I shook him. “Cut that,” I said. “How was it?”
“It was all right, I suppose.”
“You going to take her out again?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
I started pulling him out of bed. “Did you really ask her out last night, Zock? Really? Honest to God?”
“Of course I did,” he snapped back, landing on the floor.
Which was a lie, as I later found. She asked him out that first time. And for the next ones too, until he got the hang of it. She had set her cap for Zock, as Mrs. Crowe put it, and had begun following him around. Which was where they were during those days, walking around town, Zock first, Bunny right behind, gradually closing the gap as the days went by. I think she was in love with him from the start. And I know he never took out any other girl, for when he went to Harvard, she chose Wellesley, which is close by, so they could be together. Just when Zock fell in love with her I don’t exactly know, but he was on the night that he died.
And, that summer, it got so he was with her practically every evening. After the first few times I went along and I don’t believe anybody minded much, for Bunny and I hit it off well from the start. We’d go to the movies together, then have a soda, then walk her home. Where they would neck awhile on the porch, with me waiting out by the street for them to finish.
Sometimes, though, I used to turn around and watch. They’d both take off their glasses and put them carefully somewhere, a slow process, for without them they were blind. Then, eyes open, they’d grope for each other, their hands moving slowly until they made contact. And to this day I have yet to see anything more tender than that, the two of them blind as bats, reaching softly for each other in the dark.
But naturally, such an arrangement couldn’t go on forever. It was me who first brought the subject up.
“Something has got to be done,” I said.
“What,” asked Zock, “did you have in mind?”
“Well,” I told him. “I don’t know.”
“Sally Farmer’s back from camp,” Bunny said. “How would you like to go out with Sally Farmer?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I answered. “That is probably the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”
It wasn’t, actually, and after a little, they talked me into it. Bunny went over to Sally’s house to ask her for me, they being best friends, while Zock and I waited on his front porch. I just sat there, sweating, not saying a word until, finally, Bunny came back.
“Well?” I said.
Bunny closed her eyes and began reciting. “Sally says: ‘The answer is absolutely no. If he wants to take me out let him ask me himself. Besides, he has the worst reputation in the whole school.’ ” She opened her eyes. “Verbatim.”
“Well,” Zock said. “I guess you’ll just have to call her up, Euripides.”
“Ho, ho, ho,” I said. “I’m not going to do it.”
“Suit yourself,” Zock told me.
“What would I say to her, Zock? I could never think of anything to say to her.”
“Try it now,” Zock said.
I took a deep breath. “Hello, Sally,” I tried. “This here is Ray Trevitt. What the hell are you doing on Saturday?”
“I’m afraid that’s not quite it,” Bunny said.
“A trifle blunt,” Zock agreed, shaking his head.
“Well. It’s the best I can do.”
“Women have to be coaxed, Ripper. They’re funny about that. But you have to play by their rules or they’ll pick up their baseball and go home.”
“Zock,” I said. “Help me.”
“All right.” He nodded. “It’s the least I can do. We’ll call her this afternoon. At five o’clock.”
“What if she’s not home?”
“Bunny will pay her a visit at half past four. Right?” Bunny nodded. “So she’ll be there.” And with that they both disappeared into his house, leaving me alone.
I didn’t see him again until late that afternoon. He came in grinning, waving some sheets of paper.
“I’ve got it right here,” he said.
“You’ve got what right where?”
He shook the papers in my face. “Here. Here in my hands at this very moment is a copy of the conversation you are going to have with Sally Farmer. All you have to do is read it.”
I grabbed the papers. It was just what he had said, a conversation, written like a play with two parts, marked Sally and Euripides.
“Better run through it first,” Zock said.
“Well, I don’t know,” I answered.
“You’ve nothing to lose,” he told me. “So begin at the top.”
I sighed, took a deep breath, and started reading. “Hello,” I read. “Is this Sally Farmer?”
“Yes,” Zock replied, his voice very high. “This is she.”
