I Love You, Stupid!

by Mazer, Harry;

  “Bully for you.”

  “Are you still mad?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” He smiled. “And since I’m not mad, either, we’ve made up.”

  “Oh, Marcus, don’t be simpleminded!”

  That stung. “Listen, what’s the matter? You are still mad, aren’t you? About that Karen business …”

  “I’m not thinking about that anymore,” Wendy said thinly.

  “Good,” he said, though he didn’t believe her. “I thought maybe you were still brooding over it.”

  “I never brooded over it. I didn’t like it, and I told you so. Stacy, you stop fighting with Meredith. Either play with her nicely or get out of the sandbox.” She pushed Marcus aside and went back to swinging the little girl.

  Marcus’s eyes went angrily to the peak of the house. “Why don’t you admit it, Wendy? You’re still pissed. You say you aren’t, but you are.”

  “Not true.” She stopped pushing the child. “I’m not mad about anything, Marcus. I just don’t care to go out.”

  “Higher,” the girl in the swing screamed. “Higher, Wendy!”

  “Any particular reason?” He felt like grabbing her and yelling in her face. “Any special reason you don’t want to do anything?” he asked again.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you busy Saturday?”

  “No.”

  “So?”

  “Marcus, you know why. Don’t make me repeat it. It comes down to a question of sex. That’s what our friendship’s all about: sex, and little else.”

  “Not true,” he said. Unfair. They were friends. It wasn’t just sex. He wasn’t here just to get her back in the sack with him. That was wrong. Why did she keep harping on it? “That isn’t the only thing we do.”

  “No?” She laughed mockingly. “Why else are you here now, Marcus?”

  “Because I like you and I want to make up our fight.”

  “Like me for what? Don’t be a hypocrite.”

  “It isn’t that.”

  “It is, it always is.”

  “Oh, shit.” He walked away, sat in the sandbox with a little boy, and helped him make a sand mountain.

  When he looked around, Wendy was calling the children together. Her aunt came out of the house with a tray of milk and cookies. “Hello, Marcus,” she called cheerfully, “You want a cookie too?” Wendy passed out the straws. Marcus pulled her to one side. “I know what you’re getting at, but it’s not that way. It really isn’t. We do things. It isn’t just that.”

  She handed out the last of the straws. “When’s the last time we just sat around, had fun the way we used to at the mall, or in the park, just watching people, doing nothing?”

  “We can do that again. We don’t have the time.”

  “Right, that’s it. We don’t have the time for anything but—”

  He wanted to prove to her how wrong she was. “I could have told Alec about us,” he said, “and I didn’t.” It sounded stupid even to him.

  “You want a medal?” she said.

  He threw up his hands. “Oh, forget it! I’m just trying to tell you something. It’s not only sex. I’ve got some feelings, too!”

  “Oh, sure, you’ve got your head in my lap and you’re getting off on a little fantasy about Karen. That’s really tender.”

  “Karen was nothing. She wanted a baby-sitter. Nothing happened.”

  “But you wanted something to happen. Don’t act dense, Marcus. It’s all gotten down to one thing.” She kept her voice low. “Almost from the minute we began, that’s all it’s been. I’m sorry now we ever started. Sex is not a good enough reason for sex.”

  “What does that mean? It doesn’t make sense.” She was so hard and self-righteous. It made him want to retaliate. “You’re so sure that’s what I want. Maybe I’m not interested in you that way, anymore!”

  “Okay,” she said, giving him a proud look. “That’s fine with me.”

  “This time it’s the end, right?” He felt this was the moment she’d been waiting for. “You got what you wanted, I got what I wanted; it’s even steven.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I think we should stop seeing each other.”

  “Stop seeing each other?” He was totally unprepared. “Why don’t you quiet down?” he said. It wasn’t his voice, but it was him speaking. The voice, the words, seemed to come from a distance. “Quiet down,” he repeated. “Quiet down!” He was trembling, he felt so bad. “Quiet down!” he said, and then he walked away.

