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

by William Goldman

  And a scorcher.

  Branch woke early, walked into the living room, found Rudy there, staring. “Come down to the theater with me? Of course you will.”

  Rudy made no motion.

  “Sleep well?”

  Rudy nodded. Yes.

  “Nervous?”

  Rudy shook his head. No.

  “Don’t be.” Branch came toward him. “This is our day. Your day and mine and nothing can go wrong.”

  They taxied to the theater, arriving before ten, and Branch got busy on the phone. Rudy sat alone in a corner of the theater, his eyes closed, staying like that until the box-office man appeared, calling his name, and then Rudy followed the box-office man out of the theater into the lobby where someone was waiting. Rudy saw who, stopped, leaned against the wall and the wall whispered, “Have you had enough? Are you ready now?”

  “Son,” Sid said.

  The day was to his father’s advantage.

  In the sweltering lobby Rudy stared at his father, who, natty in a blue suit, dapper in a straw hat, innocent blue eyes brighter than stars, smiled through the heat.

  “Son,” Sid said again, his voice lower, dropping still more into a whisper. “Rudy, my Rudy, my only son.”

  Rudy stood still, his arms down.

  Sid embraced him. “After all these years. The prodigal father. The beautiful son. Someone should paint a picture. Yes ... yes ...”

  Rudy began to cry.

  Branch walked in.

  Sid held out a hand. “Sid Miller. Father of the star.” He smiled.

  Branch muttered his name, stared at Rudy.

  “He’s fine,” Sid said. “Overcome with emotion. We haven’t seen each other. I came a thousand miles for this, would you believe it, Mr. Scudder?”

  Branch reached for Rudy. “He shouldn’t get upset. Not today.”

  Sid held tight to his son. “I tell you he’s fine. It’s just the surprise. Can I talk to my son alone, Mr. Scudder? It’s been years and—”

  Branch looked at his watch. “There’s a run-through at noon.”

  “It’s not ten yet,” Sid said. “I’ll have him back, I swear.”

  “Rudy,” Branch said. “Do you want to go?”

  “I’ve come a thousand miles. Can you refuse your father when he’s come a thousand miles?”

  Rudy wiped his eyes, shook his head.

  “Come,” Sid said, and he led him out of the lobby into the sun. “Hot,” Sid said. “The heat is no place for a father and son.” They walked up Greenwich to Seventh and Sid hailed a cab, said “Sherry-Netherland” to the driver. “You know what, Rudy? I got a suite in that hotel. Me—a suite in the Sherry-Netherland, pretty snazzy? What do you think of your old man, kid? I got a view of Central Park would knock your eyes out.” He put his arm around his son. “Rudy, Rudy,” Sid crooned. “We’re back together, thank God, thank God, you and me.”

  Rudy closed his eyes, his head on his father’s shoulder. “I’m very tired,” he whispered.

  Sid stroked him. “That’s all right, it’s all right, you’re safe now.”

  “So tired. So ... don’t please ... don’t ask ... not for anything.”

  “All I want is to be with my son,” Sid said. He began to croon again, “Safe and sound ... safe and sound ... my little deaf baby’s all safe and sound ...”

  When Rudy opened his eyes again, they were at the Sherry-Netherland.

  Sid paid the driver and they stood a moment on the sidewalk. “You know what I would enjoy to do?” Sid said. “More than anything else in the world right now?”

  Rudy shook his head.

  “Walk in the park with my son. Would you do that, Rudy? Would you walk in the park with your father?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Good. Goddam hotel room, the air-conditioning’s enough to freeze you. Look.” He gestured across the street to Central Park. “Doesn’t that look cool, Rudy? Shadows and trees and nice sweet wind. Come.” They crossed the street into the park. “This is for us, Rudy; this is for my son and me. Yes?”

  They started to walk.

  “How you been?” Sid said.

  “Fine,” Rudy said. “How is mother?”

  Sid shrugged. “Esther we can talk about later. Now is our time. How you been? You look so tired, Rudy.” Sid stopped. “Aw, isn’t that pretty?” He pointed down toward the lagoon. “Is that a swan, do you think? Look at it glide, Rudy. Aw, isn’t that something to see?”

  “How did you find me?” Rudy said.

  “A father plays golf, a golfing partner reads papers from New York. There’s a certain similarity in names. The father is interested. He makes inquiries. The play is about a deaf boy. A father can put together two and two. Smile for me, Rudy. Don’t make me feel a bad father. I’ve changed, Rudy. I’m a different man. See me as I am now and smile.”

  “And you came all this way ... ?”

  “To see my son. To walk in the park. To watch you smile.” They turned slowly away from the lagoon, started walking again, uptown. “Why did you leave?”

  “It seemed best.”