“Well, this is Ray Trevitt.”
“Oh, hello, Ray,” Zock said. “I’m so glad you called.”
“How the hell do you know she’s going to say that?” I asked Zock.
“It’s only polite,” he answered. “And Sally’s a very polite girl. Bunny says so. She helped me write this.”
“O.K.,” I said and went on reading. “I heard you were back from camp and I thought I’d just ring up to say hello.”
“That was awfully considerate of you, Ray,” Zock said.
“You have a good time at camp this year? I understand you were a junior counselor.”
“That’s right,” Zock said. “I had four seven-year-olds in my cabin.”
“Gee,” I read. “That sounds like a lot of fun.”
“Oh, it was,” Zock said. “I loved every minute of it.”
“Jesus Christ, Zock,” I said, putting down the paper, “this is terrible. She’s going to think I’m a moron.”
“All right,” Zock said, throwing up his hands. “If you don’t like it, don’t use it. It’s no skin off my nose. I don’t care. The fact that Bunny and I spent hours writing it shouldn’t enter in. If you don’t like it, don’t use it. For all I care, you can contact her by semaphore.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Please. I’ll use it. I’m proud to use it. I’m honored. I just hope it gets better later on.”
It did. We went all the way through it, and Zock had actually written a fifteen-minute conversation for the two of us, it took that long to read. And toward the end it got very clever, especially the asking-out part, which was put in such a way that she couldn’t possibly refuse.
“Zocker,” I said when we were done, “you’re a genius.”
“Naturally.” He looked at his watch. “It’s five o’clock. Make the call.”
“Sure thing,” I said, and I dialed the number. When the receiver got picked up, I put my finger under the first speech and started reading. “Hello,” I said. “Is this Sally Farmer?”
“No,” came the answer. “This here is Ingebord.”
“Who’s Ingebord?” I whispered to Zock. It beat him. “Well,” I ad-libbed. “Is Sally there?”
“I’ll see,” was the reply.
“What if she’s not there?” I said to Zock. “For chrissakes...”
“Hello,” came a voice on the other end.
I grabbed up the papers. “Hello,” I said, reading away. “Is this Sally Farmer?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Well,” I read.” This is Ray Trevitt.”
“Who?” she asked me.
I panicked. “Zock,” I whispered. “She says ‘who?’ What do I say?”
“Well,” I said again. “This is Ray Trevitt.”
“I don’t know any Ray Trevitt,” she said. “You must have the wrong number.”
“Cut the crap, Sally Farmer,” I yelled into the phone. Zock smacked his forehead and fell on the floor.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“This here is Ray Trevitt,” I answered, trying to get calm. “You know. Ray Trevitt.”
“Oh yes,” she said, sounding very haughty. “Perhaps I reme
mber.”
“You must have the mind of a minnow,” I told her. “Seeing as I sat behind you all last year in geometry.”
“Oh,” she said. “That Ray Trevitt.”
“The same,” I said, starting to read again. “I heard you were back from camp and I thought I’d just ring up to say hello.”
“How did you know I was at camp?”
“You have a good time at camp this year? I under—”
“That’s really none of your business,” she told me.
I went right on reading, mainly because I couldn’t think of anything else to do. “I understand you were a junior counselor. Gee. That sounds like a lot of fun.”
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“I’m talking,” I screamed into the phone, “about your seven lousy four-year-olds. I mean your four lousy seven-year-olds. Sally Farmer,” I said, throwing the papers away, “do you know what you can do? You can take—”
“If you called to ask me out,” she interrupted. “The answer is no.”
“Ho, ho, ho,” I said. “Who would want to ask you out anyway? Not me. Not under any conditions.”
“In that case,” she said, “I accept.” Then she hung up.
And so it was arranged.
We double-dated, a term I hate but what else can you call it, on Saturday evening, the 29th of August. Zock drove and we headed out to the Palace in Crystal City to dance. Which Zock told me not to worry about, since Bunny had been giving us dancing lessons every day in her living-room, first taking one of us, then the other. But I was no Fred Astaire then, and even today the resemblance is slight.
