I Love You, Stupid!

by Mazer, Harry;

  “What goes up a chimney?”

  They were back to nursery school now.

  “What goes up a chimney?” she repeated.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “You’re slow. Smoke. And what comes down a chimney?”

  “Soot.”

  “And perverse. You ruined it. The answer is Santa Claus. Do you want to say hello to my aunt? She’ll like to see you. She knows your mother.”

  “Not really,” he muttered to himself. “I can only stay a minute,” he said aloud.

  Aunt Ginny was on the lawn side of the house, surrounded by children bundled up in jackets, hats, and mittens. He could see the resemblance between Wendy and her Aunt Ginny. No makeup, the same round face, the same blond wiry hair. Aunt Ginny’s was pulled back with a shoelace. “Marcus Rosenbloom?” she said. “I suppose I should remember you.” She reached for a cigarette in her jacket pocket. “Sorry.”

  “No problem,” Marcus said. He didn’t remember her, either.

  “I’m going to show Marcus my room, Ginny. Okay?”

  “Okay with me. You kids! Stop shoving. Nate, you come over here by me.”

  Wendy’s room. That was cool of her, asking him in to meet her aunt, then taking him to her room. What next? Was he going to discover something about this new Wendy he hadn’t even let himself guess before? Didn’t she know about his perverted appetites? She’d always been something of a witch, a spider luring him into her web, and he, the pure-minded, helpless, hairy, little six-foot monster.

  Wendy’s room had an outside door at the back of the house. Up three steps and you were in. “My own private entrance,” she said. There was a sign in the window that said Hello. Now this was starting to get interesting. When was the last time a girl had invited him into her room? The answer, after a moment’s quick calculation, was never.

  The room was just big enough for a bed and a small table and chair. “I love it,” Wendy said. “Isn’t it cozy?” She fell back on the bed. “You’re my first guest. I hope you feel suitably honored.”

  “Oh, yes, yes. Honored … honored guest.” He sat down on the chair and grimaced. He could hardly sit straight because Good King George had jumped up the moment she fell on the bed. He wasn’t thinking too clearly either. She was lying with her hands behind her head, her jeans tight across her thighs.

  He couldn’t believe where he was, the opportunity that was suddenly being offered him. He’d heard about girls like this, friendly and easy to talk to when you met them outside, but once they got you in their room … Opportunity strikes but once. There was less than two feet between them, but it could have been two hundred miles. Step across, he told himself. But how? If how had been in the sex manual, he’d missed it.

  “It’s small, but I love the privacy,” she said aloud.

  Underneath he heard her challenge. Your move, old chap. Move, he told himself. What he had to do was stand up …

  “The problem with this room,” Wendy was saying, “is that there’s no place to put my posters. I’ve got sixteen of them, would you believe it? There’s no way I can put them all on the walls. What do you think of the ceiling? I have one from Switzerland that would fit perfectly.”

  On the ceiling. She was looking at the ceiling.

  “What do you think of that idea?”

  “Fantastic.” He was on his feet, but he couldn’t straighten up completely. Move! Get over there! But then everything went wrong. The room was too small. He was too big. He was moving, but it was as if he’d been shot out of a cannon. He flew across the room—he couldn’t stop himself—and fell flat on top of her.

  “What the!” She shoved him back. “Get off me, you big ox.”

  He scrambled back. He couldn’t get away fast enough.

  She sat up. He retreated to the door, stammering and apologizing. There was an expression on her face he couldn’t meet. “What was that all about?” she demanded.

  “You said—”

  “What did I say? I didn’t say anything.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Just let me explain.”

  “Okay, you explain it.”

  He took a breath. His voice shook. Did she notice? “I—I thought—”

  “Thought what?”

  “You know, when you said come see my room.” It sounded so stupid now.

  “So is that the way it was? Just because I said come see my room.” His face burned. “You thought wrong.”

  “I know it now.” He leaned against the door. He wished he could fall through it and disappear.

  “I never thought I’d get into a wrestling match with you, Marcus. I never thought it, not for a second. I thought we were old friends.”

