The Novels of William Goldman

by William Goldman

  “Evelyn,” the man with the scar said.

  Branch looked at him.

  “I know, I know, it’s a girl’s name. My father was a joker. Besides, there’s Evelyn Waugh. A lot of Englishmen are named Evelyn. It’s very big over there.” I guess.

  “That’s what I’m told, anyway.”

  “Hello there, Evelyn.”

  “Hi.”

  “Evelyn from Clevelyn.”

  “Hey, that’s good.”

  “De nada.” Branch’s eyes roved the bar: the laughing foursome, the baseball-hating bartender, the Mantovani-loving couple across, sad old Saginaw with only his darts for company—“ ‘Chemistry’ comes from ‘alchemy,’ a science which tried to prolong life; please prolong mine by staying awake during my lectures.” Branch gave a little laugh.

  “Aaron? Aaron?”

  Branch turned. “What?”

  “What’s so interesting about him?” The man with the scar indicated Saginaw.

  “Nothing. I’m sorry.”

  “We were talking about my name, remember? About how it’s a girl’s name.”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Boy’s name, girl’s name, it doesn’t really matter, I don’t think. I mean what difference does it make? Boys and girls, they’re really not so different, are they?”

  “No. No,” I’m just like anybody else.

  “I mean, you weren’t laughing at me just because my father gave me a name like that.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t much like being laughed at.”

  I don’t much like you. “Who does?” I don’t much like you at all.

  You’re not bright and you’re probably not very nice either. But you’re Here. That’s your great charm, Evelyn from Clevelyn; you win the gold star because you’re Here.

  “What’s the matter, Aaron?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s the matter.” Love. I want love.

  “If it weren’t so late I’d drive you to the Raven, just to show you what a good bar is like. But I think it’s too late for that, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Too late.”

  “I don’t know any fun places nearer, do you?”

  “Fun places?” Branch was about to name the West Ridge Motel (nobody stayed overnight at the West Ridge Motel) but the words were hard to form. The amenities were done; now it was only the practicalities that had to be faced (time ... place), but the words were hard to form. Branch fingered his glass. I wish I liked you better. I wish I thought you were nicer, that you might be kind. I wish ... I wish ... Abruptly, Branch swung off the bar stool. “Nothing goes through me like beer,” he said. His hand rested briefly on Evelyn’s thin shoulder. “Be right back.”

  “See you don’t take too long.”

  “I’ll take it up with my bladder.” They both laughed lightly as Branch looked around, saw the painted sign—GENTS—in the rear of the bar, across from the pizza man. He headed in that direction.

  “Pizza, mister? Wanna pizza? Lotsa cheese, lotsa tomato.”

  Branch shook his head at the little cripple. I’ll bet you’re lying, he thought. I’ll bet the only thing there’s “lotsa” is crust. I’ll bet you’re a liar, but then so am I, so in a way we’re brothers, did you know that? The pizza man stared dully at the glowing juke. No, you don’t know that. We’re both liars, but I’m a coward too, trying to find some strength in the men’s room. “Hey, I heard about a place, Evelyn; it’s called a motel, but ... Why couldn’t he say that? He knew the words. I’ll say it. I will say it. I will find my strength and say it and hope you’ll be kind. Branch glanced over his shoulder at Evelyn. Evelyn smiled. Branch entered the men’s room and went straight to the tin mirror over the rusted sink. He was perspiring heavily, so he turned on the Cold spigot, waiting for the lukewarm water to chill.

  “He’s a cop, Scudder.”

  Branch gripped the rust. He knew that voice. Once it had come from behind a lectern; now it came from behind the closed toilet stall. Once it had linked chemistry and alchemy; now it carried a different message, echoing ... echoing ...

  He’s a cop, Scudder.

  He’s a cop, Scudder.

  He’s a cop, Scudder.

  He’s a cop, Scudder.

  He’s a cop, Scudder.

  Branch died.