  26

  Some days were good, some not so good, some awful. Sometimes Marcus felt as if he’d been hit in the head. He missed Wendy. He saw her in school sometimes, at the graduation rehearsals. She saw him, too, but they never spoke.

  The weather changed. A grayness descended on the city. There was a grayness in him, too. Nothing seemed important, or exciting, or worth doing. He went along from day to day, did all the things he said he would do. He was actually more disciplined and in a better routine than he’d ever been, but nothing seemed to matter very much.

  One day, passing by Burger King, he saw Wendy and Alec sitting together. She had her head down and he was rubbing her neck. Marcus moved by fast, then went back and looked again. It was them, Wendy and Alec together. They didn’t even see him looking.

  It made him want to kick something. At home, he kicked the wall. A little mirror his mother had left on the hall table fell and cracked. He looked down, saw his face in the mirror, part in one half, part in the other. That was the way he felt: split apart, half of him furious, half of him abject and sorry.

  Marcus was at work at Nadia’s, a few days later, when Bev Kruger, wearing a yellow sunsuit, came into the market. It was a hot, sticky afternoon, and the plastic shades were drawn against the sun. “Oh, hi!” Bev was surprised to see him, but not pleasantly. He rang up her order crisply: a couple of energy bars, macaroons, a box of Fig Newtons, Fritos, a six-pack of Coke. He wore a tie and green jacket. Captain Nadia ran a trim, neat ship. He handed her the total. She paid. He snapped open a paper bag and started packing. They had nothing to say to each other.

  “Who’s got the sweet tooth?” he said.

  “Oh, that.” Bev smiled vaguely. “We’re on our way to a picnic. It’s been so hot today. It’s not bad here.”

  “Good air conditioning.”

  “It must be hard when you go out.”

  “Hate to leave the job,” he agreed. He was smiling a lot, trying to impress her. He remembered to ask about her sister in the hospital. “That must be rough, having to wear a brace all the time.”

  “My sister’s home now.” Bev stood there and talked to him, picking up her package a couple of times, then putting it down. Are you watching, Wendy? See me talking to Bev Kruger?

  Bev lingered. How long could he hold her here? No longer Marcus the madman. This was Marcus the honest workman, sincere, safe, interested, appreciative … Wendy, do you see how well I do this? Bev had always drawn him, that speckled juiciness. Not like Wendy, not playful, not joshing—not at all like Wendy, but nice, very nice. Lots of nice girls in the world besides you, Wendy Barrett.

  Oh, be honest, Marcus. It was Wendy in his head, disagreeing as always.

  Okay, so I am thinking about you, still thinking about you. Only I don’t want to, and I don’t have to. Bev is one attractive girl.

  “It’s hard to believe we’re graduating in a few days,” Bev said. “It feels like I just started Sherwood yesterday.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “Last year I was just a kid and now … You change so fast, it’s a little scary sometimes. Well.” She picked up her package. “I really better go.”

  He followed Bev in her yellow sunsuit. Not yet, but maybe soon. She was someone he might want when he got Wendy out of his head. Do you hear me, Ms. Barrett?

  On Monday, after his exam, he got a phone call. “Mr. Rosenbloom?”

  For a moment he thought it was Wendy playing a joke on him the way she used to. “The o
ne and only,” he said, suddenly happy. “Is that you, Wendybird?”

  “This is Eileen Sabine at the Morning Standard, Mr. Rosenbloom. Ted Sweeny sent me a story of yours about a valentine. We’d like to publish it in the weekend supplement. Would you mind if we bought it now and held it till next Valentine’s Day? I know it’s a long time. And we can only pay twenty-five dollars. Is that all okay?”

  “Yes, thank you very much.”

  It took him a while to absorb the news. His first acceptance; his first published story. He’d been down so long, he had to tell himself to be happy. “Zowee,” he murmured. “You’re going to be a published writer. Zowee!” Don’t jump around like a kid. Show some dignity. He put his head out the window. “Zowee!” Then he really got into it and gave the world a true Rosenbloom Salute. “Zoweeeeeeeeee!”

