Fast Start, Fast Finish

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “It’s going to be a dressy party, Mother,” Maggie said. “Can I get a new short formal?”

  “What?” Nancy said. “Oh, Maggie! Haven’t I got enough to worry about without that?” She hurried out of the kitchen and ran up the stairs to Charlie’s room.

  She tapped lightly on his door, and when there was no immediate response she pushed it open and said, “Darling—”

  But now he was on the phone, and she heard him say, “Look, I’ve got to hang up. Call you back.” He hung up the receiver and turned and smiled at her. “Hi,” he said.

  “Who was that?”

  “Uh—just Tessa.”

  She sat down in one of the batwing chairs. “Oh,” she said. And then, “Well, I got it.”

  “Got what, honey?”

  “The job. With Mr. Singleton.”

  “Singleton?”

  “The decorating shop—I told you about it.”

  He looked puzzled for a minute. Then he grinned broadly. It was a grin, she used to think, that was such a good grin that whenever it happened it made you want to do something to make him grin again. But she didn’t want that grin now. “My God,” he said, “you really were serious, honey, weren’t you!”

  “Yes, I was really serious,” she said in a flat voice. “I was serious.”

  Harold wriggled out from under the car, stood up, and wiped his oily hands on the seat of his chino pants. “Once you smack up a car like this, you can never get it fixed right,” he said and kicked the tire with his sneakered foot. “That’s a fact. The whole damn chassis’s been thrown out of line, that’s what’s happened. We sure drew a zero for a mother, Mag-o.”

  Maggie, in her cut-off jeans, sat on the grass at the edge of the driveway, her chin in her hands. “It wasn’t really Mother’s fault, Harold,” she said.

  “What? Are you kidding? She leaves the headlights burning all day long, just for starters. Then she goes out, tries to get the car going—and walks off and leaves it with the emergency off, in neutral. How’s that for dumb? She got it going all right. The shocks are all shot in this heap too.”

  “Harold?”

  “Yeah?” He picked up a chamois that had been draped across the fender and began polishing the chrome handle of the door.

  “Harold, I know something that you don’t know I know,” Maggie said.

  “Oh?” he said, continuing the polishing.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, are you going to tell me what it is or not?”

  “I know that you didn’t go to the prom at all.”

  He turned, the chamois in his hand, and looked at her for a moment, his eyes in a squint. “So?” he said at last.

  “So I know, that’s all.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing. But I know you took the fifty dollars and didn’t go to the prom.”

  He returned to his polishing. “So, I suppose you’re going to tell somebody about it,” he said.

  “Why would I want to tell anybody about it? I only meant—”

  “You want to go to that party with Buck Holzer, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “You know he thinks you’re pretty nice.”

  “Does he really, Harold?”

  “Sure. At the moment. But I think I could fix it so he didn’t think you were so nice, Mag-o.”

  “Oh, Harold, I’m not going to tell anybody about you and the prom. I just meant—”

  “What did you mean?”

  “I meant it’s like—like it’s kind of a little secret we have, you and I, about the prom. That’s all.”

  He turned to her again slowly and gazed at her.

  “I thought it was kind of nice we had a secret!” she said. “From them.”

  Then he grinned. “Say, maybe you’re going to turn out all right, Mag-o, after all.”

  She looked shyly down at her bare legs. “Anyway,” she said, “I’m sorry I threw the champagne in your face that night at dinner, Harold.”

  He made gulping sounds with his mouth. “Just meant I got that much more to drink,” he said.

  “Harold,” she said, looking at him anxiously, “if you had a problem, I mean a real problem, a big problem, who would you ask about it first? Mother—or Dad?”

  He considered this for a minute, rubbing the chamois idly along the chrome. “Well, if you want the truth—in my case, neither.”

  “Really?”

  “What kind of problem, anyway?”

  “Well, a personal problem.”