  ... the door ... go for the door ... out the door ... the law was out the door ... the law, the law, dear God. Dear, dear God, forgive me, for I didn’t know what I was doing ... what was I doing? ... not the door ... never the door ... Branch turned for sanctuary ... allee allee alltz in freeeeeee ... the window was small and he was big but there was no law outside the window ... Branch threw it open and jumped up ... sill splinters attacked his fingers ... he fell back ... that sound, that terrible inhuman sound, it was coming from his throat ... animal ... he was an animal so he made animal sounds ... Fear out of Guilt sired by Panic ... Branch jumped for the window, forcing his shoulders into the blessed April night ... at Oberlin the boys and girls were walking hand in hand ... his hips caught ... his fat hips jammed the frame ... Love ... I want love ... Branch struggled in the window ... the tough wood pierced his trousers, bruising his flesh ... scraping his flesh ... was he bleeding? ... a trail of blood for the law to follow ... Your son, Mrs. Scudder, I’m afraid I have to tell you about your son, Mrs. Scudder, your son is ... your son is ... Branch fell through the window onto the gravel parking lot ... he hurt ... but he ran ... he ran stumbling over the gravel to the car and when it was started he pointed it home and it carried him all the way ... out the garage and in the door and up the stairs and onto his bed ... Branch lay face down ... his heart ... his poor heart ... his poor caged heart ...

  ... fluttering ...

  The next day he started to diet. He kept at it faithfully and after a week he took to exercising for half an hour before he slept (not with weights, of course. He didn’t want bulging muscles. Someone might suspect that). In a matter of months he had lost over thirty pounds and the flesh by his hips was gone. Branch bought some new clothes, gray suits and tweed jackets, conservatively cut (nothing flashy, nothing with style; someone might suspect that). He had his hair (those few loyal strands) cut short, flat and clean across the top. He got his mother to buy him a new car, a Chevy, but he soon traded that in for a black Thunderbird convertible, paying for the switch himself. And he started with girls. Secretaries, dental technicians, bank tellers, seniors from Oberlin, juniors and sophomores, teachers, librarians, clerks from the dime store; he dated them all. Just so they were pretty, just so they looked “right” (his word) driving through town. Some he liked; some he loathed. About most he felt nothing; they were objects only, live dolls. Some he kissed, some he touched; with more than a few he got into bed (only if they wished it), and at the close of such encounters he always felt as if he had handled himself with at least adequacy, and they solidified his feeling, never once behaving as if he had short-changed them. Doing it—hell, there was no trick to doing it.

  Enjoying it was the problem.

  Then, one January morning, the West Ridge Weekly Sentinel carried an article. “Return from Vacation” was the headline. And beneath: “Looking tanned and happy after two weeks in the Virgin Islands, Mrs. Howard Scudder and her son Branch, one of West Ridge’s most eligible bachelors ... When he read that phrase Branch beamed—he was one of West Ridge’s most eligible bachelors and one of West Ridge’s most eligible bachelors could not ever under any conditions possibly be “that way.” As far as West Ridge was concerned, he was safe. He was someone. He had arrived, no question about that.

  Now, getting out was the problem.

  Branch drove through West Ridge. When he reached Waverly Lane he turned in with customary regret. All the houses were dark, except for his, but that was customary too. Branch picked up speed, the motor roaring, and he wheeled sharply onto the driveway, then braked just as sharply, skidding the last few feet into the garage. Flicking off the ignition, Branch examined his face in the rearview mirror. Annie Wit
hers’ lipstick still clung; his lips were smeared red and there was another long red smudge along his right cheek. Branch got out of the car and entered the house. His mother and grandmother were in the living room, playing casino.

  “Hi, hon,” Rose said, glancing up from the game.

  “Howdy, howdy,” Branch said, and he fell into an easy chair across from the card table. “Up kind of late.”

  “You ever found me asleep when you got home? Anyway, Mother felt like cards.”

  “Branch is home,” Mother Scudder said. She was eighty-three, frail and gray, and her voice was very high.

  “Yes.” Rose nodded. “I know.”

