The Novels of William Goldman

by William Goldman

  Rudy stopped and for a moment, lifted his bloody face, trying to locate something, and then he started to crawl again, saying “Father ...? Father ...?” as he moved painfully along.

  Everybody scattered and Esther clutched her heart but Sid, frozen, retreated toward the window, watching his son crawl toward him.

  “Father ...? Father ...?”

  When Rudy was almost on him, Sid supplied the second scream.

  “DIE!”

  The third scream came immediately after, and it was Branch’s, and probably he meant some word but none was distinguishable. He simply ran across the room, and when he was above the quiet form he dropped beside it and gathered it into his arms and began to keen, and when Rose came over and tried to lead him away she discovered Branch would not let go.

  In a moment all save five people had moved quietly out of the room, standing like cattle in the hot foyer. Branch, of course, had not moved, continuing to keen, his face now buried in the neck of the dead. And Sid was still standing by the window. Esther, still clutching her heart, stared at her husband, and Rose, panting from her labors, tried dislodging her son.

  But Branch just would not let go.

  Jenny watched it all from the foyer. Then she whirled, bolting for the bedroom phone, calling Boston. She waited, eyes closed. When she got the law firm where Tommy was working the summer she said, “Mr. Alden, please,” and then, when his voice came on the line, she said, “Tommy?”

  “Hello, Jenny. How’s the play?”

  “Well, there’s been some ... a postponement, maybe, and I wondered if you loved me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then marry me.”

  “I’m married.”

  “Auh?”

  “I didn’t know how to tell you, Jenny. I guess I was trying to hint around that day when I called you after your name was in the paper. See, it’s all kind of, I don’t know, a mess, except she’s very nice except it more or less had to happen, the marriage, if you get what I mean, and I haven’t told anybody but I’m thinking of going north around Labor Day and surprising people.”

  “You be happy,” Jenny said.

  “You too, Moose.”

  “I am.”

  “So’m I.”

  “Good for us,” Jenny said, and after she’d hung up she went over to the bed and lay down. She had no idea how long she stayed there, but the next thing she knew a slender Negro was asking her please to come to the living room and, since he was a policeman, she went, and he thanked her, explaining that someone in the neighboring building had seen something on the fire escape and had called the police, and, as she was leaving the room, Tony appeared from the bathroom in what probably was Branch’s bathrobe, and Tony asked what was going on, and when Jenny told her Tony went into the bathroom and told Walt, green by now, that Rudy was dead and Branch had likely cracked and there was a Negro cop outside asking questions.

  Walt, in pain over the bowl, only wondered what the punch line was.

  The questioning took a long time. Nobody knew much of anything, but they had to be asked anyway, and the eventual conclusion was that R. V. Miller had probably slipped from the fire escape where he was wont to linger and was, in any case, dead. Long before the questioning was concluded a doctor was summoned and, after brief consultation with the police and Mrs. Scudder, gave her son a shot, which soon loosened his hold, and he was then carried unconscious to the bedroom and allowed to rest there. Charley Fiske of Kingsway Press arrived shortly before the doctor, having been summoned, he said, by the playwright Aaron Fire, who, as the police were finishing up, gave a moving speech about the future of Madonna with Child, that future being, as far as he was concerned, absolutely and totally nil, since the script had been more or less commissioned by Branch Scudder and since Branch, even if he were in condition to continue with the production, would never do so, since he saw only the deceased in one of the two central roles. Consequently, the playwright concluded, out of respect for the dead and the maimed, he was withdrawing the play from presentation, which was his contractual right. The actress in the other central role was more than a little upset by the playwright’s moving gesture but was at least partially soothed by the editor of the deceased. The question of body disposal was settled quickly, when Esther Miller said “The boy will be buried beside his grandfather!” with such force that Sidney Miller argued but briefly about interstate costs, and, that over, Campbell’s Funeral Church was called and soon came, and Sid urged them on to their greatest effort, and Campbell’s, used to parental grief, agreed to do its best.