  “Like what? Well, like, say I had a sex problem? I damn well wouldn’t ask the old lady. And I wouldn’t ask the old man either, and you know why? He’d say, ‘Have you been sleeping with a girl?’ If I said yes he’d start bawling me out. If I said no he’d start the old birds-and-bees lecture. So how do I score? Either way I lose, right? No, I wouldn’t discuss a problem like that with either one.”

  “But suppose—suppose you thought something was the matter with you. That something was wrong with you, or—”

  “Like you’re sick or something?”

  “Like that.”

  Throwing her a grin, he said, “Don’t tell me you’re got VD or something, Mag-o.”

  “Oh, Harold! No, but—”

  “Well, if I thought I was sick,” he said, and paused, one hand on the door of the car, “well, I guess I’d go to a doctor. But I wouldn’t tell either of them about it. I’d go on my own.”

  “Why? Why wouldn’t you tell either of them?”

  He slapped the damp chamois angrily against the side of the car. “Because they wouldn’t give a damn, that’s why! They wouldn’t even listen. Ever tried to get either one of them to listen?”

  “Oh, but they’re just great about getting us to listen to them!” Maggie said.

  “Ever tried to talk to Dad since he started on this painting kick? He just won’t listen. Just the other day I tried it—whammo, the door in my face. And now you know his show fell through, don’t you?”

  “Did it really?”

  “Sure. Whole thing’s called off. They say postponed. It means canceled. I heard them both screaming about it the other day. And we’re broke, too. You know that?”

  “We are?”

  “Sure. Keep your ears open around this place and you’ll learn a few things. They’re up against it now. Why do you think Mom wants to take a job? Why do you think we have to keep driving this old heap around and can’t afford a new one? ’Cause they’re both up against it, that’s why.”

  “I didn’t know any of this,” Maggie said softly.

  “My theory is, look after Number One. Because they won’t look after me, and they won’t look after you either. If you’ve got a problem, solve it on your own. That’s the way it’s got to be in this family, Mag-o. Know what Mom would say if you came to her with your problem now?”

  “What?”

  In a falsetto he mimicked his mother. “Oh, Maggie! Haven’t I got enough to worry about without this?”

  Miserably Maggie nodded. “Yes, that’s what she just said to me,” she said.

  “No wonder she’s going to the head-shrinker.”

  “You mean—a psychiatrist, Harold?”

  “Sure.”

  “But what for? What’s the matter with her?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe it’s because Dad’s got another girl friend,” he said.

  “Oh, Harold—no!” Maggie cried. “Are you telling the truth? Who?”

  “Sure it’s the truth.” He winked at her. “Can’t you guess who?”

  Maggie sat for a long time on the grass, hugging her knees, watching as Harold circled the car with his chamois, pausing to survey the gleam in the painted finish from first one angle, then another. Then she said, “Do you think Mother knows, Harold?”

  “Sure she knows. Not much she can do about it, though.”

  Maggie looked down at the ground, her underlip in a bitter curl. “And she talks to me about being a mature, responsible
woman—about respecting the man you love,” she said softly.

  “That’s a crock. If you ask me, the old lady’s about to go off the deep end. Which is another reason why I wouldn’t ask her about anything. You can’t trust her.” He drew the chamois slowly across the length of the hood. “Everything she says nowadays is a crock.”

  “Harold, what am I going to do?”

  “Like I said, do things on your own,” he said. “Of course, if it’s money you need, I could maybe help you out.”

  “Gosh, thanks, Harold,” she said. Suddenly her whole body shivered and she said quickly, “Because if something is wrong with me, I might need it. Harold, I’m frightened.”

  “Loan you some, I mean.” He squatted on the driveway and began polishing a front hubcap. He spat at a stubborn spot of dirt. “Just what is this problem of yours, anyway?” he asked.

  Maggie closed her eyes quickly, then opened them. Speaking to the back of her brother’s head, she said, “Do you remember a boy I used to go with from San Marino named Wally Mason?”

  “Sure. That’s how I got champagne in my face. What about him?”

  “I did something with him once, and got into trouble.”