  “Hello, Branch.”

  Branch looked at his father’s mother. “Howdy, howdy.”

  “Your play,” Mother Scudder said.

  “Building sixes,” Rose said.

  “I’ve got one, I’ve got one,” and she took the pile.

  “You’re crafty, Mother.”

  Mother Scudder nodded her head. “I had a six. Right in my hand.”

  “Care for a nightcap?” Branch asked, pulling himself from the chair.

  “Water for me,” Rose said.

  “Water on the rocks coming up.” Branch moved to the bar in the corner of the room, poured some water from a pitcher into a tall glass. Then, before opening the ice bucket, he reached quickly for his handkerchief and rubbed it across his right cheek. He glanced over his shoulder, saw his-mother’s eyes and smiled at them while he jammed the handkerchief” back into his pocket. Taking some ice from the bucket, he filled the glass and brought it to the card table.

  “You’re a sweetheart,” Rose said, and she took a long swallow.

  Branch returned to the bar, first stopping by the record player. In a moment “I Could Have Danced All Night” filled the room.

  “What’s that music?” Mother Scudder said.

  “It’s from that show,” Rose told her.

  “Oh yes. The one with Ezio Pinza.”

  At the bar, Branch made himself a Scotch and water, scrubbed his mouth with his handkerchief, then turned back into the room, walking to me easy chair, slumping down.

  “Such a beautiful man.”

  “Who?” Rose asked.

  “That Ezio Pinza. Dr. Scudder and I saw him once at the Metropolitan Opera House. Building eights.”

  “Get any speeding tickets tonight?” Rose asked.

  “Nope,” Branch said. “Nary a one.”

  “That Annie’s a brave girl, driving with you.”

  “She slept most of the way back from Cleveland.”

  “Later that night we went to an Italian restaurant and he came in.”

  “What, Mother?”

  “This Ezio Pinza I’m telling you about. He came into the same restaurant where we were. Sat at the very next table.”

  “Hey, Annie got a summer job. A music tent and it’ll mostly be just chorus work, but there’s a chance she’ll play a couple of second leads.”

  “She’s a sweetheart, that Annie. You better be careful, Branch. She just might nab you.”

  “She just might.” Branch sipped his Scotch.

  “Who?” Mother Scudder asked.

  “Annie, Mother. You remember her. The sweet little girl Branch had for dinner last week, remember? You liked her.”

  “I liked her,” Mother Scudder said.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s sweet,” Mother Scudder said.

  “Yes,” Rose said again. “That Scotch looks awfully good.”

  “Change your mind?”

  “A weak one, please.” Rose watched as Branch’s handkerchief fell to the rug. She waited for him to retrieve it before resuming playing. “Building sixes again, and don’t you dare, Mother.”

  “I haven’t got a six. I wish I had a six.”

  “Annie’s bought her dress for the prom,” Branch called from the bar. “It cost a lot but she says only an expensive dress can really hide her figure faults.”

  “She’s got a lovely figure, I think,” Rose said.

  “Yes,” Mother Scudder said. “And you can imagine how well he looked on the stage of the Metropolitan.”

  “What’s wrong with her figure, Branch?”

  “I think it’s terrific—here’s your Scotch—but you know how girls are.” He crossed to his chair and sat back, his fingers locked behind his neck. “I think her body’s sensational.”

  Rose put her hands on her waist and inhaled and, in a voice of mock hurt, said, “Better than mine?”

  Branch laughed with her, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.

  Rose downed her drink.

  “Refill?”

  “That one did go awfully easy.”

  Branch took her glass and journeyed to the bar.

  “Big Casino!” Mother Scudder held it high. “You must not be paying any mind, Rose. I got the Big Casino.”

  “Good for you, Mother.”

  “I got the Big Casino, Branch. See?”

  Branch nodded.

  “He didn’t care,” Mother Scudder said.

  “He’s a bridge player, Mother. Casino’s beneath him.”