  By the conclusion of all this, the rising of the moon was complete, and as the police released them the people scattered. Walt and Tony were among the first to go and Walt did fine on the elevator trip down, supporting himself, but outside, the first strong breath of night heat made him woozy. He grabbed a building facade for support, stayed there gasping until Tony slipped his arm around her shoulder, shifted the brunt of his weight against her hip. Walt was still reluctant to leave the safety of the building, but at Tony’s urging he gathered courage and in a moment, when he felt himself properly propped, he let go and leaned on her completely as they moved along.

  “Don’t let go,” Walt told her.

  Tony said “Never.”

  Jenny left as soon as she heard Charley calling Princeton. She dashed out the door, and when the automatic elevator was slow to obey she ran down the six flights and out into the night. Charley, when he ran down the stairs a few minutes later, found her sitting on the front steps of the building.

  “I’m through running,” Jenny explained. “I’m through hiding. I can say good night to you like a human being. That’s why I stopped.”

  Charley sat down beside her. “I couldn’t agree more” he said. “That was what I was running to tell you.”

  “We had our chances,” Jenny said. “They are gone. I’ll never get involved with you. Not again.”

  “Don’t worry; I’m involved with another woman now and thank God this time it’s my wife.”

  “I’ll never work for you again either.”

  “I wouldn’t fire my new girl. She’s forty-five and homely and we get along just fine. We’re staffed completely, except Archie has an opening coming up.”

  “He does?” She shook her head. “I could never work for Archie Wesker.”

  Charley stood. “I’m gonna be rude and not even offer to walk you home. And I’m sorry about the play.”

  Jenny nodded. “I wonder if it was any good,” she said. “Only one person ever really saw it. It’s kind of silly to take the word of one person.” She stood. “Good night, Charley. And I’m glad you’re not walking me home.” She shook his hand and started across the street into Riverside Park.

  “Is that safe at night?” Charley called.

  “I hope so,” Jenny called back. “I only go through the park for half the way.”

  “I’ll walk you halfway home, then.”

  Jenny waited for him to cross to her.

  They slipped into the shadows.

  Sid and Esther were the last to leave. They sat quietly in the living room, talking softly to Rose, or rather Sid talked, Esther remaining silent, coddling her grief in private, Sid assumed. So they talked, scrambling for things in common, all the time staring at that one thing they did share, the spot on the rug where their children had lain. The spot held them, and though once they certainly would have fought over it, or over what it represented, now they just sat, old and tired and staring. But finally, inevitably, Sid said “Well ...” and Rose answered him in kind, “Well ...” and though no one made a move, the ending was at hand.

  “So if you’re ever near Chicago,” Sid said, leaving the rest.

  “Thank you. Or you Cleveland.”

  “Who can tell?” Sid muttered.

  So did Rose. “Who can tell?”

  Then they stood, Sid helping Esther, Rose accompanying them to the door. “I’m sure your son will be fine,” Sid said.

  R
ose nodded. “Oh yes. Once I get him home.”

  “So will Rudy,” Esther said. “Once I get him home.”

  Sid opened the door. “I meant that about Chicago.” He pushed for the automatic elevator.

  “If you’re ever near Cleveland,” Rose said, and she waved and said good night and shut the door. Sighing, she moved toward the bedroom, taking off her green dress as she went. She took off her girdle and heaved another sigh, and then she took a bathrobe from her son’s closet. Rose went into the bedroom. The moonlight was very bright and she pulled a chair up close beside the bed and lowered herself into it.

  Branch had such a lovely face. Rose smiled, put her hands on her stomach, preparing herself for her nightlong vigil. Softly, in a voice so sweet it surprised her, she began to sing:

  “Comin home ...

  Comin’ home ...

  Branch is comin’ home ...

  Mother’s there ...

  Gramma too ...

  All the friends we knew ...

  When the automatic elevator finally came, Sid bowed Esther into it, entered himself, pushed the button marked “Main.” They rode down in silence, and when they were almost ready to get out Esther said, “Murderer!”

