by Packer, Vin
It was wanting to cry and not being able to. Laughing instead. At himself. It was being bored with it, being so bored with it that he wanted to make himself stop thinking about her if he had to put a knife in his neck. It was not being able to do anything to stop it. It was talking to his arm and pretending it was her, talking to mirrors and imagining she saw his face, telling grass he lay on afternoons out near the ski slopes that her name was Jill.
It was not even listening to or caring about or thinking of his mother, Russel Lofton, Evie, or anyone but her. It was working at the Gazette afternoons waiting for everyone to leave so he could be alone. Completely alone. So he could be alone and be with it. Be with his obsession. Sit it out with it. Love it and hate it.
It was being in love with Jill Latham. And it was crazy.
She was not sick. He had seen her twice. Monday morning on her way to work, and this noon, Friday, he had seen her in Jake’s, but he had stayed on the opposite side of the street. He was afraid to talk to her because something was wrong. If she came to the library he could talk to her, but he could not talk to her right in broad daylight with everyone watching. He would not know what to say. He would say something awful, stupid, clumsy. God, he was such a creepy kid! Creepy, really creepy.
She must have thought so too. That was the reason he was going to write the letter. He was going to write the letter and then he was going to take the letter with him to the Red Clover Bookshop and drop it on the floor as he was leaving. He was going to buy the Oxford Book of English Verse, because he needed it. He would have to have it if he were going to Harvard, and he would buy it. ‘Drop the letter after. Simple. Easy. Nothing to it…. Oh, hell damn! Hell damn!
Slowly he began to type.
“Dear Charlie.”
He ripped the sheet out and shot a new one under the roller.
“My own dearest Charlie.”
He paused and bit his lip, and then he began to type fast. It was not a long letter, but it was what he wanted.
My own dearest Charlie,
How I have missed you! Charlie, listen to me. Since I have known you I have realized how little age matters between two people. It is true I am a woman fifteen years older than you. It is true that you are young, only seventeen. But it has never mattered with us, has it, dearest? I knew that since the night I talked with you, told you everything about my life, my worries and my hopes. Your reaction was so wonderfully mature.
Charlie, you are old for your age. Brilliant and sensitive. You are what few women find in any man. I miss you so much. It is hard to find anyone to replace you in my life. Please write, dearest Charlie.
Love always,
He stopped typing, took the sheet from the typewriter. He was not sure what name he would sign to the letter, and he thought he had better just write an initial. L or something. He could disguise his handwriting for an initial, but it would be hard to write a full name. Carefully he took the pen and signed an elaborate T. Then he stared at it. He wondered if it looked like a woman’s writing. He added a curl to the top of the ? and thought of something else. Quickly he spaced and added: “P.S. I know it isn’t very feminine to write on a typewriter and plain white paper, but I know too that you will understand. T.”
Charlie folded and refolded the paper. He did not want it to look too fresh. When Jill Latham found it, he wanted it to look like a letter he had received recently and carried with him. He would just drop it on the floor.
Now do it, he told himself. Now do it.
Now go ahead and do it!
It was different now when Charlie walked down the streets of Azrael. Before he used to think about the people he saw.
Cross-eyed Kelley Cotton. Kelley’s head looked too large for his body and his yellow cross-eye bulged like two large marbles. He had a fat wife named Louise who talked as though she were out of breath, huffing and puffing and mopping her flabby jowls with a handkerchief she kept wadded in her hand. Kelley’s Pharmacy was on the corner past the Gazette offices, and when Charlie passed there, Kelley was usually standing out in front in his starched white jacket, leaning against the wall and watching people. Charlie always said hello quickly and walked on, but he thought about Kelley a lot. He wondered if Kelley’s fat wife ever kissed Kelley, if she ever said, “Ah, Kelley, I love you so much!” He wondered if Kelley ever held her and told her, “You’re beautiful, Louise. Beautiful!” What he wondered was if Kelley and his wife made love together and laughed together and had a passionate relationship. That was the phrase. A passionate relationship. Like in the movies. Charlie thought up all sorts of things about them, and he wondered what the people on that street would say if they knew what he was thinking. Wow!
This afternoon he passed Kelley and did not even think of him once. He was rereading the letter he had written Jill, but more than that. Although he knew full well there was no way for Jill Latham to be watching him from her shop, because the shop was way down at the end of Broad, Charlie felt as though she were watching him. Watching every step he took and every move he made.
“Hi, Charlie.”
“Simpy.”
“You going away this summer?”
“Nope.”
Simpy rode on. He had not stopped his bike to shout those few words at Charlie, and Charlie had hardly looked at Simpy. He could see Simpy all year in school, and any time he wanted to walk over to Grant Avenue, where Simpy lived. And what was more, he didn’t like Simpy anyway. But it was different now. Before, when he met someone like Simpy riding along the street on his bike, he would exchange a few words, walk on, and then think about him. Just for a second or so. He would imagine Simpy riding his bike without any clothes on. Something like that. Just for a second or so. Automatically.
Now all he thought was how nonchalant he really was with kids like Simpy. He really was nonchalant. All he had said was two words. “Simpy” — not even “Hello, Simpy” — and “Nope.”