  Vigorously rubbing the hubcap, Harold said, “Go on.…”

  “What beautiful roses! Where did you find them, Genny?”

  “In my garden.”

  “Really? My roses all went by weeks ago. What variety are they?”

  Genny smiled her leathery smile. “Aw, you trapped me, sweetie. No, they aren’t from my garden. I’m the original brown-thumb gal who can’t even grow weeds. I got them from the flower shop.”

  “For me?”

  “I saw them in the window, and I just thought they’d look pretty in this pretty new dining room.”

  “Oh, Genny, aren’t you sweet. You really shouldn’t have. Let me get them in some water.”

  She went into the kitchen and from a cupboard fetched out the milk-china vase that had been one of her favorite wedding presents. She filled it with water and carried it back into the living room. They sat side by side on the newly covered sofa while Nancy lifted the red roses one by one and placed them in the vase. “They’re just beautiful,” she said. “And so many of them! It’s really awfully thoughtful of you, Genny.”

  “Say, I’m having some of the gals for lunch next Thursday,” Genny said. “And I was wondering if you could come.”

  “Let’s see, Thursday is the twenty-eighth,” Nancy said, arranging the roses. “I have a doctor’s appointment at three—”

  “We’ll make it an early lunch, then. Twelve o’clock. How’s that? Then we’ll be finished in plenty of time to get you to your doctor.”

  “I think that would be lovely, Genny. I’d love to come.”

  “You’re not sick or something, are you?”

  “Oh, no, it’s just a routine checkup.…”

  “By the way, what doctor do you use?”

  “His name is—ah—”

  “Stillman?”

  “Yes.”

  “You ought to try mine. I go to Dearing. He’s the best gynecologist in Westchester.”

  “Well, it’s just the annual checkup sort of thing.”

  “Sure,” Genny said. She lighted a cigarette and said, “Sweetie, I’ve been going through absolute hell.”

  “Don’t they look pretty?” she said to the roses. And then, “Really, Genny? What’s the matter? Haven’t you been feeling well?”

  “I just don’t know how to put it to you. Or even if I should put it to you,” Genny said.

  Nancy turned and looked at Genny. “Put what to me?” she said.

  “Damn it all. I feel so responsible, that’s all.”

  “Responsible for what?”

  “I got you into this.”

  “Got me into what?”

  “Sweetie,” Genny said. “Do you really mean to tell me that you don’t know?”

  She was suddenly frightened. “Know about what?”

  “About your husband and—you-know-who.”

  Nancy took a deep breath. “What about them?” she said.

  “Look, it’s nothing but gossip, nothing but hearsay. But when gossip gets so—so important—then I think it’s time something was done about it.”

  “What is this gossip?” she said and closed her eyes.

  “Well, do I have to draw pictures? Look,” she said and put her hand on Nancy’s shoulder, “it’s the talk of the club, the two of them. Before you know it, it’s going to be the talk of the whole damn town.”

  “What are people saying?”

  “Well, that they’re having an affair. That’s all.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, I don’t believe it. It isn’t true.”

  “Nancy, I admire you. I think you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right.” The pressure of Genny’s hand continued, seeming to bear her down, and she wished she could shake it off.

  “You’re right to refuse to believe it. After all, what else can you do. But I think you ought to know about it and face up to it—I really do. Because when talk like this gets so big, it sort of begins to get out of hand.”

  Nancy nodded.

  “And where there’s smoke—”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “I’m sorry. Honest, I’m sorry. But I keep wondering what in the world we can do—you and I—about it.”

  “Nothing. Because there’s nothing to do anything about, Genny.”

  “But there is, sweetie. There’s all this talk. And I feel so responsible, that’s the hell of it. Because, damn it all, I was the one who got the two of them together. Do you know what it makes me feel like? Like a pimp, that’s what. Honest, you don’t know how awful I feel. If I’d only known—”

  “Please, Genny.”

