The Novels of William Goldman

by William Goldman

  I’ve got no patience with you, Pete. Not with you, not with me. I’ve edited this scene fifty times in my life and every time I edit it I have no patience with the damn man and his breast-beating, because this is a world in which you get what you pay for, so just forget what you did, because Jenny has by now, probably, and if she has, she’s smart, so you be smart too. You’re not the office stud like Archie Wesker. It may kill you to admit it, but you’ve done some things you can be proud of.

  You’re not a bastard! We know that already!

  What he wanted, suddenly, was somebody to hit, hard, except he didn’t do that kind of thing, but he wanted to anyway, the feeling was there, so naturally he thought about the night he first met Connie. He was living all alone in a cell of an apartment between Tenth and Eleventh in the West Forties, and his one and only novel, his bad book about the war, had just begun its string of rejections. He was just six months out of the University of Chicago and when he got the invitation to the Covington Academy reunion he decided not to go several times before he went. The reunion was set for a room in the Yale Club, and as he sat in his cell and fingered his invitation Charley felt very alone and wildly poor. The loneliness he was used to; the loneliness he could cope with.

  Not so the poverty.

  True, he had been born poor, poor in a rich kid’s world, but that was all so long ago. Nobody cared in the Army and nobody cared at Chicago, and when he came to New York to live the shock of being poor again was sudden and cold and lingering. So he decided not to go, but then he changed his mind, and as he entered the room at the Yale Club he realized how right he had been the first time. He would have left then, turned and slipped out, except someone said “Charley” and took his arm and steered him into the crowd at the bar. Everyone was very well dressed, but so, he told himself, was he. Didn’t he have on his good suit? Besides, from the outside, who could tell a thing about the lining? Charley ordered a Scotch and looked around. There were a number of pretty girls, some of them wives, some just girls, and the men were sleek and handsome, so Charley moved quietly to the edge of things, standing alone, watching all the rich kids play. When the totally unfamiliar girl began walking toward him he tried frantically to remember who she was, but he couldn’t. “You’re Charley Fiske,” she said.

  “How are you, you look marvelous, great to see you,” Charley said, feeling completely phony and blissfully at home in the Yale Club.

  “No,” she said, and she flushed. “No, we’ve never met. I watched you play, though. You were the fullback.”

  “I’m sorry,” Charley muttered.

  “Forget it.”

  “No, you don’t understand, coming on the way I did. I don’t do things like that.”

  “Except you just did.”

  “Except I just did.”

  “I’m Connie Donaldson. I’m here with Timmy Brubaker.”

  That surprises me, Charley thought. Because you’re not pretty enough, and until you told me who you were here with, I thought you might be nice. “Good old Tim.”

  “Yes. Well, he sent me here to fetch you.”

  “Good old Tim.”

  “Yes. Well, he’d like to talk to you but he’s all tied up with that group over there and he can’t get away.”

  “Consider me fetched,” Charley said. They moved across the room. “What’s Tim doing nowadays?”

  “Nothing. I mean, he’s in his father’s business. I don’t know what he’s doing. Ask him what he’s doing. What are you doing?”

  Charley said nothing. Then Timmy Brubaker stood before them, tall and casual, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other, chatting quietly with the Keeler twins, Ronald and Donald, who flanked him on either side, a mirror Army. Several others milled around Timmy, who was, to Charley’s disgust, both better- and richer-looking than anyone had any legal right to be.

  “Hello, Fiske,” Timmy Brubaker said when it was Charley’s turn.

  Charley nodded, wondering if Timmy remembered the day when he said, “That isn’t real suede.”

  “What are you up to these days?”

  Charley shrugged.

  “School?”

  “Chicago. University of. The.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Thank you. I’ll write Bob.”

  “Bob?”

  “Hutchins.”

  “Ah,” Timmy said. “A joke.”

  I may just kill you, Charley thought.

  “How was your war?” Timmy asked.

  “My what?”

  “You were in, weren’t you? Did you fly? I flew.”

  “Yes, I was in. No, I didn’t fly.”

  “I heard you did well.”

  I believe it, Charley thought, and he looked around at the room in the Yale Club because it helped him envision the world where one man might say to another, “Do you remember Fiske? The football ox, the janitor’s son? I hear he did well in the war.”

  “I really don’t like you,” Charley said, and as he said it he thought, I’ll bet you don’t hear me.

  “Good to see you, Fiske,” Timmy Brubaker said. “You’re looking well.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I made a bet with myself and I won. So I said ‘bingo.’ ”

  “Ah.” He got ready to turn. “Perhaps we’ll run into each other again.”

  “I’m unfetched?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Do you remember a jacket of mine? A suede jacket?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t real.”

  Charley unloaded. He was a trifle overweight at the time, two hundred and thirty, but he was by no means fat, and his hands were hard, and Timmy Brubaker said “Oof” as Charley’s left entered his stomach, “Ahh” as Charley’s right contacted his chin. Then he fell into the arms of Ronald or Donald Keeler.

  “Hey!” the free Keeler cried.

