The Novels of William Goldman

by William Goldman

  “Are we animals?”

  “No,” Sid said, “no-no,” and then the dunce was crying, weeping unaccustomed tears as he fell across her body, clutching at her hands.

  “I faked, Sid! All those pains, the throwing up, I faked so you’d get a doctor!”

  “Butcher!” Sid cried. “He was no doctor. I led you to the slaughterhouse and you’ll never forgive me!”

  “I forgive!”

  “I forgive!”

  “Do you love me, Sid?”

  “I dunno, I dunno.”

  “Me either. But we can’t do anymore. We can’t.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “Sid, we’re not animals,” and she was crying too.

  “Not us,” he managed as he crawled blindly up on her bed beside her and they wrapped their arms tight around, joining their private griefs, rocking, keening, seeking forgiveness from their ancient gods, twin sinners, Sid and Esther, for a moment together, all bullshit gone.

  So they had this kid.

  From the first he was different.

  Not that he didn’t soak his diapers twice an hour; not that he didn’t cry; not that he didn’t smile when bounced or laugh when poked or shriek when tossed or wail when startled or hungry or wet or sleepy or afraid or alone; not that he preferred Pablum to his mother’s milk; not that he liked beets or turnips or spinach or lima beans; not that he didn’t like sounds, rattles or music boxes or voices that went “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” during the day or “Rockabye, Baby” at dark; not that he didn’t lift his head to stare fascinated at the blank sides of his cradle or, when he could roll over, at the sunny particles of dust floating softly in the air; not that he didn’t give endless inspection to the soft pink skin on his hands or, later, suck his sweet thumb; not that he didn’t cry out in the night with the pain of teething or, when he was able to crawl, gnaw passionately on table legs; not that he was able neatly to master the spoon or guide the cup on its two-handed journey from table to lip to table without occasional mishap; not that he didn’t like to bounce and catch a red rubber ball or run or kick or jump up high or open a door or close a door or snip newspapers with tiny scissors or skip or hop or balance on one foot with one eye closed or climb unaided up long flights of stairs. What made him different was simply this:

  The child was impossibly beautiful.

  The boy’s appearance certainly pleased Sid, but it by no means surprised him. One of those things was all it was, one of those remarkable father-son resemblances that crop up from time to time, knotting two generations. Oh, maybe the kid’s hair was a little darker, maybe his eyes a little bigger and brighter, maybe the limb formation a spec improved here and there. But these were trivia, nothing more—minor impediments in a major thesis, that thesis being that the kid was a carbon of his old man, a mint replica, detail for perfect detail. And when he took the kid out for walks, something he did continually—and without Esther tagging along if you don’t mind, gumming things up—when he took the kid out, Sid beamed. Not just because of the compliments the kid received (compliments which, he knew, were as much for him as for the offspring); no, it was the kind of compliment, that was what did it. With most kids, all you got from the gassing grandmas in the park was “Oh, isn’t he cute?” or “My, how adorable,” or “That’s a handsome young man”—junk like that. But when Sid strolled by with Rudy, the old ladies always started to speak, but then they stopped, looking closer at the kid, up to the papa, back to the kid again, staring hard now, and after that they either nodded or shook their gray heads. Whichever they did, Sid beamed.

  Esther, for her part, was also pleased by the boy’s appearance. But by no means surprised. Astonished, yes; she was that, for in all her short life she had never seen a boy who so resembled his mother.

  When you push encyclopedias door to door, either you have good days or bad, no so-so’s. On the eleventh of July, Sid met and charmed an overfed, education-starved Polish lady from Cottage Grove Avenue, leaving her house at two in the afternoon with the preliminary papers signed and sealed in his briefcase, thereby making the eleventh of July one of the good ones. On the street, Sid wiped his brow and pondered further charm-spreading, but it was hot and if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was a greedy pig, and one encyclopedia set per day was enough for any man. So he decided to quit early and go home and take his almost five-year-old for a jaunt through the neighborhood.