  “Hello? Wendy?”

  “This is her aunt.”

  “This is Marcus. I have to talk to Wendy.”

  “She’s not here right now, Marcus.”

  “Where is she? I’ve got to talk to her right away.”

  “She’s taking her American History finals. I’ll have her call you when she comes in.”

  “Hello, Wendy?” He called her again at supper-time, speaking quickly, urgently. “I’ve got to see you. It’s important.”

  “What is it? Can’t you tell me over the phone?” “No, it’s too important. I want to tell you face to face.”

  “Marcus, I think we said it all. There’s no point—”

  “It’s not that. This is something else. You’re going to like this.” She finally agreed to meet him at the Rite Aid Drugstore on Westcott. “Be there at seven-thirty, on the button,” Marcus said.

  “I’ll try,” she said. “I don’t have a lot of time. I have an exam tomorrow.”

  He was there promptly at seven-thirty, but it was almost eight before he saw her coming. He’d pushed their disagreements out of his mind. He felt his news—he’d sold a story!—would somehow solve everything.

  He had planned to build it up. He’d ask her to go someplace and sit down, and then he’d tell her, a little bit at a time. But the minute he saw her he blurted it out. “I had a story accepted. The editor called me today. I wanted you to be the first to know.” He caught her hand.

  “That’s wonderful, Marcus. Is it the story about the valentine?” She pulled free. “You’re going to see your story in print, your name in lights.” She was saying the right things, but …

  The exuberance went out of him.

  “It’s just a newspaper, the local rag.” What about us, he wanted to say. “You want to get something to eat?”

  “No, I’d better go back.”

  He’d said too much, been too excited. Wendy had been polite, that’s all. “I saw you with Alec.” He didn’t even want to think about it, just said it to torture himself.

  “When was that?”

  She couldn’t remember all the times. “In Burger King.”

  “Oh, that.”

  Now she was going to tell him nothing. “Are you and he friends again?”

  “We’ve been talking.”

  “Talking!” He was sneering and he didn’t give a damn. “Isn’t it cute, Alec, what I did with Marcus? Did you tell him about the ring on your finger? Or did you tell him you put it through my nose?”

  “Oh, god!” she said.

  He didn’t say anything else, just walked the last blocks to her house in silence. “Well,” she said in front of her house, “I’m really happy about your story. Good night, Marcus.”

  Dear Cool, Calm, and Collected

  (AKA Wendy Barrett),

  I don’t know why I’m writing to you. I know that nothing I say will influence you. You were like ice when I saw you. What will convince you that I’m the way I’ve always been? My feelings haven’t changed. I like us, it’s not just sex, but you won’t believe that. Your mind is made up. I’ve never met anyone so stubborn.

  What we had was right and good. How can I think it’s perfect while you hate it? You’ve never explained that to me. I don’t think you can.

  Do you know the female spider who uses the male for her own satisfaction, then devours him?

  Dear Black Widow Spider, I am ready to throw myself into your sticky net again. Spider Lady … Spider Face … Oh, Wendy, you spider! Take your face away and leave me alone.

  This is a crazy letter. I’ll tear it into small pieces and put it into an envelope and slip it under your door. Then you can put it together like a jigsaw puzzle, piece by piece, so you’ll know the way I feel.

  You say I have sex on the brain. I don’t deny it. When I see you, I want you. I did the other night. Is that wrong? Maybe I shouldn’t feel this way all the time, but you’re wrong if you think that’s the only thing I feel.

  You probably don’t believe this. You think I’m exaggerating again. Rosenbloom, the story teller. If it is a story, it must be a good one. There are tears in my eyes.

  How can I make you believe me?

  How can I prove that I mean what I say?

  I liked us!

  Good-bye, Wendy …

  27

  The seniors were lined up alphabetically outside the auditorium in their white caps and gowns. Marcus was toward the back, Pfeff in front of him. He flipped up his gown and showed Marcus his No Nukes shorts. Twirling his cap on his finger, Marcus tried to spot Wendy at the front, but it was hard to distinguish anybody in all this white. He saw Alec, but only because Alec turned and waved.