  Sid, lost in thought, didn’t hear her quite.

  “Murderer!”

  “What are you talking about, Tootsie?”

  “Murderer! Murderer!”

  “Esther—”

  “You killed my son!”

  Sid pulled her through the lobby. “Get you to the hotel,” he said. “Fast.”

  On the street, Esther hollered, “MURDERER!”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying, shut up—”

  “Oh God,” Esther said, and she moved in on him. “You killed my Rudy. I know it. I know it. You made him die.”

  “Esther, for crissake—”

  “I have never dreamed I could hate you the way I hate you now!”

  “We’ve all had a helluva shock, Es—”

  “I love it. I love it. I love it, MURDERER!”

  Sid started walking away up the street.

  “MURDERER! MURDERER!”

  Sid whirled. “You want to get us both arrested?”

  “You and your goddam Dolly. You and your goddam girlfriend, you can kiss her goodbye, Sid. I’ll never leave you, Sid. Never for an instant. Never. I’ll be with you always, MURDERER!”

  “You’re crazy.” Starting to panic, Sid backed away.

  Esther ran at him, eyes bright. “I’ll never leave you. Never leave your side. Oh God, Sid, I’m so happy—” Esther clapped her hands, and for a moment, as she reached out for her husband, she looked almost young. She took his arm, locked it in hers. “Isn’t it wonderful?” Esther crowed. “I’ve got something to live for at last!”

  XXVI

  I WAS BORN FOR CAVIAR, Aaron decided.

  It was the twelfth of August and he stood in a corner of Stagpole’s stateroom, piling a cracker indecently high with fresh Beluga caviar. He downed it, quickly filled a slender glass with iced champagne, downed that too. Delicately, Aaron wiped his mouth. Glancing around the room, he counted a grand total of eleven people, ten of them famous. Well, Aaron thought, give me time.

  In the center of the room, Stagpole inserted a cigarette into his holder, then looked at Aaron.

  Aaron hesitated, trying not to redden. Hurrying forward, he lit Stagpole’s cigarette. As he moved he was conscious of all the other men’s eyes.

  “Thank you, dear boy,” Stagpole said, inhaling.

  Aaron said nothing, moving quickly back to his place in the corner by the food. Again he was aware that everyone was watching him, probably comparing him with previous “secretaries” of Stagpole’s. And, the snotty bastards, they were laughing at him too. Aaron knew that. Every burst of laughter was in one way or another directed at him.

  “Dear boy,” Stagpole called out, “do you think it might be time for more champagne?”

  Aaron flushed deeper, silently cursing himself for reddening. They were all watching him again, so he casually picked up a bottle of champagne and took a very long time to study the label. The words meant nothing to him. I must learn about such things, Aaron decided. I must become une frigging connoisseur. Then he toured the room as fast as he could, filling a few glasses before returning to his place in the corner.

  “Thank you, dear boy,” Stagpole said to him, smiling.

  That makes forty-two “dear boys” today so far, Buster, and for every one of them, buddy old pal, you are going to pay. He smiled back at Stagpole, wishing that the boat would sail, that everyone would get the hell out and stop smirking at him.

  A uniformed flunky appeared in the doorway. “Packages for Mr. Stagpole,” he said.

  Stagpole interrupted his conversation with a wavy-haired symphony conductor, a bearded choreographer and a dirty-fingernailed young Broadway lyricist long enough to snap his fingers at Aaron.

  Eyes down, Aaron hurried to the door, listening as a derisive burst of laughter exploded behind him. Finger snaps count as five “dear boys,” Aaron thought, and that makes forty-seven I owe you. “I’m Mr. Stagpole’s secretary,” he said to the uniformed flunky. Aaron looked at the pile of boxes stacked in the corridor. “All for Mr. Stagpole?”

  The flunky nodded.

  “Well, bring them in, bring them in,” Aaron said, snapping his fingers, pointing toward the corner of the room already containing Stagpole’s luggage. When the boxes were neatly piled, Aaron said “You may go” as haughtily as he could, considering everyone was watching him and laughing at him and he was the one man out of eleven who wasn’t famous.