He thought that if Miss Jill Latham were watching, she couldn’t help but notice. He was mature. Plain mature.
Sometimes it was hard to walk thinking she was scrutinizing him in everything he did. That was nuts, to think that, but Charlie had a lot of crazy theories. One was this: No matter what you did, Charlie thought at times, eventually the one person you love will see you doing it. It was like God taking motion pictures of your whole life, saving them up, and showing them someday to the one person you loved. So she could see everything! You could be picking your nose, for the love of Pete!
That was one theory.
But now he just had an idea she was watching him perpetually. No, he didn’t know how! You can’t explain everything. He just felt it, and walking down the streets of Azrael was different for him now.
“Miss Jill,” he said in a whisper to the air, “you are monopolizing my whole goddamn life.” Then he laughed, but his fists were two hard balls, his knuckles white.
He crossed the street and passed Jake’s without looking in. His heart was a drum. He came closer. He slowed up. He was sweating. His heart was thudding inside him, his knees didn’t have bones. He thought, Do it! Do it! Don’t be a helly old coward! and by that time he had his hand on the door. He pushed it in and felt the cool air of the Red Clover Bookshop.
He did not look immediately at the counter where he knew she was. He could sense she was there and someone was with her, talking to her, but for the first few moments Charlie walked by the bookshelves. He feigned a completely distracted interest in the neat volumes of the Modern Library.
Then a voice said, “Hi, Charlie,” and Charlie turned to see Jim Prince smiling at him. Sitting on the counter smiling at him. Miss Jill Latham was standing behind the counter.
Charlie said, “How do you do.” It sounded sophisticated, he decided.
“Swell. How’re you?”
“I am fine,” Charlie answered. He put his hand to his rear pocket, where the letter bulged. He still had it.
“Well,” Jill Latham said, “this is indeed an honor. My, yes.
I do believe Mr. Charles Wright has never set foot in my humble establishment.” She giggled a little and Charlie wished she hadn’t.
He said, “I want a book.”
“How’s Evie?” Prince said suddenly. His face flushed. He hadn’t intended to blurt it out like that. He said, “How’s your sister?”
“Evie? Fine.”
Charlie was standing facing them and for a few seconds there was an awkward silence, then both Jill Latham and Charlie spoke at once.
Charlie said, “I haven’t seen you at the library lately, Miss Latham,” and Jill said, “I have seen your sister and she is a very comely young lady.”
They both laughed together at the way they had spoken at the same time and Charlie said, “Pardon me?”
“I said your sis-ter was comely.”
“Yes,” Charlie answered.
Jim Prince said, “She’s a swell girl.” He said, “Swell!”
“Indeed.” Jill Latham forced a smile.
Charlie tried again. “I haven’t noticed you at the library lately,” he said to her.
“Oh, my, no. I have been terribly busy. Terribly busy. I am going to do inventory soon.”
“Tell Evie I asked about her,” Jim said. He got off the counter and stretched his long arms over his head. “I ought to go.”
“Study, study,” she said.
Prince answered, “That’s the idea…. Don’t forget, Charlie.”
“What?”
“Give my love to Evie.”
“All right.”
Miss Jill Latham said, “She is indeed a lovely girl. Lovely.”
“I’ll be seeing you, Miss Latham.”
“Will you?” Jill Latham laughed and looked away from Jim Prince, over Charlie’s head and out toward the street. She said, “Yes. Yes,” in a slow, dreamy way.
“I’ll be running along,” Prince said.
Charlie told him good-by and Prince asked Charlie not to forget again. As he reached the door and was ready to close it behind him, Jill Latham called, “So long, Jim Prince.”
She said both his names together that way, and Charlie burned.
There was a stillness in the shop then, and Charlie fumbled with the change in his pockets, walked slowly along the rows of the bookshelves, and hummed to himself. He wished he had left too. Dropped the letter and left.
“How are your studies proceeding?” Miss Jill asked him.
“Fine.”
“You look tired. I hope you don’t overwork.”
“Naw. No.”
“All work and no play …” She laughed again in that high, gasping giggle. Her black hair was pushed back from her ears and she was hugging her arms, still leaning against the wall behind the counter, watching Charlie out of her amber eyes. She wore a soft ice-blue dress, cut low at the neck, as all her dresses were, and under the sheerness of the dress her white lace slip and satin brassiere were clearly distinguishable. Charlie did not want to look at her. He couldn’t keep watching her eyes, and when his glance fell to her dress he goddamn, goddamn, goddamn.
“I once knew a boy who studied a lot. My, yes, an awful lot. Uh, he — he, uh, was a very bright boy. Bright! Most brilliant. This boy. But — he — wasn’t all work and no play. No, he wasn’t. He was not.”
“I’m not either,” Charlie said. “Sometimes I like to just sit and make interesting conversation. Listen to people. You know.”
Charlie picked a volume down from the shelf and looked at it without any interest. She never answered immediately. She pondered over her words, even after she answered, while she was saying them. He thought to himself that he ought to drop the damn letter, buy the damn book, and get out of the damn woman’s life.
You’re not even in her life, fella.
