“Hamlet kills him.”
“Is he brought to trial by the king?”
“Hamlet kills the king too.”
“You’re makin’ this up, Trevitt.”
“It’s the truth,” I told her. “So help me.”
“I hope that Hamlet got his,” Terry said.
“He does. Laertes kills him.”
“I thought you said he killed Laertes. Now I know you’re lying.”
“Terry,” I said. “Jesus. They all die. The queen dies too. She poisons herself. Hamlet’s buddy is the only one left.”
“And I thought you said it was a classic.”
“It is a classic. It’s the most famous play ever written.”
“Then read it to me, Trevitt,” Terry said. “Read it to me so I’ll understand.”
“Maybe some other time.”
“Now, Trevitt.”
“You’re crazy.”
She started pushing me out of bed. “Please, Trevitt. Read it to me. Please.” She kept on pushing until finally I stood up.
“All right,” I said. “O.K. It’s my fault anyway. I should have let you stick to the Digest.”
“Nobody dies in the Digest,” Terry said.
“Well, they sure do here,” I told her, and with that, I began to read. I read her the last three acts of Hamlet, playing all the parts as well as I knew how, me sitting at my desk, her in bed, covered up, biting away at her fingernails. At the end, she started to cry.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “It’s so goddam beautiful I can’t stand it.” I went over to her. She pulled me close. “Just wait,” she whispered. “Wait ’til those biddies start talking today. I’ll knock ’em dead. I will, Trevitt. So help me God.”
“You’re going to be a lady,” I said.
“I’ll work on it,” she promised.
“So will I,” I told her.
And we did.
We set ourselves a routine and stuck to it. I studied hard at school and helped out at the magazine, getting the feel. Terry went to the Red Cross every afternoon, and she must have done well, because she got put on a couple committees and even was invited to teas every once in a while.
And at nights we spent most of the time up in my room, both of us reading or horsing around. I put her on a steady diet of the classics and she came through fine. She read Dickens and Thackeray and Jane Austen who she really ate up. She tried some poets too, Dowson and Kipling and Housman, and she didn’t mind that either, once she got used to it.
All in all, those months were pretty happy, quiet months without much happening. Except for two things.
Both of which took place in December.
The first was when the Peabodys moved into Zock’s old house. They came on a Saturday and my mother went over to pay respects, welcoming them to the neighborhood. Mr. Peabody was a real-estate man, a nice enough guy, from Chicago. His wife was nothing special. They had one kid, a boy sixteen years old, named Andy.
My mother told us all about them after her visit and suggested that it might be nice for us to meet them. So the next morning, while my mother was at church, we walked over. I rang the bell. After a minute, the front door opened. Just a crack.
“Who’s out there?” somebody asked.
“I’m Ray Trevitt,” I answered. “And this here’s my wife, Terry. We’re your neighbors, come to pay respects.”
“My folks aren’t home,” the voice behind the door said.
“You’re good enough,” I said. “Open up.”
He did, standing there in the foyer, watching us as we walked in. He was a short kid, Andy, blond and ugly and shy. When we took our coats off, he didn’t bother looking at me any more, but only at Terry. He gaped at her, mouth half open. She smiled at him.
“You’re Andy,” I said. He nodded. “How are things going?” He shrugged, still staring at Terry.
“Whatsamatter?” she asked. “Somethin’ on my face?” He blushed, turning away.
“Nice house you got here,” I said.
He shrugged again and the three of us stood around, trying to make conversation. He asked us would we like some coffee and when we said yes, it turned out he didn’t know how to make it. Terry grabbed the chance and volunteered, dashing to the kitchen, me telling her the way. When she was gone, Andy stuttered a little, before he asked me.
“How did you know where the kitchen was?”
“I spent some time in this house once,” I answered. And then: “Would you let me see your room?” He nodded, and I followed him up.
It was Zock’s old room he led me to, like I’d figured. I stood in the center of it awhile, thinking about all the hours I’d spent there, all the things that had happened there, both good and bad. I don’t know how long I thought, but pretty soon he was tugging at my shirtsleeve.
“Mr. Trevitt,” he said. “Are you O.K.?”
I nodded. “This is some room you got here, Andy.”
“It’s all right,” he said. And, very fast, before he’d had time to stop himself:” That really your wife?”
“She sure is,” I told him. “Why?”
“No reason,” he muttered.
I sat down on the bed, looking at him, feeling paternal as hell. “You go out with girls, Andy?”
“I don’t like girls,” he said. “They make me sick.”
Terry yelled up that coffee was ready.
“Well,” I said, “when you change your mind, I’ve got a few tricks I’ll be glad to show you,” and, taking one last look at Zock’s room, I went downstairs. We chatted some, until Mr. and Mrs. Peabody came home, after which we chatted some more, about nothing in particular. Finally I stood up to go. Andy walked us to the door.
“So long,” I said. “See you around.”
“ ’By, Andy,” Terry said.
He nodded and mumbled something.
“Andy thinks you’re cute,” I said, as we ambled home.
“I am cute,” she answered. “He’s got good taste.”