  “That was all a mistake, Rudy. That terrible Lou Marks—forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but it’s true—he lied. He admitted it. The whole thing. He forced his wife into going along. They had a terrible marriage, Rudy. You were the one who suffered for it.”

  “It seemed best,” Rudy said again. He wiped his forehead clear of perspiration, but before his hand had dropped, his brow was wet again.

  “Omigod look, Rudy—” Sid pointed—“a pony ride. A pony ride. Isn’t that a wonderful thing? Do you want a pony ride? I’ll buy you one. I’ll buy you a thousand pony rides. You—” Sid called to the attendant—“how much for a thousand pony rides?”

  Rudy smiled.

  “See my Rudy smile?” Sid said. “Oh yes. Oh yes.”

  They continued to walk, slowly, slowly through the heat.

  “The zoo!” Sid cried. “What a wonderful city to have a zoo in its middle. This I have heard of, Rudy—the zoo and the carousel—those I must see.” They stopped by the first cage. “Hello, Yak,” Sid said. He looked at his watch. “You must not be late getting back,” he explained. “I promised. Such an ugly animal. How is your play?”

  “We’ll know tonight.”

  “And you? I wanted you to be an actor once. But for me, you chose not to perform. Well, life goes on, we change. Tell me about these years, Rudy. What have you done?”

  Rudy shrugged. “You?”

  “I have made money,” Sid said. They moved down a couple of cages. “A camel in the park,” Sid said. “How amazing.” Then he smiled. “Though why a camel in the park is more amazing than a yak in the park I can’t imagine. Sometimes I’m such a fool. I play golf, now. Bad. I’m on the board at Greentree. Big deal. Ten, fifteen years ago I would have sold my soul. This fall I’m going to ask them to replace me. Dull. Bores me. I’m worth a lot of money, Rudy, would you believe it? It’s all for you when I die. This suit cost two hundred. A summer suit! What do you think of that?”

  “Wonderful, Father.”

  Sid pointed. “Are those porpoises?”

  “Seals, maybe.”

  Sid hurried to the sea-lion pool. “Aren’t they the cutest things?” He gripped the railing. “You don’t think it’s wonderful?”

  “If it pleases you, then it is, Father. I mean that.”

  Sid lowered his body down, resting his chin on the railing. Like a small boy he watched the sea lions play. “I’ll tell ya,” he whispered.

  Rudy crouched beside him.

  “I’ll never see fifty again. Not fifty-five either.

  “I’ve done a lot of terrible things in my life. I’m trying to set my house in order, Rudy. You remember Solomon’s?”

  “Solomon’s?”

  Sid closed his eyes. “The corned-beef place. I bought you corned beef once when you were little. We stuffed you, Esther and I. We made you eat yourself sick, you remember that?” He reached out for his son. “I have s
uffered for that lately, believe me, I have suffered what I call torture for some of the things I done.” He turned abruptly, straightened, started to walk again, stopping in front of the lions. “Big goddam cats,” Sid muttered. “Look.” He pointed to the signs about the animals’ names. “Felts Leo, Veils Tigris, lion and tiger. Same family, I bet, but a different cage. That’s like us, Rudy. Same family but we lived in different cages too long. Would you come home? After this thing? Yes?”

  “No, Father.”

  “Why? You don’t love me?”

  “I do.”

  “Then why?”

  “It’s easier for me to love you if I don’t have to see you every day.”

  Sid laughed, flung an arm around his son. “I’ll buy that,” he said, and he glanced at his watch. “Tell me you’re glad I came. Tell me it was worth the thousand miles.”

  Rudy smiled.

  “I’m tired of the zoo. Let’s get out of the zoo.” They walked up the steps, past the brown and black and polar bears, and Sid said, “There’s a sign says we’re headed for the carousel. Friedsam Memorial Carousel. That must make them very happy, the Friedsam people, knowing they gave a thing like that away. All these years, tell me what you done.”

  “Hid, Father.”

  Sid looked at him. “Where?”

  “All over. First I went back to the deli, but it wasn’t there anymore. I stayed around, though. For a while. I don’t mind ghettos. Not really. I went west a while. I came east. I even wrote a book once, did you know?”

  Sid shook his head. “What about?”

  “Grandfather.”

  “Turk?”

  The boy nodded.

  “What the hell kind of a book can you write about a man with a big nose? You make any money out of it?”

  “Not so much.”

  “I read Exodus. You read Exodus? Terrific. How do you make a living?”

  “I don’t need much. Odd jobs. What do you want from me, Father?”

  Sid pointed. “What is that?”

  Rudy stared up at the circular enclosure on the top of a hill. “That’s where old people go. They play chess there.”

  Sid glanced at his watch. “I’d love to see that. We got time.” He started up the steps.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “What makes you think I want something, goddammit? What makes you think I just didn’t come a thousand miles because I’m old and I want my son to say I love you? Why does everybody always have to want something from you?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know!”