  “We are, we are.” What did she expect? He wasn’t thirteen years old anymore, and neither was she.

  “I don’t think this is the way you act with a friend.”

  “You do with girl friends.” He tried a smile. She didn’t respond.

  “I’m not your girlfriend.”

  “Right, right, it was stupid, I know. I’m sorry. Wrong signals.” How long was this bloodletting going to go on?

  “I don’t want to be stupid about this either,” she said, “but I didn’t think—I really thought we were friends.”

  “We are, we are.”

  “Are we?”

  “Yes, we’re friends.”

  “Okay,” she said, “let’s forget it then.”

  No smile. Did she believe him? He didn’t dare offer his hand. Go, he told himself. This is not your finest hour. Still he lingered. He didn’t want her to think that all he had on the brain was sex. There was more to him than that. It was a matter of pride. “I’m not this way all the time.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Are we friends again?”

  “Sure,” she said, and raised two fingers in the peace sign.

  He wiped his forehead in relief. Good sport. Knows how to take a joke. Great pair of boobs too.

  Suddenly Wendy pointed. “Look.” A little face had appeared at the window, then another, then a third. “They’re spying on us.”

  “The Martians have landed.” Marcus leaped up flapping his arms. The faces disappeared from the window.

  “Mean!” Wendy said.

  “That’s me,” Marcus agreed. “Big, baaad, mean Marcus.”

  3

  On the way home Marcus stopped at Cherry Street to see Alec. He wanted to talk to him about what had happened with Wendy. What had happened? He’d so utterly misread all the cues. He’d gotten near a girl and done things he didn’t even know he was going to do. Could he trust himself near a girl anymore? He wanted Alec, who was Mr. Smooth and Languid around girls, to reassure him that what he’d done wasn’t that bad. But from the minute Alec came to the door it was jokes and they never got to anything. It was always jokes when he and Alec got together.

  “Christ, look at you,” Marcus said. Alec wore white pants, a tight electric blue nylon shirt, and boots with two-inch heels.

  “Hello, my boy.” Alec pulled on his Eisenhower jacket. “I’m on my way to the tryouts for Our Town. Wait till you see who’s picking me up—pure Hollywood stock.” Alec looked like Hollywood himself. With his dark skin, high cheekbones, and soft eyes, he looked like a romantic lead in an old movie. Glamour the Actor.

  “I’ve come to confess,” Marcus said. “I just went over the edge.”

  “Confess, my boy.” Alec clamped a hand on Marcus’s shoulder and put the squeeze on till Marcus winced.

  “It’s about a girl.”

  “I know, my son. Who is she?”

  “My lips are sealed.” But then Marcus said, “I was in her room.”

  “Excellent beginning!”

  “Thank you, Professor Smut.” Jokes. “I was on top of her.”

  “Good, good!”

  “Then she screamed.”

  “Bad, bad.”

  “I got all the signals wrong.” It hurt Marcus to say it, but he kept on. “What is it about me that ter
rifies girls, Dr. Dirty?”

  “It’s that hairy head of yours.”

  “It’s bad, Alec, very bad.”

  “No, no, my boy, don’t take it so much to heart.” Alec patted him on the arm and looked down the street for his ride.

  The unfairness of it struck Marcus. Here was Alec looking for his California beauty, and here he was spilling out another pathetic failure.

  “You’re coming to the audition with me,” Alec said. “I want you to clap like a maniac.”

  “I might come,” Marcus said, “and I might not.”

  Alec pulled a silver cigarette case from his jacket pocket. “Damn it to hell, Rosenbloom. You’re not coming, Gordy’s not coming, and Pfeff’s not sure. Some friends I’ve got.”

  “Please, Canale, I can’t stand it when you weep. I didn’t say I wouldn’t come. I said I might not come. Note the difference.”

  “You’re coming then. Good, very good, my boy. I need all the help I can get.”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling you all your life.”

  The Hollywood beauty drove up in a sporty white Datsun. “Product of California” was written all over her. Alec greeted her. “Hi, Terri. Nervous about tonight? I always am. This is my friend Marcus. Terri’s from Los Angeles, California.”