We drove out in absolute silence. Zock made a few stabs at conversation but they didn’t go over. I couldn’t think of a thing to say, and besides, I was pretty tired from just getting ready. All in all, it took me four hours to do same, what with having my hair cut, shaving, which I didn’t need to do but did anyway, managing to gash my chin good in the process, two showers, one bath, shining my shoes, plus all the rest. So I was not exactly calm, and Sally Farmer’s looking the way she did wasn’t much of a help.
Sally Farmer was cute. She had short hair and a great smile but under no conditions could she be called anything but cute. There are a lot of girls that look just like her, and they all have short hair and great smiles, with never a pimple or blemish of any kind. They all look healthy, as if from the day they were born they have eaten nothing but yogurt.
We got to the Palace and right away Zock went dancing off with Bunny, a terrible thing to do. And there we were.
“I don’t suppose you dance,” Sally Farmer said.
“You suppose wrong,” I came right back, and we started. Conversation while dancing is a gift, one I never received, so we stumbled around in silence for a while.
“You certainly don’t dance very well,” she said.
“I was about to say the same of you,” I replied. Which was a lie, for she danced as well as anyone I ever knew. Beautifully, in fact. We stopped there, in the middle of the floor.
“I don’t know why I came,” she said. “Pity, I suppose.”
“Listen,” I began, trying to pull out a cigarette. I had practiced smoking in my room at night and although I was still gagging some, I figured she wouldn’t know the difference. But right then I was all thumbs, and the pack dropped out of my hands. I started swearing.
“Maybe I ought to go home,” Sally Farmer said.
I stood up. “Listen, Miss High-and-Mighty,” I told her. “I have screwed many a woman in my time, so you are nothing special to me.”
At which she ran away.
I don’t know why I said it, seeing as it was an exaggeration. But I had to say something and that was what came out. Sally Farmer tore over to Bunny and they talked. Then Zock came walking up to me.
“What did you do, Euripides?”
“I should have hit her, but I didn’t.”
“You did pretty well without that,” he said. “She wants to go home.”
But they calmed her down, and all that happened was we changed partners, so that I was dancing with Bunny. Who was very mad at me, seeing as Sally was her best friend. In spite of that, though, I liked dancing with her, for she knew everything I did wrong before I did it, and therefore not once did I step on her feet.
About half an hour later she excused herself to go to the ladies’-room, and Sally did too. When Bunny came out, she said to me: “Sally is outside and would like to speak to you.”
Which she was. Standing alone at the edge of a grove of trees that ran along one side of the Palace. “Bunny says you want to speak to me,” I said. But that is not at all what Bunny meant. What Bunny meant was: “Get out there and apologize for being such a booby,” booby being one of her favorite words. And I would have, if only she’d told me. At that time, though, I was not too strong on what Mrs. Crowe calls the social graces.
“That’s a lie,” Sally Farmer said, turning, walking deeper into the trees, me following. “I bet everything you say is a lie.”
“Not on your tin-type, sister,” I answered, but blushing anyway, for I knew what she meant and also that I had stretched the truth considerable. But I had to keep going. “Yes sir,” I said. “I have screwed so many women as almost to lose count.”
“You just don’t have any manners, do you?” she said, stopping, turning around, waiting for me to catch up to her. “Do you?” she said, softer.
“Do I what?” I answered, starting to crumble. Because right then, standing there among those trees, half in shadow, Sally Farmer was as cute as any girl I have ever seen.
“Do you?” she whispered, closing her eyes.
Which completely threw me. Not being able to say anything, I took the other road. I did something. I grabbed Sally Farmer and kissed her as hard as I could. Then, when I was about to let her go, she began kicking and screaming as if I’d practically raped her.
“For chrissakes, Sally,” I said. “Take it easy.” She didn’t answer but just ran into the Palace, leaving me standing there, shaking my head. A minute later, Zock came tearing up.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Zock,” I told him, “I don’t know. I honest to God do not know.”
