The Novels of William Goldman

by William Goldman

  Somebody yelled something about the cops so they all rushed for the door, Johnny Hunkley in the middle, being carried along by the crowd. Fee was trying to get up when Zock and I reached him. “Meet me out in back,” he said. So, without another word, we went there and waited. Nobody else came up to Fee. The gang from Crystal City had already gone, probably with Johnny Hunkley, although I never knew for sure.

  Zock and I waited a long time before we heard footsteps. It was Fee, walking quickly toward us, carrying a satchel in his hand. He came up and stood there smiling, big as God.

  “California, here I come,” he said.

  “You burned your bridges,” Zock said, shaking hands good-by.

  “I did that,” Fee laughed. “I did that very thing.” He turned to me. “So long, Euripides,” he said. Then he was gone. In a minute, the night had swallowed him up, and all that was left was the click of his heels on the pavement, the sound of his humming in the air.

  So Zock and I got drunk, which was our way of wishing him bon voyage, good luck, and God be with you. Zock never saw Felix Brown again. I did. But that comes later and right now I’ve said all I want about the boys I knew at the time. Not that there weren’t others, for there were, lots of them, and more as the years went by. But that summer something happened to me and it changed my whole life. What happened, naturally, was just this:

  Girls.

  The Girls

  I HAVE TO START this with Helen Twilly.

  Who was a freshman in the college when I first knew her, and a very easy person to describe. Helen Twilly had huge cans. Now ordinarily, in this day and age, that should be enough to make a girl reasonably popular. But not Helen. For her face wasn’t much and neither was her figure, her butt also being very large. Her cans were so big, though, that it made you forget most of the rest. Zock and I used to refer to other girls’ with her name. “Twillies,” we called them. But that was later.

  The reason I met her at all was because of my mother. I was in the seventh grade at the time, when, out of the blue, my mother decided that I should have piano lessons. It was, I suppose, a last-ditch attempt on her part to bring some culture into my life. Culture, even today, is not one of my strongest points and I had less of it then. Anyway, my mother had a long talk with me one night at supper, beating around the bush, going on about the importance of the arts, especially music. Finally, she came out with it: I was to take piano lessons. My father had asked at the college for someone who might give them to me and had come up with Miss Twilly. So, in spite of anything I could do, the lessons began.

  The first one was the worst. Mainly because my mother insisted on staying in the room while Miss Twilly gave me the business about scales. They were as far as I ever got, scales, but nobody knew it then. I sat there, sweating, pounding away on our little upright piano with Miss Twilly beside me, smiling over at my mother who smiled back, and I don’t know how. For my ear has never been very good as far as music is concerned. The reason I stopped taking piano was because it turned out I was tone deaf. This has never been a heavy cross for me to bear, but it did come as a blow to my mother who, I think, honestly had visions of me being a child prodigy and knocking them dead at Carnegie Hall.

  “You must cup your hands, Raymond,” Miss Twilly said to me that day. “Cup them over the keyboard.”

  “Sure thing,” I said, doing as I was told. Which didn’t make the scales sound any better since, being tone deaf, I was never sure when I did something right or not.

  “Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do,” Miss Twilly sang along. “No, Raymond. La. La.” And she hit the correct note.

  “La,” I said. “La, la, la.” And I pounded away on that poor key.

  “Not so hard, Raymond,” Miss Twilly pleaded, smiling at my mother. “Gently. We must learn to caress the keys. As though they were our friends.”

  And that was how it went for the first lesson. I wasn’t as unhappy about it as I might have been, for I knew from the start that I was never going to play at Carnegie Hall or any place else. Some things you take to right away, but to the piano I never did. It was all a joke, my only worry being that the news might spread around school. Which never happened, since Zock was always a good man at keeping a secret.

  I told him right after it was over. Mother and Miss Twilly were having a whispered conversation so I slipped on by them to Zock’s house. He was waiting to hear, but what I talked about was not so much the music as Miss Twilly’s cans. I was so expressive that he asked if he could see them.

  And the next time she came, the following Tuesday, he was there, waiting. She walked in and smiled at me. He just stared. Then, before the lesson started, he got up to go.

  “They’re big all right,” Zock said, and he took off.

  Which threw Miss Twilly. “What are big?” she asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “Sometimes it’s very hard to figure just what he’s talking about.”

  But all the same, she knew. She was a little flustered during the lesson. Not really embarrassed, just flustered. She kind of hunched her shoulders forward, trying to make them seem not so noticeable, which in her case was an impossibility.

  After that, I began to like her. I think she knew about my being tone deaf from the start but said nothing of it to anyone because she needed the money. At any rate, from then on we played the piano less and talked more, about all kinds of things. She had a way of patting me on top of the head which, with most people, you don’t like, seeing as it makes you feel as though you are a dog and they are petting you. But with Miss Twilly it was all right. She was such a sweet girl. Very shy and kind, with a soft, gentle voice. She was so shy she blushed all the time, even in front of me, which should show the kind of person she was.