  “Anaheim,” Terri said, and gave Marcus a very straight, interested, unemotional look. Nothing nervous about her.

  Marcus stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.” The rising young executive in torn Levis. “I’m splitting,” he said to Alec.

  “Wait a minute, what’s your rush? You want to give this poor sap a ride home?”

  “Why not?” Terri said, and gave Marcus another interested look.

  Marcus got in back. “Which way?” Terri said.

  “He knows the way.” Alec caressed Terri’s neck, and Marcus, like a voyeur, couldn’t tear his eyes away. Why was it so easy for Alec and so hard for him? He felt such a tug of envy, despair, and anger that he reached over and mashed Alec’s shoulder, really put the squeeze on him.

  “You moron, cut that out!”

  “What’s the matter, can’t take it?”

  “Boys,” Terri said. “I thought you were friends.”

  Alec rubbed his shoulder. “You have to forgive my friend, Terri. Near a pretty girl he goes over the edge.”

  Over the edge … The whole thing at Wendy’s washed over Marcus, humiliated him all over again. He sank back and looked out the window. Why had he said anything to Alec?

  At his house he got out quickly. “Thanks,” he said in his deepest, manliest tones. As he went upstairs, he began to feel really crappy. First there was that stupid remark in Sweeny’s class about knocking his eyes out, then the gorilla act with Wendy, and now coming on like the Flying Hulk in front of this stunning girl. What idiot thing was he going to do next?

  “Lamb chop,” his grandmother May greeted him when he walked into the apartment. “Come here and kiss me, darling. I brought you a present.”

  Marcus kissed his grandmother, then greeted his mother, who was leaning against a table pinning her hair up. She’d changed from her downtown workclothes into a pair of comfortable pants and one of Marcus’s old white T-shirts.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what your present is?” his grandmother said.

  “Okay, Grandma, what’s my present?” Only she could baby him in that way and get away with it.

  “Lamb chops for my lamb chop.”

  “Oh, well, thanks.” He was getting a little old to be thrilled by food. “How are you, Grandma? How are you feeling?” He worried about her. She was old and she acted like a teenager. She had a boyfriend; in fact she’d just gotten a new one. She was dressed like an airline hostess, in a blue pants suit, with a blue silk scarf around her neck.

  “Marcus,” his mother said, “what do you want with your lamb chops?”

  He felt a spurt of anger. “Are they just for me? Am I the only one eating lamb chops? If I am, forget it.”

  “I’m sorry, Markey,” his grandmother said. “I only bought two chops, they’re so expensive. You used to love them when you were little.”

  “We can share them.”

  “Of course,” his mother said soothingly. “There’s nothing to get worked up about.” Calming the beast. “I thought we’d have a salad and thaw some peas and carrots.”

  Food again! Couldn’t they stop talking about food? “Good! Fine! I’ll eat whatever’s on the table. Don’t we have anything else to talk about? Is that what we’ve sunk to? How about a little spritely conversation? ‘How was your day, Sally?’ ‘Fine, thank you, Marcus, how was yours?’ ‘Couldn’t be better, thank you, one thrill after another!’” He stopped. He was going over the edge again. His mother’s face … Sally turned and without a word walked out, then called from the kitchen. “Ma, you’re going to eat with us.”

  “Am I invited?”

  Sally reappeared and looked hard at Marcus. “Did I say that wrong too? What is it in this family? Doesn’t anyone know how to say yes or no anymore? Yes, you are invited, Ma.” She sat down and reached for a book. “No rush, I’ll wait till you two are ready.”

  Go to your room, he told himself. Shut the door quietly and do that work for Sweeny. Go before you say or do something you will regret. The whole weekend will be down the drain if you don’t start now. But his mother’s anger was like a chain that held him in place.

  “Where were you?” she said. “I thought it was your turn to get things ready for supper?”

  “I stopped at Alec’s.” He could have said something about Wendy—Sally and Wendy’s mother were old friends—but it seemed too complicated. “I have to do some work for Sweeny’s class,” he said. “I better get started. I’m going out later.”