I turned for another look and he was still there, standing by the front door, staring at us, every step of the way. ...
The second thing that happened took place on the 25th, which is Christmas, and a big deal under any circumstances. But this one was even more special.
We were down by the tree, sitting in the living-room—my mother, Terry, and I—when the doorbell rang. I answered. It was Andy.
“Merry Christmas,” I said. “Come in. Say hello.”
“Here,” he answered, shoving a package into my hands. Then he turned and ran. I watched him go, tearing across our lawn to his house. I closed the door and went back to the living-room.
“Who was it, Raymond?” my mother asked.
“Andy Peabody,” I said, fiddling with the package, tossing it to Terry. She started unwrapping it, muttering to herself.
“How sweet,” my mother said. “Terry. I think he has a crush on you.”
Terry nodded and opened the package. It was a bracelet he’d given her, silver, with her name engraved on it. She stared at it awhile.
Then she began bawling.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, trying to stop. “But all of a sudden it’s like I’m nine years old and the kid next door’s proposing.”
“How sweet,” my mother said again, and there were tears in her eyes too.
“Aw, come on,” I said. “It’s Christmas. You know. Christmas. Merry. Please, will you both cut it out.”
“Raymond.” My mother sniffed. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re a man.” She got up and went over to Terry, sitting down beside her.
“It’s beautiful,” Terry said. “Honest to God, it’s so beautiful I could cry.”
“You are crying,” I told her.
“Hush, Raymond,” my mother said. After which they both went to it harder than ever.
It was at that second that Adrian made his entrance, his arms full of packages. “Merry—” he began, then stopped.
“Adrian,” I said. “Meet the hap
piness girls.”
“What happened?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I told him. “You’re a man.”
“Leave us alone,” my mother managed to say. “Both of you.”
Adrian nodded, and we left. The minute we were out of the room, he grabbed me by the arm. “Raymond,” he whispered, “it is imperative that I speak to you. Privately.” With that he walked up the stairs to my room, me a step behind. I closed the door and turned.
“What’s the matter, Adrian?” I asked. “You look green.”
“Raymond,” he whispered, “I want to propose to your mother.”
“Propose what, Adrian?”
“Please,” he said. “No jokes.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But don’t talk to me. I’m not going to marry you. Go ask her.”
“Raymond,” he said. “I haven’t eaten for two days. Help me.”
“You want me to make you a sandwich?”
“I’m forty-seven years of age,” Adrian went on. “I’ve been a bachelor all my life. A man acquires habits in forty-seven years. I feel that to be understandable. After all, if a man did not acquire habits in forty-seven years, it would be most unusual. Consider. I—I—” He stopped.
“Should I ask her for you, Adrian? Would you like that?”
“Marriage,” he mused.
“Face it,” I said. “You’re scared.”
He nodded.
“I got just the thing for you, Adrian. Don’t move.” And I dashed out of the room.
Returning with a bottle of Scotch and a water glass. “Courage,” I said, pouring him a stiff one. “Coming right up.”
He held the glass of whisky a minute, peered at it, then drank it down.
“How do you feel?” I asked, after he’d stopped coughing.
“Horrible,” he answered. “Positively horrible.”
“It takes time,” I said, pouring him another.
He drank the second glass. “You know,” he told me, “it’s really not so bad, if you don’t mind the taste.”
“Here,” I said. “You’ll be a tiger in no time.”
“More?”
“More.”
Inside of fifteen minutes he was drunk.
Which is also understandable, seeing as he hadn’t eaten in so long. He stood there, a silly smile plastered on his face, as if he’d just cornered the market on composure.
“Raymond,” he said to me, talking very slow, pausing between each word, “I...shall...do...it.”
“Attago, Adrian,” I said.
“Yes,” he continued. “I shall propose to your mother this very day. I may even get down on my knees. I believe your mother would appreciate such a gesture.”
“She’d love it. Why not give it a try?”
“There is plenty of time,” he said, pouring himself another drink. “When a man has waited forty-seven years, he—”
“You may not have as much time as you think,” I said, and I took the glass from his hand. But when I reached for the bottle, he backed away, holding it about nine feet in the air. Terry came in then, looked at us awhile.
“What’s up?” she said.
“The bottle,” Adrian answered, after which he began to laugh. “I...think...that...rather...funny,” he said.
“It’s a riot,” I told him. “But now’s your chance, Adrian.”
“By George,” he said, “you are absolutely correct.” He gave me the bottle, shook my hand. “Raymond. I shall never forget this. I thank you.”
“Where you going?” Terry asked.
“To claim your mother-in-law for my wife,” he answered, heading toward the door.
“Good luck,” Terry said.
“Confidence is all one needs,” he told her. “And now good-by.” He left the room. We waited about five minutes before starting down. The first thing we heard was my mother’s voice. Loud. And every once in a while, Adrian, going, “But...but...but...”
“Drunk,” my mother said as we walked in, pointing at Adrian, who was sitting slumped on the sofa. “And on Christmas Day. Raymond, was this your doing?”
“More or less,” I admitted.
“More,” Adrian said.
Terry went over and sat down beside him. “Didja proposition her yet?” she whispered.