  But the music part never got anywhere. I stayed with those scales the whole eight weeks I took piano lessons. And I did try. Each time before she came I’d practice half an hour, trying to cup my hands and sit up straight, trying to make those notes come out right. But some people can do some things and others can’t, and playing the piano was not my forte, a pun Zock thought up one day.

  So, finally, Miss Twilly had a long talk with my mother and told her the truth. About my being tone deaf and how this kind of hurts your chances of ever making it as a piano player. And my mother stopped the lessons right after. At the last one, Miss Twilly and I talked and laughed, having a gay old time. But when she got up to go, I think we both felt sad.

  “Well, good-by, Raymond,” she said, patting me on the head.

  “So long, Miss Twilly,” I answered, walking her to the door. “I sure hope you can make it to Carnegie Hall.” Which of course she never did, but just the same it was what she wanted more than anything else in the world. “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”

  “Maybe,” she said, patting my head once more. “Let’s hope so.”

  And I did see her. Often, during the next couple of years. Uptown or around the campus I’d see her walking alone or with some other girls. Whenever that happened, I’d wave and shout: “Hello there, Miss Twilly.” And she’d blush and wave back. She was never with a boy, at least none I ever saw. And that was a shame, her being such a fine girl, shy and gentle and all.

  Then, in June of my sophomore year in high school, her class graduated, her along with it. Graduation day at Athens was something I never cared for. All those caps and gowns and crying mothers. I had already made up my mind that when I graduated from college, I was going to skip the whole business. But of course, the way things worked out, I never had to miss much sleep on that score.

  Anyhow, I was puttering around the house, waiting for it to get over. Zock used to like to watch, so he was up by the college auditorium taking it in. My father was there, too, being as he was such a big deal at the school he had to go. And my mother wouldn’t have missed it for the world. About the time I figured it was done, I started getting ready for the trip to Zock’s house, when there was a buzz at the front door. I went down to answer. It
was her.

  “Hi, Miss Twilly,” I said, opening it.

  “Hello, Raymond,” she said, walking in. It was a hot day and she was perspiring so she took off her cap and gown, smiling at me. She was wearing a big skirt and a very thin white blouse you could see through. “I thought I’d come over and say good-by,” she told me. “I’m leaving this afternoon.”

  “That was real nice of you, Miss Twilly,” I said. “I’m glad you did.” She put her hand on my shoulder and we walked into the living-room where the little upright piano was. We started laughing.

  “I suppose,” she began. “You don’t. I mean. Any more, do you?” She was very nervous on account of just having graduated, but I got what she meant.

  “Practice?” I answered. “I’d rather be strung up by my thumbs.”

  It was very hot and stuffy and we both laughed at what I said, even though it wasn’t funny. That is something I’m not much good at. Being funny. Once in a while, alone with Zock, I could do all right, but not often. He said not to worry about it since I had a fine sense of humor and could appreciate a joke as well as anyone. And that, he explained, was every bit as important, for if there was nobody around to laugh, where would the funny men be? True enough, I suppose, although I suspect he was just trying to make me feel better at the time. Which he did.

  So we laughed at my joke, standing there in that stuffy room. We laughed for a long time, giggling away, and the next thing I knew she had her arms around me and was kissing me on the mouth, something that had never happened to me before. She pulled me in close and held me tight, kissing me over and over. First I tried to get away. But I stopped that quick.

  Then she turned my head and began blowing in my ear, which has never made me turn cartwheels. Actually, I believe it really doesn’t do anything to anybody, but long ago the idea started that it did, and it’s kept on ever since because no one has had the guts to stop it. Well, she was blowing away at my ear, tickling me, though I never in this world would have laughed, as it would have hurt her feelings. Then she started to talk.

  “Raymond,” she said. “Raymond. Raymond. Raymond.”

  “What?” I asked her.

  She didn’t answer but just kept saying my name again and again as she horsed with my ear. And I knew that sure as God made green apples, I wasn’t keeping my part of the bargain.

  So finally, I suppose by instinct, I started doing something which I now know was a good thing, being what she wanted. Except then it was pure luck that I did it.

  I started unbuttoning her blouse. It took me about an hour, since my hands were shaking, but I finally managed it. After which I pulled her blouse out from her skirt. A woman’s brassière is something I can now work with my eyes closed, and frequently have. But right then, I couldn’t find the handle. I tugged and pulled and sweated over it, but the goddam which way, getting no place. Then she gave that soft laugh of hers, put her hands behind her back for just a second, and it was loose. I lifted it, gently I think, and there they were.

  “My God, Miss Twilly,” I said. “They’re huge.”

  She blushed, tried to cover herself. “I know,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  “No,” I told her, pushing her hands away. “It’s O.K. with me.”

  She put her arm around me and began walking me toward the stairs. “Come on, Raymond,” she said. “Come on.” And she started up with me following.

  I have walked those stairs many times in my life, both before and since, but never has it seemed as hard or taken as long. Because halfway up I started sweating and shivering so that I could barely move. We got to my bedroom where she pulled down all the shades, one by one, and when she did that I could tell her hands were none too steady either. Then she closed the door. It wasn’t very dark; we could still see each other plain. As I watched, Miss Twilly started taking off her clothes.

  “You too, Raymond,” she said.