  “And now it’s gotten to the point where they’re talking about not letting you into the club. That’s how serious it’s become. Why, it’s ruining your reputation all over town. And it’s such a shame. Nobody’s even had a chance to get to know you, and you’re already famous as the wife of that man who’s sleeping with Tessa Morgan.”

  Genny’s fingers were now kneading her shoulder. “But there isn’t a word of truth in it. Because I know Charlie. I know—”

  “I know exactly how you feel. It’s just the way I felt when I first found out about Bob. That he’d started sniffing around other dames. Stunned. Couldn’t believe it. Because, don’t forget, I’ve been going through the same thing you’re going through, but I’ve been going through it for years. All I can tell you is that it’s something you’ve just got to learn to live with. Just keep remembering who you are, your background, your breeding, and keep your chin up.” Genny raised her own chin high in demonstration. “Never let the world see how much you care.”

  “Genny—please—”

  “I know. Bob was about the same age as your husband when he started it. That’s the age when they start it, sniffing around. If it’s any comfort, more men do it than maybe you realize. For instance, I’m sure Vaughan Phelps cheats on Vera. They act just like dogs, these men. You trusted Charlie. I trusted Bob. Maybe that’s our trouble, trusting them too much. Oh, I don’t care what the reason is! But I do care about you. You and I have so much in common. That’s why I thought I could help you bear this thing.”

  Nancy said nothing. She stared fixedly at the fierce red roses.

  “And the awful thing is—you know how people are. They don’t criticize Charlie so much. After all, boys will be boys. But they laugh at you, sweetie, behind your back. That’s what just kills me—hearing the way they laugh at you. My friend. Behind your back. When I hear them doing that, I could just die for you!”

  Nancy made a fist of one hand and drew the knuckles quickly to her mouth, bit the knuckles so hard she tasted blood and felt the tears welling to her eyes. She said, “Oh, Genny!” in a little broken cry.

  “Oh, sweetie!” Genny said and drew her toward her and kissed her on the flat part of her che
ek. The kiss made a soft, sucking sound, and Nancy was momentarily overpowered by the smell of Genny—skin that smelled of Skol, and the tobaccoy odor of her hair.

  There was nothing wrong with the kiss, not really. Nothing you could put your finger on at least. Women often kissed other women, exactly as Genny had just kissed her—no differently. But there was something about the suddenness of it and the insistency of it that stirred something small and unpleasant and dimly disquieting within her, and she rose to her feet with misgivings about it.

  “Genny, I’m a little upset,” she said. “I’m sorry. I think you’d better go.”

  “Sure,” Genny said. “I understand.” She stood up. “Don’t forget Thursday. Meanwhile I’ll see if I can think of something we can do.”

  “And thanks for the roses,” Nancy said.

  14

  He hadn’t felt this good all summer. He felt on top of the world, like walking on air. As he walked out of the bookshop, the pavement seemed to glide under the springy soles of his tennis shoes as though he were wearing roller skates. The sun was shining, there was a soft, sweet breeze in the air scented of Queen Anne’s lace and other druggy summer things. There was a flashy sparkle on the hood of his freshly washed car, and there was a special glimmer on everything. Coming into the empty house—Nancy had taken the train to New York to shop for clothes for her new job and to buy a new party dress for Maggie—the pretty living room was filled with the odor of roses. He whistled to himself as he walked through the pleasant rooms, never having felt so happy, so sure of himself.

  On the court that morning at the club he had splendidly skunked that wiry little left-handed Yalie—three straight sets—after the Yalie had had the gall to say to him, “Sir, your trouble is, you’re musclebound.” And, on the court, playing the best tennis he had ever played, he had made several major decisions. For one thing, he had decided to get Harold interested in tennis. He’d teach him the game. Why shouldn’t the kid have the kick of learning the best game there was—that fast, sleek, gentlemanly game where, when you were playing it right, you felt all your troubles disappear with your racket in your hand, popping that fat white ball. That would really be something fine he could do for Harold. Harold was built along much the same lines as the Yalie. Harold could be just as good a player, or even better.