  There was a ripple of excitement down the corridor as the central doors of the auditorium were opened. Marcus planted the cap squarely on his head as the school band started a slow, solemn march. In two long lines the seniors shuffled down the center aisle of the darkened auditorium. Before them was the lighted stage, around them the glittering sound of the band, ahead of them the principal, teachers, and other dignitaries awaiting their approach. In the audience parents, relatives, and friends turned their faces toward the seniors.

  Marcus looked around. This would be the last time he walked down this familiar aisle. It will never be the same again. The thought came with unexpected force. He had resisted the sentiment of graduation: the ceremony, the solemnity, even pretentiousness. Only now, for the first time, he felt its truth and importance.

  They moved into the reserved seats at the front of the auditorium, and on a signal sat down as one. Marcus turned his face to the stage, glad that he was here, and that Sally had fought with him and kept him from dropping out of school altogether. And again he looked for Wendy, this time finding her. She was facing forward, and he could only see her profile, and her hair pushed out around the cap—those familiar but so distant features. She was so far from any thought of him. Why was he still thinking about her when she was oblivious to him?

  The moment of graduation was swift. Names were called out. Judith Aronson. Gordon Bruce. Marcus looked out over the filled auditorium, the rows of faces. Sally and Bill were there somewhere, his grandmother. Perhaps his father? Marcus hadn’t written to tell him, and Sally never would, but still the thought had come.

  Harmony. Kemper. Pfefferblitt. Finally, his name. He walked across the stage, accepted his diploma, received a quick, hard handshake from the distinguished personage, then he was off the stage. That was it.

  After the ceremony he stood with his mother in the bright sunlight in front of the school while Bill took their picture with his Polaroid. “Hi, everyone.” It was Wendy.

  Sally hugged her. “Congratulations!”

  “Thank you. You’re all invited to a party my Aunt Ginny is giving.”

  “Wonderful. And I was feeling guilty about not making a party for Marcus.”

  “My mother’s coming. She’s flying in this afternoon.”

  “Then I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Sally said. “Bill take a picture of the three of us. Here, Marcus, you in the middle.”

  It was hard for him to stand next to Wendy. “Closer,” Bill said. “Marcus, put yo
ur arms around the girls.”

  He balanced the weight of his arm so it barely lay on her shoulder. “Sorry,” he murmured. He felt nothing from her. She stood beside him cool and remote. He was the fool for feeling what he did. The moment the picture was taken she stepped aside, but stayed till the picture was developed.

  Several times he caught her looking at him but each time he returned the look she glanced away. She surprised him when she asked if he wanted to come to her aunt’s house early and help set up for the party. At first he wasn’t even sure she was talking to him, she spoke so indifferently, as if whatever he did meant nothing to her one way or the other. Well, he could be as cool as she was.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’m not doing anything.” But the roughness in his voice betrayed him. He wasn’t cool, couldn’t be cool near her.

  In the picture, when it was finally developed, Marcus stood a head taller than either Sally or Wendy, the tassel of his cap hanging over his nose.

  “Will you get the horses down from the loft in the garage,” Ginny said to Marcus later that afternoon. “How does it feel being a high-school graduate?”

  “Good,” Marcus said. “Maybe a little strange.”

  “I know, I still remember my high-school graduation, believe it or not, and that is strange. Wendy, you want to help Marcus?”

  They carried the horses out onto the grass, then went back to get the boards. “Good weather for a party,” he said.

  “Terrific.”

  “Do you want me to hose down the boards,” he called to Ginny in the house. “They’re awfully dusty.”

  “Good idea, but don’t get water over everything.”

  “Don’t worry,” Marcus said, “I’m a high-school graduate.” Wendy smiled. Marcus ran the hose over the planks, and she wiped them down. The more he relaxed, the more he was aware of how almost formal they were with each other. Another time he would have sprayed her accidentally on purpose, and they would have fought over the hose.

  “What did you think of the graduation?” he said.