  On his way to the apartment he passed Solomon’s Delicatessen. Now he passed Solomon’s more than occasionally and usually it wasn’t so painful, especially in wintertime when the door was closed. But this was July, the door was open and as Sid ambled by he was ambushed by the aroma of Solomon’s corned beef. Sid paused, took a step, stopped and approached the store window. Inside it was busy as usual, stuffed with stuffed hausfraus buying goodies. Sid peered through the army of salamis hanging at rigid attention, guarding the shop window, his bright eyes wandering from pastrami to tongue to good garlic pickle. Sid sighed. He had long ago sworn that when he finally struck gelt he was going to plug a movie star all night and eat at Solomon’s all day—a double orgy.”

  The aroma of corned beef was stronger now and Sid was terribly tempted to fight the mob inside. But it was so expensive. A rapist, old man Solomon was, a pastrami peddler who drove a Cadillac, who lived like a merchant prince on Lake Shore Drive. The prices he charged! Sid scowled. Ridiculous. Unfair. Illegal. The one and only reason he got away with it was that somehow, through some miracle of curing, he produced the absolutely finest corned beef the world had ever tasted. Someday, Sid told himself, someday I’ll be bored with it. “What?” I’ll say. “Solomon’s corned beef again? Pitch it. Get rid of it and bring me some food.” But that, alas, was for the future, and Sid, very much, alas, in the present, stood riveted before the salami sentries, his stomach rumbling. What he wanted was corned beef for supper. What he needed was a reason to buy. He noted that the flow of fatsos was primarily out of the store, leaving it momentarily less than crammed, which meant he stood a good chance of dashing to and away from the counter without getting ground to death between the expansive corsets of the regular customers. But that was no reason. He did have in his hot pocket, however, sufficient money for a moderate purchase. But simple possession was no reason either. Hold it, Sid thought. Hadn’t it been a good day? Hadn’t the sweet Pole from Cottage Grove fallen victim to his charms? So wasn’t that reason enough for a little celebration? Who could object to that? Sid took a step forward. Esther could object to that. Sid took a step backward, hearing her unbell-like voice belting away—“Celebration? For what a celebration? Just because you did your job for once in your lazy life which every other man in the world does every day, that’s why we should go crazy in Solomon’s, just because you did your job? Fool. Fool!” Sid shook his head. There was no reason for supper to come from Solomon’s, so he started to walk away, head down, feet scuffing the sidewalk for six steps before he whirled and entered Valhalla, buying not only too much corned beef but also cole slaw and a whole loaf of thick dark rye and a boatload of Russian dressing and half a dozen scented dills and three slabs of pineapple cheesecake. He spent every penny, Sid did, his conscience so clear you could see your face in it. Because he had his reason.

  The kid. That was his reason. The kid loved corned beef. They had both discovered it some weeks ago when, out for lunch one day, Sid had given the boy a nibble of his corned-beef sandwich and the boy had lit up like a top. He loved it. He loved it and it wasn’t even Solomon’s, just some inferior junk from around the corner. Well, Sid thought as he hurried home, a brown paper bag under an arm, tonight, my son, tonight you dine in heaven.

  Esther was out when he reached the apartment, so, after tenderly placing the brown bag of treasures in the icebox, Sid crossed to the living-room window and opened it, peering up to the top of the fire escape, looking for his son. The kid spent all of his time there, every free second, alone at the top of the fire escape, but now he was not there. Sid cursed mildly. Esthe
r had probably taken him for a long walk. She was always doing that, taking him for marathons, showing him off to shopkeepers or the old ladies in the park. It wasn’t good for the boy, all that walking, not that Esther cared. One thing you had to say for Esther: she was a lousy mother. It was just like her, taking the kid out the one day he got home early. She probably planned it that way. She had a sixth sense, Esther did; she was a great depriver. Hell, Sid thought, I wouldn’t have taken him to any lousy park; I would have taken him to the zoo. But down was down and what was the point of aggravating yourself? The afternoon was his; he had to do something with it.

  It was well after six before he got back from the poolroom. He hadn’t meant to stay that late but a couple of young wiseacres thought they could shoot pool and it had taken him that long to show them the error of their ways. He closed the apartment door and hurried to the kitchen, but when he got there he stopped dead: Esther was frying chicken.