  The warning whistle blew for the third time and, in a moment, a slow general movement began toward the stateroom door. “Oh, must you?” Stagpole said. He sighed. “I suppose you must. That or come along,” and he gave a light laugh, moving to the doorway then, nodding and smiling, gripping each passing hand, giving each a meaningful little squeeze. “Dear heart ... take care ... you too ... goodbye ... we must ... by all means ... you know I will ... don’t you dare ... so good of you ...” and the men filing out said “Goodbye” or “Nonsense” or “Till Bimini, then” or “Remember me to Nadia.” When they were gone Stagpole closed the door and leaned against it.

  Stagpole smiled at Aaron.

  Aaron turned his back, piled another cracker high with caviar, took his time about eating it because, in truth, he was a bit flustered since, through his own skillful maneuverings, he had managed never to be alone with Stagpole before.

  “The first time we’ve really been alone,” Stagpole said.

  Aaron turned. “Is it?”

  Stagpole nodded. “I wanted it that way. I wanted our initial venture to take place on water. Don’t ask me why.”

  “Repression is the better part of valor,” Aaron said.

  Stagpole laughed. “May I use that? Thank you. Why don’t you like my friends?”

  “Same reason I don’t like you: natural good taste.”

  Stagpole stopped laughing. “Please. Don’t be nervous.”

  “Nervous?” Aaron laughed. “May I use that? Thank you.”

  Stagpole smiled, went to the windows, drew the curtains. “I feel like I’ve been standing up for hours,” he said, lying on one of the twin beds. “Massage my feet, would you, Aaron?”

  “Who was your nigger last year? You can massage your own feet.”

  “Please?”

  “Look,” Aaron said, pouring himself another glass of champagne. “You needed a secretary, I know how to type—”

  “Massaging my feet is not such an incredible request.”

  “I signed on as secretary, not a goddam masseur.”

  “Surely you didn’t think answering mail and such would be your only duties?”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get your jollies every now and again.”

  Stagpole shook his head. “You’re a stern young man,” he said. “Very stern.” He got up and moved to the corner where the boxes were. “You r
emember my having your measurements taken?” he said. “Sit down, Aaron. Please.”

  Aaron sat on the other bed.

  Stagpole began opening boxes. He opened them and threw the contents on the bed, starting with silk underwear and cashmere socks, a dozen pairs, and Aaron grabbed them, but then he had to let them go because Stagpole put down a dozen silk shirts and after the shirts came three lizard belts and bench-made shoes and trousers of imported woolens and cashmere jackets, one brown, one white, and Aaron began putting clothes half on, throwing them off, donning something else more splendid, and when Stagpole opened the cashmere overcoat of darkest blue Aaron almost wept as he paraded before the full-length mirror. He ran back and jumped onto the bed and threw the clothes up in the air and when they landed, threw them again and then he returned to the mirror and Stagpole, watching, only smiled.

  “Am I not breathtaking?” Aaron yelled. “Am I not divine?” He whirled on Stagpole. “Why? I love it, but why?”

  Stagpole lay back down, his hands beneath his fiery hair. “People like us, we have no heirs to leave our money to. We need only satisfy the government; the rest is for our whims. You—” and he pointed at Aaron—“are my very dearest whim.”

  “I’m gonna enter the goddam Miss America contest,” Aaron said. He paraded before the mirror. “Miss America, that’s me,” and he made smiling faces toward the mirror till Stagpole spoke again.

  “Please massage my feet, Aaron.”

  Aaron took off the cashmere coat, dropped it to the stateroom floor, kicked it in Stagpole’s direction. “Kiss my rosy red rectum,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” Stagpole muttered, and he sighed and picked up the coat and carried it back to Aaron, handing it to him with his left hand, and as Aaron reached out for it Stagpole made his right hand rigid and, swinging suddenly, crashed it against Aaron’s throat.