  “Where, if I’m not being too inquisitive?”

  “Maybe you are?” May said. “He could be meeting a girl. I’d go with him in a minute if I was a girl again.”

  “Not my son, Ma. He’s waiting for the perfect girl. Marcus is a perfectionist. With him everything is black and white.”

  “You don’t know me.” He was on the edge of really being disagreeable and saying something he’d be sorry for later. And then he did—said something he was sorry for. “As a matter of fact,” he said to his mother, “I am going with a girl.”

  They both looked at him. “Really,” his grandmother said.

  “What’s her name?” Sally said, and smiled. That did it. She thought he was faking it.

  “As a matter of fact, it’s Wendy.”

  “Who?” his mother said.

  “Wendy,” he said again. “Wendy Barrett.”

  “Wendy Barrett!”

  Now he’d stuck his foot in it. He’d have to call Wendy and ask her to go to the audition with him, and what if she didn’t want to—as she probably didn’t.

  “You’re not talking about Grace’s Wendy?” Marcus nodded. “Wendy’s here? Is Grace here too? Where’d you see her?”

  “Wendy’s here alone, living with her aunt and uncle over on Victoria Place. She couldn’t stand her mother’s boyfriend so she left.”

  “Wait a minute.” Sally put a hand on Marcus’s arm. “When did all this happen?”

  Marcus shrugged. “I don’t know. I just met Wendy today.” He turned to his grandmother. “Tell me about this new boyfriend.”

  May lit a cigarette. “A very nice man. He lives in my building. We’ve been playing Scrabble every Tuesday night.”

  “Does your new boyfriend like you smoking, Grandma?”

  “Nobody asked him. He likes me the way I am. Don’t look so surprised, darling. At this age you get wrinkles, but you also get weak eyes so you don’t see the wrinkles. To my friend Gary, I’m as gorgeous as Miss America.”

  “He’s handing you a line, Grandma.”

  “You mean he wants something from me? I should be so lucky. Don’t worry, Markey darling.” She ruffled his hair. “You’re still numero uno with May Rosenbloom.”

  May stret
ched out on the couch with her cigarette raised, watching the smoke curl up. “I always loved when the children were little, and I was lying down and they talked and played. Then I knew everything was all right, and I could sleep. So don’t you two be afraid to talk and make up.” She closed her eyes.

  It was awkward for a moment, then Sally said, “I had a letter from Bill today.”

  Marcus looked at his grandmother. Her eyes were closed. “Where is he? Still in Rio?”

  “Right. Buenos Aires next week,” Sally said.

  Wendy would call Bill Brenner his mother’s lover. But to Marcus, who had lived with him and seen him around the house all his life, he was just Bill, his mother’s friend—his friend too. When Bill played the trumpet—he was a professional musician—the veins on the side of his bald head stood out like little blue worms, and he wiped his mouth a lot with a handkerchief. He was always going away on tours and returning with presents. The first thing he did when he returned was take off his shoes and socks and lie on the floor and say how good it was to be back home.

  “Just think how much better your life would have been if you’d stuck with George,” Marcus said.

  “George?” For a moment his mother didn’t get it. “You mean George Renfrew? Your father? Where’d that idea come from?”

  “You have to admit your life would have been different.”

  “It would have been stupid. I wouldn’t have stayed with that unfeeling character, not in a million years. The only good thing he ever did was give me you.”

  “Maybe I ought to go see him again.” He was baiting his mother. “I’ll take a tape recorder along this time, find out what kind of man he really is.”

  Marcus had been brought up by his mother. He hadn’t known anything about his father till he was thirteen. Then he had gone looking for him—against his mother’s advice—and found him. George Renfrew had another family, another son too, and he was only pained and inconvenienced by the appearance of his first son. Marcus had told himself he’d never think about the man again, but he did sometimes, when he was feeling low.

  “There isn’t that much of George Renfrew in you.” Sally held up her little finger. “Not a fingernail’s worth. You’ve got feeling. He never had a drop of it.” She put out her hand. “Here, pull me up. I’m sorry I flipped before.” She kissed him. “I’m still an adolescent, right?”