  “You’re frying chicken?” Sid said.

  “I’m frying chicken.”

  “You’re frying chicken?”

  “Smart, my husband,” Esther said, tapping her temple. “He walks in and sees his wife frying chicken and before you can say Jack Robinson he’s figured out she’s frying chicken.”

  “For dinner?”

  “No, breakfast; I thought we needed a change. Of course for dinner, fool.” She flipped a thigh from one side to the other and the grease spat.

  Sid edged to a safe distance from the stove, shaking his head as he saw the gravy, the peas, the mashed potatoes. “I already bought dinner,” he said.

  “You what?”

  “I already bought dinner. A special treat. It’s in the icebox. Didn’t you even look in the icebox to see if I might have bought dinner?”

  “If I opened the icebox door every time I thought you might have bought dinner, the hinges would rust and fall off.” She jammed a long fork into a breast and turned it. “Ouch,” she said, rubbing the grease from her forearm. “Get out of my kitchen. I can’t concentrate with you in my kitchen.”

  “A special treat,” Sid repeated. “You should have looked. Corned beef and cole slaw and pickles and cheesecake. All from Solomon’s.”

  “Solomon’s?” Esther shot him a look.

  “On sale,” Sid answered quickly. “Everything was on sale.”

  “If you’ve bought it, you’ve bought it,” Esther said. “We’ll have it tomorrow for lunch.”

  “We’ll have the chicken tomorrow for lunch.”

  “Corned beef keeps. Chicken’s no good cold.”

  “Chicken’s no good cold? Chicken’s no good cold? Are you crazy?”

  “Don’t shout. The boy will hear you.” She gestured toward the fire escape.

  “Chicken is delicious cold!”

  “I said don’t shout.”

  “Chicken is delicious cold,” Sid said. “And we’ll have it tomorrow for lunch. Just because you were too stupid to look in the icebox—”

  “Don’t argue with me,” Esther said.

  “Who’s arguing? I’m telling.”

  “That stuff from Solomon’s isn’t healthy. No good for a growing boy.”

  “Chicken fried in grease is so healthy? Potatoes are so good for you? I notice the Irish are conquering the world, they’re so healthy.”

  “The boy likes chicken.”

  “You like chicken.”

  “And you hate corned beef, I suppose.”

  “I bought it for the boy.”

  “Who am I cooking this for?”

  “The boy loves corned beef.”

  “He’s never even had corned beef.”

  “That’s a lie and he loves it and he’s eating it for supper.”

  “He’s having chicken for supper because he loves chicken.”

  “Corned beef more. I know my son.”

  “You know nothing about your son. He prefers chicken.”

  “Corned beef.”

  “Chicken.”

  “Corned beef!”

  “Chicken!”

  “Corned—”

  “Chicken—chicken!”

  “—beef!”

  “Rudy,” Sid called out the window.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Supper,” and he watched as the child nodded, rose from his seated perch at the top of the fire escape and raced down the steps to the apartment. Ducking his dark head, the tiny creature slipped through the window, landing silently on the fraying rug, clean palms exposed to his mother’s inspection even before she said “Hands?” Ordinarily when he beat her she smiled. Tonight she did not.

  “Sit,” Esther said.

  The child approached the dining table and stopped, staring at the serving plates filled with chicken and corned beef and mashed potatoes and cole slaw and gravy and Russian dressing and peas and dill pickles and pineapple cheesecake and chocolate fudge cake that his mother had made early in the afternoon. The boy stared at the table, which was small, so that none of the serving plates was lying fully flat but instead tilted and balanced against each other, barely leaving room for the three clean plates from which they would eat. All the plates were crammed on top of his mother’s best tablecloth, beautiful and white, with delicate lace edges. The boy stared at all this for a time, then quickly looked up for his parents’ eyes.

  “A feast, isn’t it, Rudy?” Sid said.

  The boy nodded.

  “All for you,” Esther said.

  The boy smiled.

  “Sit down, sit down,” Sid said. “Everybody sit down.”