  “And that goes for your cat too,” Charley said, and he swung from his heels and connected and as his opponent slumped Charley whirled, thinking he had best get the hell out because he had caused a disturbance at his prep-school reunion and he didn’t do things like that.

  He walked back to the bar and ordered another Scotch. Then he moved to a chair and sat down. He sipped his drink, staring at Timmy Brubaker, who, visibly distressed, was lying sprawled in the middle of the floor in the middle of the room in the middle of the Yale Club.

  Charley beamed.

  “How can you smile like that?”

  Charley studied Connie Donaldson a moment. She seemed to be angry, so he stopped looking at her face, which was all right, not a great face, not bad, and concentrated on her body. But she was wearing one of those black dresses that make it hard to tell.

  “What did Timmy Brubaker ever do to you?”

  “He insulted ...” My poverty, Charley was about to say. “He insulted me.”

  “He did not. I was right there. I heard every word he said. When did he insult you?”

  “Twenty years ago.”

  “Twenty—”

  “I’m very moral. I believe in punishing the bad guys whenever possible. Sometimes it takes a while.”

  “I think you ought to apologize to Timmy Brubaker.”

  “What was your name?”

  “Connie. Connie Donaldson and I think you ought to apologize to Timmy Brubaker.”

  “Oh, screw Timmy Brubaker.”

  She looked at him for a long time. “He is kind of awful,” she said finally.

  “What are you doing out with him?”

  “What do you mean, what am I doing out with him?”

  “Just what I said. What are you doing out with him?”

  “He asked me! I’m twenty-four years of age and I’m single and when a boy asks me to go out with him, I go!”

  “Any boy?”

  “Within reason.”

  “Am I within reason?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then go out with me.”

  “When?”

  “Now.” />
  “But I’m with Timmy Brubaker.” She looked at Charley for a long time. “Oh, screw Timmy Brubaker,” she whispered finally and, immediately thereafter, blushed. Then she said, “I’m embarrassed, so please ...” And then she said, “Except I don’t want to make a thing out of it. I don’t like that. Do you like that? People who make things out of things? I don’t. I don’t even know quite what I’m saying, but I’d most enjoy going someplace with you except that if I think about it I probably won’t, because I shouldn’t, so get me out of here.”

  Charley got her out of there.

  They spent the next few hours exploring Grand Central Station, because it was right across the street and because you could explore it for nothing and because, most of all, Charley had always planned on someday spending an evening exploring Grand Central Station. They did not take sixteen trains which traveled eventually through a total of thirty-seven states and would have cost them, had they been married and gone in style, more than three thousand dollars, not counting meals.

  When they finally did take a train it was the shuttle, across town to Times Square, where they transferred to the uptown Broadway express, getting off at 96th Street, walking quietly to Connie’s apartment, on the top floor of a five-story brownstone on 94th Street, between Broadway and West End. Her place was bigger than his, but still small, and the furniture, though in good taste, was obviously Salvation Army Modern. Before he said good night he asked her out for the following evening, Monday, and she graciously accepted, and on Monday evening he asked her out for Tuesday, on Tuesday for Wednesday. They continued, nightly, to go out, but after Wednesday he stopped asking; there didn’t seem to be any real reason to ask. They both assumed that when they had free time they would spend it together, and together they endured the winter, welcomed the spring.

  What he liked about her, among other things, was that she was poor. Among the other things were: a certain attractiveness, a certain wit, a definite desire to be kind. But the main thing was her poverty. They were poor, the both of them, so he didn’t have to be embarrassed if his collar was frayed, his sports coat slightly out of style. And when he was able actually to spend some money, on a steak dinner or a balcony seat at a play, she appreciated it.

  What he didn’t like about her, among other things, was that she was poor. Among the other things were: she admired him too much and excited him too little, though the former bothered him only occasionally, the latter less than that. But the main thing was her poverty. He respected her and her aims. He had known many who claimed an interest in social work, but Connie was the only one who actually did it for a living. What kind of a living, though? Charley plagued himself with that question. He had no money, neither did she, so whenever he thought about the kind of future they might have together he quickly changed the subject.

  All in all he liked her a great deal more than not. She liked him too, or so he assumed, but the exact extent of her caring was something he more or less ignored until the day she said, obviously embarrassed, that she thought it might not be a half bad idea, if he didn’t mind, for him to meet her parents. He didn’t mind—why should he mind?—so it was arranged for the following Sunday.

  Late Sunday morning, precisely on schedule, he picked her up, and she kissed him full on the mouth, which surprised him, since she ordinarily didn’t do that kind of thing. He told her she looked very pretty, which was almost true, and she examined his clothing with quiet concentration before finally nodding, one time, and kissing him again. They walked down the five flights and when they reached the street she took his hand and kissed it, explaining that although she ordinarily found him irresistible most of the time, she found him particularly irresistible on warm Sundays in April, but that he shouldn’t be at all surprised, since it was a trait that ran in the women of her family, finding men particularly irresistible on warm Sundays in April and—

  “What are you so nervous about?” Charley said.