  Branch brought the drink and set it on the card table. “I happen to like bridge. Is that a crime? Annie and I won five dollars playing last night. At a tenth, too. She’s got terrific card sense, you know what I mean?”

  “She’s a sweetheart,” Rose said.

  “That she is.”

  “It’s my lucky day and he didn’t care. You’re a bad boy, Branch.”

  “I’m terrible.” Branch sat back in the chair, folding his handkerchief in his hand, occasionally bringing it up to his forehead, dabbing it against his dry skin. He kept this up until Rose, with a cry, threw her cards onto the tabletop and Mother Scudder cackled, “I beat, I beat,” over and over. Then the three of them got up and turned off the lights and went to bed, Mother Scudder doing all of the talking.

  The next day was Sunday. Branch spent it with Annie. Most of the afternoon they were at Oberlin, but at cocktail time he drove her to West: Ridge. Rose and Mother Scudder were waiting on the porch and when Annie came in Rose stood and kissed her and introduced her again to the old woman—“You remember Miss Withers, Mother”—and the gray head nodded and said, “She’s sweet,” repeating the phrase throughout the evening. They all drank gin-and-tonic for a while and when it grew dark Branch went out the porch door to the veranda and started the barbecue. In twenty minutes the fire was ready, so he put on the thick sirloin, tending it with professional care. Rose watched as Annie moved from the porch to the veranda, standing very close to Branch, whispering to him, both of them laughing, circling the grill as the smoke pursued them. “She’s sweet,” Mother Scudder said and Rose smiled in assent. Branch said something then that must have been funny, for Annie almost cried with sudden laughter, throwing her arms around Branch. Branch caught her, held her tight, even when the tracking smoke caught them both, framed them in rising white. Only when they started coughing did they break, and Branch looked through the smoke to the old woman sitting alone on the porch. “Rose went to the kitchen,” Mother Scudder said. “Ketchup or something.”

  Or something, Branch thought.

  Monday morning Branch and Rose went to work on schedule, talking amiably about nothing in particular. They worked together in the office until lunch, when Rose excused herself, so Branch ate alone. Rose returned in the middle of the afternoon, humming. She was not, ordinarily, musical, and Branch waited, but no explanation came. They finished work, returned home and had a quiet drink on the porch. After dinner

  Branch excused himself and went up to his room to shower. When he was almost dressed, Rose walked in and sat on the edge of his bed.

  “Date?”

  Branch nodded.

  “Annie?”

  “Annie.”

  “Give her my best.”

  “Will do.” He took his change from the top of his bureau and put it in his pocket. Then he carefully combed his hair, bending
close to the mirror, squinting, making sure the part was right. Rose watched him, stretched on the bed, her hands cupped behind her neck.

  “You’re an Adonis.”

  “Ain’t it the truth.”

  “Be out late?”

  “You never can tell.”

  “Well, listen to him.”

  Branch smiled, starting for the door.

  “Have fun now.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Oh, Branch?”

  “What?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  “About?”

  “Saturday.”

  “What about Saturday?”

  “You busy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s too bad.”

  “Why? What’s too bad?”

  “You remember that nice nurse, Mrs. Cortesi? She’s coming for the weekend to look after Mother.”

  “Why is she coming?”

  “You’re sure you’re busy Saturday?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “That really is too bad. I was lucky getting that nice Mrs. Cortesi on such short notice. Usually she’s busy for weeks in advance.”

  “What does Granny need a nurse for?”

  “You’re absolutely sure you’re busy on Saturday?”

  “It’s the prom. I told you. Annie’s bought a dress specially for it.”

  “Oh, well, you couldn’t miss that.”

  “Miss it? What for?”

  “What kind of dress did she buy?”

  “Green, brown, I don’t know.”

  “I bet it’ll be pretty. Well, I’ll just have to return the tickets.”

  “Tickets?”

  “Yes. It was a silly notion on my part anyway.”

  “Tickets for what?”

  “That show. That musical.”

  “There’s no musical in Cleveland.”

  “I don’t remember saying anything about Cleveland.”