  Everybody sat down.

  “Now listen, Rudy.” The boy looked at his father. “There’s two different kinds of meals here; maybe they won’t go together so good. So you pick whichever you want. But first—”

  “Let him alone,” Esther said.

  “First just a word about the corned beef. It’s from Solomon’s, Rudy. You remember me talking to you about Solomon’s, how they make the finest corned beef in the world, let alone Chicago? Well, I bought it today for you, because you’ll remember your first taste of Solomon’s corned beef all your life, I promise you, but if you’d rather have your mother’s chicken, I won’t mind a bit. Of course, you’ve had your mother’s chicken many times before and you’ve never had any of Solomon’s corned beef—you’ve only heard me speak about it—but like I said, eat what you want, I don’t care one way or the other.”

  “Eat the chicken, Rudy,” Esther said.

  “The boy can make up his own mind.”

  “You call what you just said letting him make up his own mind?”

  “Rudy, I didn’t try and influence you just now, did I?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Rudy and me, we understand each other,” Sid said, and he-forked some corned beef onto his plate. “I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m hungry.”

  Esther reached for a piece of chicken and put it on her plate. “I love fried chicken,” she said. “And this looks awfully good, if I do say so my—”

  “Oh,” Sid interrupted. “Oh, oh, oh, this corned beef. Oh. Oh, my God, that old man Solomon is a genius, oh, oh, it melts in your mouth like ambrosia, it’s so tender and—”

  “My best chicken skin,” Esther cut in. “Just so crisp.”

  “I’m in heaven,” Sid said. “Eat, Rudy.”

  “Yes, Rudy, eat.”

  The boy hesitated, his hand hovering first over the corned-beef platter, then over the chicken, back and forth, back and forth, and then it hawked down, plucking a chicken leg. Esther started to smile but stopped as she saw her son’s other hand gathering up corned beef, the two hands depositing their loads simultaneously onto his plate. Isolating a piece of meat, a piece of fowl, he stuck them both onto his fork and gobbled them down, smiling at his parents briefly before reaching out for the cole slaw and the mashed potatoes and the pickles and the gravy, and when his plate was heaped high he began to eat.

  “Not so fast, not so fast,” Esther said as he downed a spoonful of
potatoes, an equal helping of cole slaw.

  “That corned beef’s so good it brings tears to your eyes, huh, Rudy?”

  The boy ate a piece of corned beef and there were tears in his eyes.

  “You like my chicken?” Esther said.

  “It’s ... all ... so ...”

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Esther said.

  “Wonderful,” the boy mumbled. “Wonderful.” And he continued to eat, gulping everything down as fast as he could, all the food, hot and cold, bland and sharp, staring at his plate, and when it was empty he looked up at his parents, saw their eyes, hesitated a moment before reaching out, filling his plate again, filling it with everything, everything.

  “It’s my best chicken, isn’t it, Rudy?”

  The boy nodded, continuing to eat.

  “You ever taste corned beef like that before, Rudy?”

  The boy shook his head, eating relentlessly.

  “It looks like any other corned beef,” Esther said.

  “Yeah, well, it ain’t.”

  Esther reached for a piece of the meat and nibbled. “It is good,” she said. “I’ve got to admit it.”

  “Chicken’s perfect,” Sid said, munching on a wing.

  The child closed his eyes briefly, continuing to eat. He opened his eyes. His plate was still half full, so he took a deep breath and dug in, forking the stuff into his mouth until finally, finally, his plate was empty and then he closed his eyes again.

  “Some meal,” Sid said.

  “Rudy, clear the table,” Esther said, and the child stood and carried the plates to the kitchen. It took him many trips, but when he was done the table was empty except for the chocolate fudge cake and the pineapple cheese. Esther cut a piece of fudge cake and put it on his plate.

  “Try the cheesecake, Rudy,” Sid said.

  “Later, if he’s still hungry,” Esther said.

  “The cheesecake is a specialty of Solomon’s. Cut him a piece of cheesecake.”

  “Go on, Rudy,” Esther said. “Eat.”