  But I didn’t move. I couldn’t. So when she was done she came over and tried pulling off my shirt.

  “I can do it,” I whispered, my throat very dry.

  “All right,” she said. “Show me you can.”

  I turned my back and she laughed softly at that, so I turned to face her again. I took off my shirt and pants. Finally I stood there, wearing just my sneakers.

  “Finish it up,” she said.

  “Even my shoes?”

  “Even your shoes.”

  I kicked them off. She sat down on the bed, smiling, and then she lay all the way back, stretching her arms toward me. I didn’t move. She sat up again, reached out her hands, taking me gently, guiding me over to the bed. Pretty soon everything was warm and soft and neither of us was shaking any more.

  Anyway, that was the first time.

  After we’d said good-by at the front door, her patting me on the head, sort of crying, I ran over to Zock’s house and told him all about it. Not in a boasting way but mainly because I was confused and he, being older, knew more of such things than I did.

  He listened very carefully, pulling at his lower lip, a way he had when he was concentrating.

  “That’s it,” I finished up. “She was crying and we went downstairs to say good-by. What do you think?”

  “You bastard,” Zock said, laughing.

  “Come on,” I said. “Don’t kid around.”

  “A toast,” he shouted. “A toast is definitely called for,” and he took off, running to Old Crowe’s liquor cabinet, me in hot pursuit. I watched as he filled two glasses, handed me one, smiling.

  “And now we need a toast,” he said. “But to what?”

  “To Miss Twilly,” I suggested, raising my glass.

  “No,” he said. “No good. She’s over and done with. A thing of the past.” He pulled at his lip awhile. “Wait. How about this? How about: a toast to those to come.”

  Which sounded fine to me and we drank to it.

  So, at the age of sixteen, I had lost my virginity but had never been out with a girl. A state of affairs that I think might have continued for many years had it not been for Bunny Gustavson, whose real name was Eleanor.

  It was the summer before we were juniors, the summer when Fee lost his fight to Johnny Hunkley and left Athens singing to make his mark in San Francisco. Like all summers, this one was stifling, with a lot of rain and a lot of time hanging heavy on your hands. It was that way for me, at least. But not for Zock. He took to acting strange, sneaking off during the day, not telling me where he was going. I never asked him either, since it couldn’t really have been called my business.

  But one night after supper, I wandered over to his house looking for him. “Zachary is upstairs,” Mrs. Crowe said. Then she giggled for a while.

  “O.K.,” I said, starting to walk by.

  “He would prefer you didn’t, Raymond,” she told me, kind of blocking my way. “He said that he would see you tomorrow. So toodle-oo,” which was her way of saying good-by.

  I toodle-ooed back and went outside, thinking. And the more I thought, the more I didn’t know. So naturally, I snuck in the rear door and crept up the stairs to Zock’s room.

  He was standing in front of his mirror, practicing smiling, which was understandable, since I have already described how his smile twisted, with one side going up and the other, unfortunately, down. He didn’t see me until I said: “Toodle-oo. Zachary’s upstairs getting dressed.”

  He spun around, red as a beet. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Why did you come?”

  “A whim,” I answered, using one of his favorite expressions, flopping down on his sack. “Just call it that. A whim.”

  “Get out, Ripper,” he said. “Please.”

  “In due time, perhaps,” I said, imitating him. “But there’s something I’d like to know first. Zock, what the hell’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” he mumbled.

  “In that case,” I told him. “I’ll just stick around.”

  “Please,” he said again.

  “Tell me. Then maybe I
will.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Fine,” I said. “I like it here anyway.”

  Zock sighed. “All right, Ripper. I’m going to the movies.”

  I pointed to the necktie he was wearing. And to his hair, which was combed. “Continue,” I said.

  “I’m taking a girl,” he choked. “Now get out.”

  I fell back on the bed, laughing and kicking my heels, him watching me all the time, getting redder and redder. I laughed and roared and kicked and then I sat up like a shot.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Zock,” I pleaded. “You got to be kidding.”

  He shook his head and pointed to the door.

  “Who’s the girl, Zock? Do I know her? Is she from around here? Who’s the girl? You’re not really going. You’re kidding. Aren’t you, Zock? Who’s the girl? Naw. There’s no girl. You’re only kidding.”

  While I was going on he went to the closet and took out a sport jacket I didn’t know he owned. Then he walked past me to the doorway.

  “Bunny Gustavson,” he said. After which he ran.

  I went home, puttering around the rest of the night, not doing much but just thinking about Bunny Gustavson. Who was the smartest girl in our class and also probably the ugliest. She was uglier than Zock, I thought then, but later, when I got to know her well, I judged them as being about the same. She was a fine girl, Bunny was, as fine as any I’ve ever known, bright and lots of fun. She had an awful figure though, completely without shape, and very bad eyes and skin. But she always looked clean. That was probably her most attractive feature; you had the feeling you could eat right off her, she was so clean.

  The next morning I went over and woke Zock. “How was it?” I asked.

  “How was what?” he mumbled.

  I shook him. “Cut that,” I said. “How was it?”

  “It was all right, I suppose.”

  “You going to take her out again?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”