  “What musical? What musical?”

  “Leslie Howard played it in the movies.”

  “You’ve got tickets for My Fair Lady?”

  “I’ve got tickets for My Fair Lady.”

  “Saturday night?”

  “Saturday night.”

  “New York?”

  “New York.”

  Poor Annie.

  They stayed at the Plaza (Branch’s choice), arriving on Friday night, too late for the theater but not too late for a walk, after unpacking, across Central Park South to Broadway, then down Broadway, down through the theater district to 44th Street and Sardi’s, where Branch thought he saw Rex Harrison and Rose ate spaghetti with meat sauce. After Branch’s third stinger, they left the restaurant and returned to the hotel, where Rose, exhausted, slept till after ten, finding, on awakening, a note from her son saying that he was off to the Frick and not to worry, but she did, and when he finally returned, at noon, babbling about some Greco cardinal, she was undecided as to whether to hug him or shout him down to size, choosing the former, after some hesitation, with only a twinge of regret. They lunched at the Waldorf-Astoria (once she had honeymooned there) and went to the Radio City Music Hall (her choice) in the afternoon. That night they saw My Fair Lady and it was every bit what everybody said it was. Originally they planned to return on Sunday because Annie was graduating Tuesday afternoon, but they were having such a good time that Rose decided, then insisted, they stay the week, so after Branch was convinced they extended their reservation at the Plaza and Sunday was spent in Greenwich Village watching the artists and The Threepenny Opera at night, which Rose thought was dirty but never told Branch because he loved it and would only have chided her for her prudish ways. Monday it rained, so they shopped, taxiing from Brooks Brothers (Branch got a coat, dark tweed) to Saks (where Rose almost got a dress but it wasn’t quite the right shade of green) to Bendel’s (still not the right shade) and then around the corner to Bergdorf’s, where Branch selected a pair of high heels for his mother which he promised made her legs equal to Mistinguette’s. They lunched at the Plaza and then took a long hansom cab ride in the rain, finally returning to the hotel and napping until it was time for the theater. Tuesday they museumed, the Metropolitan and the Modern Art, and after lunch they toured the galleries and Rose had to keep Branch in tow lest he buy something, not that she couldn’t have afforded to please him, but the thought of hanging some pointless paint splattering in her nice clean house (she would have to hang it if she bought it) or, worse, having to look at the thing all her life pulled her purse strings tight. Wednesday (Rose was wearying) Rose slept late, letting her son roam, but they met at a matinee and saw something (she could no longer keep them straight) and ate someplace, and then saw something else, and before she slept that night she made two plane reservations home for the following evening, Thursday. Thursday morning she mentioned to Branch that she might like to go home soon and what did he think? And he thought no! Not yet! And she allowed as to how she didn’t want to push him but if they could get tickets for a plane out that night she was going to take them, and when it turned out (surprise) that she could indeed get tickets she demolished his objections with a few well-chosen words and napped while he voyaged through the city, trying to get everything done in one thin afternoon. Branch ran through the heat and urged his taxi drivers to great speeds, tipping them well, because what did money matter when the city was being taken away from him and he had so much to do. He drove north to the Cloisters, south to the Staten Island Ferry, then north again for a final run through Greenwich Village, then north and east and a quick sad look at the Biltmore Bar. There was too much, too much to see, but he tried. He saw the lobby of the Mark Hellinger (I could have danced all night) and he saw the bar at Sardi’s (empty). He saw the Greek’s Toledo. He saw the shops on Fifth, the movie houses on Broadway. He saw Central Park. He saw Picasso’s Guernica, the UN from the roof of the Beekman Tower, a Chippendale chair up for auction at Parke-Bernet. He saw poodles in Sutton Place, cats in Washington Square, blue girls from Brearley, black ones from 125th. He saw women, fair-skinned (Park Avenue), foul-mouthed (Garment District); he saw brittle men, mean men, rich men, beggar men. And, quite by accident, for but a few, few minutes late on that last afternoon, he saw: Aaron.