O.K., his conscience could shut up. He knew what he meant. He meant he just ought not to be bothered.
“Talk to people,” Jill Latham said finally. “Talk to people.” That was all she said, but for Charlie it was sufficient. He heard the note of despair in her tone and sensed what she was saying without saying it. That it was very hard. People were very hard to talk to.
Charlie said impulsively, “Sometimes I think there is no one,” and he blushed a little at his own sentimentality, expressed aloud in that room, compulsively, by himself.
“Do you feel that way too? Oh, do you feel that way too?” She stood up straight, moving from behind the counter and around to the front of it, pacing back and forth as she continued, her arms folded, her chin high in that dramatic pose, as though she were a famous movie actress. Gene Tierney … She said, “No one. It is very hard to have no one. Some people have their husbands and their children. You know, their family. Women usually marry and have their family. It is very strange. Some have — no one. I don’t know the ration-al explanation.”
“Some people are too deep for anyone to understand,” Charlie said.
“Yes.”
“Plain too deep. That’s all.”
“Deep are the roots,” Miss Jill Latham said, “deep are the roots.”
“So you’re going to take inventory,” Charlie said after a short silence. There were always pauses, intervals when no one said anything, and they made Charlie itch inside, get tense and squirmy. They were not such long quiet periods, but they seemed very long. They screamed with silence.
Miss Jill Latham was standing beside him now, her hands clasped in front of her, her narrow lips smiling slightly. She only nodded.
“The library’s practically empty these nights,” Charlie told her. “Practically deserted.”
“Yes, I am certainly going to take inventory.”
“How long will that last?”
“I am going to hire someone,” she said. “Someone to help. Some young lady who can help. Most of the young ladies are mar-ried, of course, and busy with their children.”
Charlie said, “Except for a few kids like Evie.”
“Who?”
“My sister, Evie.”
“Oh, yes. My, yes. Your sister.” Miss Latham paused and touched the books beside her with her fingers. “Yes,” she said, “you must not forget to relay that message. The one Mr. James Prince would like you to de-liver.”
“I’ve got a good memory,” Charlie answered.
“Your sister will undoubtedly be thrilled to hear from Mr. James Prince.”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, my, yes. Undoubtedly.”
Charlie said, “Maybe.” That was a silly g.d. conversation. Aw, it was his own fault. His own fault. What could he say to a lady like Miss Jill? What could he say that would be in the remotest way enlightening?
Charlie boy, leave the letter and get out.
Give me time, Charlie thought. Just give me some time and don’t push me around.
“I came in to buy a copy of the Oxford Book of English Verse,” Charlie said.
“Oh, yes.”
“I’ll probably need it in Harvard.”
“Harvard,” she said. “Yes … probably.” She walked down to the end of the room and Charlie watched her go. Gee, she looked little and young and blithe. Blithe, she looked. Gee, she was pretty and — and —
Blithe! That’s what you meant, Charlie.
Well, not exactly. But what the hell! What kind of a stinky mind was he developing? Charlie felt again in his rear pocket for the letter. It was funny. It was funny now. He didn’t want to drop it. He wanted to go home and burn it and flush the burned parts down the toilet and forget that kid stunt as quick as he could. God, what a kid stunt! What a creepy kid stunt, anyway.
One thing he knew. He was plain off his stick. All of a sudden he knew it. Of all the silly fool’s tricks, writing letters to himself took the old proverbial cake.
Simpleton!
I know it, Charlie thought. I know I am. It’s better to know it, I suppose, but God, what do you do with it?
“I have a copy right here, yes.” Miss Latham said. She reached up and pulled down the gray-jacketed book and blew dust
from the cover and said, “Whew, dust!” As she walked back toward him, Charlie caught himself staring at her legs, and when he looked up at her eyes, he saw that she saw. He blushed and felt his face get hot, and she said, “Yes,” in that offhand way that signified everything, nothing, was merely what she always said. Yes.
Charlie pulled his wallet out and handed her a ten-dollar bill, money that he had saved for two weeks. What the hell, he needed the book, didn’t he? Sure he did. He needed the Oxford Book of English Verse.
“I want to thank you,” he said as she handed him his change, “for inviting me in last week.”
“You are most welcome. You are indeed most welcome. A po-lite boy like yourself.”
“Thank you.”
“You are always most welcome.”
“Well, gee, thanks.”
“There are some young men I would not invite into my home.”
“I know. I mean, I imagine.”
“Many young men I would not.”
“Well, I’m awfully glad you invited me.”
“It was my honor.”
“Well, thanks.”
Charlie put the few dollars back in his wallet and jammed his wallet down next to the letter. If he ever wrote a letter to himself again, he hoped he croaked.
“Perhaps you would like to drop by one night this week,” Miss Jill Latham said, and Charlie felt warm blood rush up through him. He said, “I sure would. I would appreciate that.”
“If you are not too busy with your studies.”
“Oh, no, ma’am.”
“I wouldn’t like to take you from your studies.”
“Oh, no,” he said, “no. I like to talk to people. I don’t often have the chance to talk to intelligent people.”
“We can talk for a long time.” “I’d like that.”
