
Tony glanced at the top of his head. “Hi,” she said.
“How do you do,” Branch said, smiling.
Tony got up and walked over to the Lautrec poster. “I won’t hear a word,” she p
romised.
Branch smiled again, rubbed his bald head, turned to Walt. “Good to see you. We never see each other.”
“We never do.” Walt nodded. “We’ve gotta start.” He lay down in bed.
“Yes,” Branch agreed. “Are you sick?”
Walt shook his head. “Just one of these damn spring colds. What’s up?”
Branch handed him a mimeographed manuscript. “Read this, would you please?”
Walt glanced at the title. “Madonna with Child.”
“Will you read it?”
“Course I will, if you ask me to.”
Branch sat down on the bed. “Here are the facts,” he said, his voice very low. “The script is brilliant. The money is all raised. I need a director. If you like it, if you’re genuinely enthusiastic we’ll go right into production off-Broadway.”
“Into production?”
Branch nodded.
“You mean, if I like it, I can do it? The money’s all raised and everything’s set and like that?”
“If you’re genuinely enthusiastic, it’s yours.”
Walt lay back and closed his eyes. “You really think I’m the one to direct this? You think I can do it right and everything?”
“We were successful once; I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t be again.” He stood. “It’s going to make the off-Broadway season, Walt, I just know it. Take your time, read it, think about it, then call me.”
Walt nodded, started to get up.
“No-no, stay in bed. I’ll let myself out.” Branch turned toward the door.
“Walt tells me you’re from Oberlin too,” Tony said.
Branch looked at her and nodded.
“Are you another Greenwich Villager?”
“Oh no; I live up on West Seventy-second Street,” Branch said.
“I lived in the Village once but I passed that phase; I keep wishing Walt would reach it. You couldn’t drag me back here.”
“Where do you live now?” Branch asked.
“Sort of just across the park from you.”
Walt lay very still, watching them, but mostly her.
“Could I give you a lift or anything?” Branch asked.
“Gee, wouldn’t that be nice,” Tony said. “You’re sure it’s not inconvenient?”
“Fine,” Branch said.
The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold Page 83