  “I’m not nervous. Who’s nervous? Just because I’m babbling doesn’t mean I’m nervous. Some people babble when they’re perfectly relaxed and I’m of that ilk. Did you know I was of that ilk? ‘Ilk’ is a funny word. Don’t you think ‘ilk’ is a—”

  “Your folks won’t hate me. I’ll charm them or die in the attempt.”

  “I know you will. But that’s not what I’m nervous about.”

  “Then what is?”

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  “Forgotten.”

  “Listen, the thing is I’m rich.”

  “Rich?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You mean really rich?”

  “I guess so.”

  “You mean you’ve got money?”

  “Yes. I’ve got money. I’m rich.”

  “Then what are you living in a fifth-floor walk-up on the West Side for? You’re eccentric?”

  “I would have said ‘independent.’ ”

  “Independent, eccentric, you’re loaded, right?”

  “Right.”

  “How loaded?”

  “Sufficiently.”

  “One million, two million, five, ten, what?”

  “Less than five.”

  “But more than two?”

  “I guess so.”

  “More than two?”

  “Charley—”

  “Wow.”

  “Charley—”

  “Then what were you so nervous about?”

  “When?”

  “A little bit ago.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on. You were nervous. Why?”

  “Oh, because.”

  “Care to amplify that?”

  “Well, because I hadn’t told you before and I thought you might be a little upset that I’d lied to you all this time.”

  “A little upset? Listen: tell me you’re a leper, I might be a little upset. But tell me you got two million dollars, what the hell have I got to be upset about?”

  “Nothing. But you are.”

  “Where do they live, your folks? Fifth, Park, or both?” He looked at Connie. “That was supposed to be a joke.” He smiled.

  She returned it. “Then you’re not mad.”

  “I’ll tell you the absolute truth: it doesn’t bother me one way or the other.” They turned the corner and started walking toward the crosstown bus. A moment later a cab drove by.

  Charley hailed it.

  The Donaldson apartment, it turned out, was on neither Fifth nor Park but on Beekman Place, and as soon as he heard Connie giving the driver the address Charley began to prepare himself: the living room would be large and expensively furnished, the dining room too; there would perhaps be a large terrace with an unobstructed view of the East River; there would undoubtedly be servants. He thought on and on, because it was important that nothing come as a surprise because it didn’t matter that Connie (suddenly) had money because a janitor’s son could be just as civilized as anybody else.

  But as soon as they walked through the front door Charley panicked. The Donaldsons’ foyer was bigger than his entire apartment. Charley hurried after Connie, but as they entered the living room he stopped. The room was filled with vases, great, elegant vases, and Charley knew he was so clumsy he was going to break one, and then he thought he had undergone all this before. At some other time, in some other place, he had stood, trembling in fear of breaking a great, elegant thing, and then he remembered what it was, and it was Prince Myshkin, Dostoevski’s poor idiot, who had trembled in fear, and Myshkin’s fear had come true, and Charley whispered “Connie!” and she stopped and came back to him and smiled as he took her hand.

  The Donaldsons were waiting for them on the terrace. Charley made his way through the hellos, but in the ensuing pause he heard himself saying how nice and “unobstructed” the view was, and as he said it he knew he sounded like an ass, so he blushed and shut up, feeling like the fool of all the world until from somewhere he heard his father saying that you gotta not be ashamed, and for just a moment he felt
hot tears behind his eyes, but he blinked them gone, and after that he was quite himself again.

  He entered the conversation and, in a few moments, found himself leading it. He spoke quietly, easily, about nothing in particular: football, fashion, the war, the peace. He accepted a daiquiri when it was offered him, refused a second when that time came. A servant appeared and Mrs. Donaldson suggested they have brunch, so they all moved to the end of the terrace and sat down beneath a large striped umbrella. Charley stared out at the East River and thought about things. Brunch was simple—eggs and livers and bacon and toast and marmalade and champagne—and as he sipped his third glass Charley suddenly stopped and realized that it didn’t matter at all, Connie’s money, except that he could never, not in all his life, remember having had a nicer meal.

  When brunch was done Charley was aware that the ladies seemed to be making excuses for leaving, and he wondered why, until he decided that the reason must be because it was time for the two of them to have a “talk,” Mr. Donaldson and he, except they really hadn’t anything to talk about. But by then Mr. Donaldson was talking.

  “Connie’s in love with you.”

  “How do you know?” Charley wished he had drunk less champagne. Or more.

  “By your presence. You’re the first one she’s brought here. Like this. She’s rather ashamed of us, you know.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Oh, she likes us well enough. We’re all really quite close. In our own way.”

  Charley nodded and stared at the older man. Mr. Donaldson was probably fifty-five, but he looked a good ten years younger. His face was pleasant although at one time, years before, he was probably strikingly handsome.

  “Actually,” Mr. Donaldson said, “I knew of Connie’s feelings a good deal before she brought you. She’s told us about you, of course. Everything, I imagine. In the most disgustingly praiseworthy way. I was quite prepared to loathe you on sight.” He smiled. “To my horror, I find you altogether likable.”

  Charley nodded and he smiled back at Mr. Donaldson and then suddenly he stopped smiling, because he realized that the older man was waiting for him to say something. “You’re waiting for me to say something.”