  “Maybe I don’t!”

  “But you do! It’s happened before. Over and over and I know the signs. I feel things. I know. So tell me, it doesn’t matter, because I’m just too tired, I can’t do anything for anybody anymore.”

  Sid hurried to the top of the stairs, found a bench, sat. Rudy slumped beside him. All around them, old men looked up from their chess games. “Ya got to,” Sid whispered.

  “No, Father.”

  “It’ll be the one best thing you ever did.”

  “No, Father.”

  “You won’t fail me.”

  “No, Father.”

  “Don’t say that till you know what it is.”

  “No, Father.”

  “Don’t say that till you know what it is.”

  “What is it, then? Tell me.”

  “Esther—she’s crazy, kid. I want you to commit your mother.”

  The old men were watching them, wet eyes staring.

  “It’s not what you think,” Sid said.

  Rudy tried to stand.

  Sid held him. “It’s not what you think,” and twenty feet away a black knight moved across a chessboard, whispering, “Have you had enough? Are you ready now?” and Sid said, “I don’t mean to any dump. I mean to the most expensive places in the country. I checked around already. Twenty thousand a year it would cost me, maybe more, but worth every penny. It’s best. It’s best.”

  “Why?” The old men were nodding now, watching them and nodding, their tired heads moving like chickens after grain.

  “Because she’s crazy and she needs peace and if she gets put away she’ll have it.”

  “Put her away, then.”

  “I need you—”

  “No, you don’t. You don’t ... make them stop looking at us.”

  “Forget them. Listen.” He grabbed his son. “Listen, Rudy, you know how it is with Esther and me—how it’s always been. I say ‘sit,’ she’s gotta stand—you know that’s true. You’re the only one. If you told her it would bring her peace to go, she would go. You she would believe. Me, never. She thinks I got other reasons. She’s gotta be put away. She’s gotta have peace, kid, and—”

  “What are they, your other reasons?”

  “Go back to your games!” Sid cried, and immediately the old heads turned away. “Old cockers. They should play their silly games and leave us—”

  “I know you, Father. So tell me. The reasons. The reasons.”

  “Sid Miller don’t lie! Not no more. Sure, I got reasons. The best reasons. The best in the whole world—you think I would come all this way to ask a favor if it didn’t matter? My God, this is the most important thing in my whole life—yes.”

  “Leave me alone ... Father, please, Father ...”

  “You got to do this.”

  “Can’t you understand? I’m tired.”

  “This you can do—”

  “I’m really ... very tired, Father.”

  “This you can do! This—you old cockers! Play your games! Leave my son and me alone!”

  The old heads turned away.

  “This you got to do,” Sid said. “Listen—when I was a youngster, pushing cutlery and like that door to door, shop to shop, I screwed all the broads—the broads, they fell ker-plunk for little Sidney, but not Esther, so whatever the reasons it was a mistake but we married—”

  “Please ...”

  “We married and we fought, and her health went and I clawed for every penny and by Christ I got pennies now, and I got a place on the board of Greentree Country Club, and servants I got, and a house in the country and land I got, but I also got a crazy wife, and then, Rudy—are you getting this?—now—listen—the most wonderful thing at last has happened to me—at last the only thing I never had I got—I’m in love, Rudy—me—Sid—in love—and she loves me—the widow Marks loves me—‘Sid and Dolly and everything’s jolly’—ya see?—ya see?—little poems I make up—her too—we’re that happy—at last I got someone who loves me—I never had that—neither did she ever have what we got now—we love each other—”

  The old faces were watching again. Rudy closed his eyes.

  Sid began to whisper. “But Esther ruins it ... she follows us. Always. Always. Wherever we try and go—Esther’s there—whenever we try and meet—Esther’s there—so don’t you see what it would mean, Rudy—it would mean love for me and peace for Esther and everybody could live happily ever after—don’t deprive me of my happiness, Rudy—don’t deprive your mother of peace—we’ve suffered—we have—release us, Rudy—from our suffering—let us go—”

  “I could never,” Rudy whispered.

  “Why?”

  Rudy shook his head. “Never.”

  “But why?”

  “She’s not crazy.”

  “You haven’t seen her in ten years. How do you know?”

  “She has headaches. That doesn’t make her crazy.”

  “But if she was, you would help me to put her away. You would tell her go.”

  “If she was, you wouldn’t need me. You could get doctors. They would do it.”

  “All that matters, Rudy, is what is best for her.”

  “Yes.”

  Sid grabbed him. “You agree, then. If she is crazy, then it would be best to put her away.”

  “No, no, you should never put anyone—”

  “These are fine places of which I’m speaking. Hot-and-cold-running doctors. She would be happy. You
’ll help me. If you think she’s crazy.”