“You didn’t hit her?” I shook my head. “Well,” he said. “At least that’s something.”
They came out in a little, Sally with tears in her eyes. At the car there was a scene, because Sally said she didn’t want to ride home with me, seeing as I was a monster and there was no telling what I might do. But Bunny calmed her down so we finally got in, the girls sitting in the back seat, Zock and me in the front, with Sally’s sniffling the only sound heard all the way. ...
That was not, however, the end of me and Sally Farmer. Quite the contrary, in fact. For the next day she happened to accompany Bunny over to Zock’s house where I naturally happened to be. Of course she didn’t speak to me, but every so often I caught her looking over in my direction. And the day after that we bumped into each other not far from my house, where I took the bull by the horns and apologized. Once I did that, I couldn’t get rid of her until she had to go home for supper.
Sally’s old man, Elias P. Farmer, had more money than God and lived in a great white house with pillars, overlooking the college. Old Elias had never gone there, but instead went into the clothing business where he made his bundle. He was very famous, since he was always giving money to somebody, usually Athens College, and so had his picture in the Chicago papers all the time. Actually, he wasn’t as bad as you might imagine, and he was a Cub fan, which you would never expect. Since I was a Cub fan too, we always had a lot to talk about whenever we got together, and that was pretty often, for I took Sally out for a long time. Practically a year. So Elias P. had plenty of opportunity to moon with me over the good old days when Billy Herman was covering second and Cavarretta skipped like a dancer around first. At the start, Sally and I used to double-date with Zock and Bunny. But later we drove in my mother’s car or in th
e Cadillac convertible that Sally’s old man had given her.
I cannot say too much in favor of Sally Farmer, in that all I know as far as manners are concerned, she taught me. I think I was sort of a project with her. She improved my dancing and got me in the habit of opening doors for her, lighting her cigarette first, plus all the other little things women are brought up to expect.
It might be thought, from the above, that Sally was what Mrs. Crowe called an “old-fashioned girl.” And I suppose she was, because all during that year we would horse around, me trying to get her clothes off, but never succeeding. For each and every time things started rolling, she’d grab me by the shoulders, look me in the eyes and say: “Ray. We mustn’t.” I suppose I heard her say “Ray. We mustn’t” upwards of ten thousand times in the course of that year. I always knew exactly when she was going to come out with it, so, sometimes, I said it right along with her. She never thought that was funny. But then, Sally was not a girl who could be accused of having a sense of humor.
Then, one night in the early summer after our junior year, we went to a beach party where she got pretty smashed, what with not eating and drinking too much. So I took her home and when I did, it turned out that Elias P. was away and no one was in save the maid, a fine old deaf lady named Ingebord. We snuck upstairs to Sally’s room, flopped on the bed and, in the course of time, I managed to get her clothes off. “Ray,” she said. “We mustn’t.”
“Sally,” I said. “We’re going to.”
“No,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
We didn’t. Mainly because she started whimpering, something I’ve never been able to take. So I got up, thanked her for the evening, said good night, and left her there.
And soon, Sally and I began to go our separate ways. There were no scenes, nothing violent like what was going to come later with Annabelle. But gradually at first, then more and more, she began staying with the country club set, seeing less and less of me. I was never broken-hearted over the turn of events, since I wasn’t too nuts about her. I liked her, I suppose. But that was all.
And after Sally there came a whole procession of girls, some smart, some stupid, some pretty, some not. There was Bobby Pope, and Nancy Heimerdinger, who was all right except for her name, and Jayne Stein, a real phony, and Alice Blair, with even a couple of college girls thrown in here and there, a feather in my cap seeing as I was still only in high school. But I don’t want this to turn into either a catalogue or a boasting contest, so I’ll say no more about the girls I knew up until I graduated. For none of them ever meant so much as a hill of beans to me. Not in the long run.
The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold Page 124