“She allowed me no opportunity,” he whispered back.
“Drunk,” my mother said.
“Kate,” Terry said. “Adrian here wants to marry you.”
“My own son playing jokes on Christmas,” my mother went on. “My own son...” She stopped, looking at me. Then she looked at Adrian.
He nodded.
Naturally, my mother started to cry.
“I’m going back to bed,” I said.
“You got no heart,” Terry told me, also crying.
Adrian got down on his knees, which took a while, and my mother walked over to him. Even on his knees, he was about as tall as she was.
“Katherine,” he began, “it has come to my attention of late that—” He stopped, sweating. Then he started again. “Katherine. Perhaps it may come as something of a surprise to you to learn that my—-” He stopped again. “I am a man of habit, Katherine. But I feel that to be understandable. After all, if a man did not acquire habits in forty-seven years, it would be most unusual. Consider. After all...”
“Adrian,” my mother whispered. “I will.”
“Hallelujah,” I shouted and I dashed upstairs for the bottle, grabbing glasses on the return trip. I filled them, handed them out. We raised them high.
“God bless us every one,” Terry said.
We drank to it ...
Which, in a couple of ways at least, was the high point—that moment when the four of us stood in the living-room, Adrian tight, Terry and my mother sniffling away, me watching them all, happy as hell.
The next day, when Adrian was in better shape, he and my mother made plans. To get married just before spring vacation so they could have a ten-day honeymoon and then spend the time between April and June packing and saying good-by. Because he was returning to England, Adrian was, and my mother with him. Terry went back to the Red Cross, sitting in the office during the day, answering phones, going to meetings, working up. And me.
I hit the books. For final exams were coming lickety-split and I had a lot to do. I spent hours reading away at geology, the worst subject in the world, bar none. I kept at it, though, learning how to spell “Pleistocene,” remembering that the Mesozoic was the Age of Reptiles, plus other interesting facts no one should be without.
I studied and I studied and when exams came, I did well, getting a B in geology, better in the rest, making the honor roll, to the wonderment of all. Once exams were over, I really got to work.
At The Athenian.
I spent all my time there, morning until late at night, dashing out when I had class, then coming back, taking up where I’d left off the hour before. The first thing I did was to clean that barn of a building. I swept the floors, waxed them, washed windows, cleaned off desks, waxed them, too, filing, dusting, making everything ship-shape.
Once the office was a decent place to live in, I started learning about the magazine. Harriet was great about that, telling me everything she knew, making things as easy for me as she could, the two of us sitting there every night, going over and over details until I understood which end was up.
The April issue was staring us in the face and I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Mainly because the two of us put it out alone, Harriet and me. There were some others helping at the start, but soon they dropped off, seeing as whenever there was anything to be done, I ran and did it.
I read stories, poems, essays. I helped Harriet with the layout, making suggestions here and there when something struck me. We planned the heads, read proof, set the type, hustled around getting the cover ready, the engraving done. I sold ads, going from place to place, making a nuisance of myself. Mr. Klein gave me an ad just to get rid of me, and so did the shoe-repair shop an
d the clothing store Zock’s father used to own. I painted posters, held meetings, listened, talked, and listened some more.
I even wrote things for that issue, two of which were accepted. One was a story, about a kid at college who finds out his roommate is really a machine. Which may not sound like much but compared with most of what else was submitted, it was a masterpiece. The other thing accepted was a poem. This was the first line:
Love is the color of my love’s eyes.
The rest of the poem I’ve forgotten, fortunately, seeing as it wasn’t much good. But Harriet liked that first line a lot, so she printed it, mainly, I suppose, as a favor to me. We spent February and March together, the two of us, me learning, her teaching, with always the name of Professor Janes hanging in the air overhead, like the sword of Damocles. Sometimes, though, I even forgot about him, because things were going so well down there.
Which could not be said of things at home.
Terry was the first to give me trouble. By pestering, making fun of the magazine as best she could. Then she got sullen, not talking at all, but pouting, muttering to herself, acting like a baby. Finally, late in March, we had our first real squabble.
I got home about two in the morning, having spent the evening reading proof, managing to get a headache. I crept up the stairs, shoes off, so as not to wake anybody. But the light was on in our room and Terry was sitting in bed, reading the Digest, wearing a frilly white nightgown, her hair combed, her face scrubbed.
“Hi,” I said, starting to undress. “You ought to be asleep.” She didn’t answer, but went right on reading, ignoring me. I finished undressing, headed for the bathroom, showered the dirt away, came back. She was still reading.
I sniffed. “Something smells awful.”
Which got her. “Me,” she said, glaring. “And it don’t smell awful. It cost a small fortune per ounce.”
“O.K.,” I said. “Now that you’re talking, let’s have it.”
“I got nothing to say to you,” she answered, pushing the Digest in front of her face.
I nodded and crawled into bed, closing my eyes, breathing deep.
She smacked me with the Digest. “No, you don’t,” she said. “Wake up.”
“Why? You’ve got nothing to say to me.”
“Wake up,” she said again. “Right now.”
The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold Page 139
