The Novels of William Goldman

by William Goldman

  I hurried to the orderly room and went in. Someone was waiting for me all right. Zock’s father. Standing there by himself, five hundred miles from home. It was still bright in the orderly room but I had to take a couple steps forward, close, before I was sure. He’d changed that much. He looked older, but that wasn’t it. Not all.

  “Hello, Mr. Crowe,” I said.

  “Hello, Ray,” he said. Then we were both quiet for a while. It was the first time I’d seen him since the night on Half Day Bridge. Five and a half weeks was all it had been. Thirty-nine days.

  “How are you, Mr. Crowe?” I said finally.

  He put his arm around my shoulder, gently. “Fine, Ray,” he answered. “I’ve been fine.”

  “You look it,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “How’s the clothing store, Mr. Crowe? You still swindling those college kids?”

  “Store?” he said. Then he tried smiling. “I sold it. I thought maybe you’d heard. I still work there, of course. But it got to be too much responsibility.”

  “I guess so,” I said.

  “Too much responsibility,” he went on. “Too much work. When a man gets to be my age, he wants time to rest. So now the other fellow has the headaches while I have the fun.” We moved toward the door, slowly, him with his arm still around me. “Say,” he said. “I talked to your sergeant. It’s O.K. with him if we go into town. Maybe have a good meal. Something like that. How’s it sound?”

  “What did you come for, Mr. Crowe?”

  “I was just driving by,” he said. “I thought I might stop in and take you for a good meal. The two of us.”

  “What did you come for?” I said again. “Why did you come to see me?”

  “I guess I don’t know,” he answered, very soft.

  “I’m not hungry,” I said. “I don’t want a meal.”

  He nodded. “I’m not hungry either.”

  “Why don’t we go for a walk then? Walk and talk. That suit you, Mr. Crowe?”

  He nodded again. “I guess that’s what I came for anyway,” he said. “To talk.”

  We left the orderly room and walked on down the noisy company street, the dust rising in clouds around our shoes. Then we turned, neither of us saying anything, and headed out toward the fields and the ranges beyond. After a while, he put his arm around my shoulder again, keeping it there as we scuffed our way, kicking up dust with every step, the sun going down in front of us as we walked West, still silent. After a long time, with the sun almost gone, the heat of the day going, he stopped. I stopped too. He turned to me.

  “Why did it happen, Ray?” he said then.

  “I don’t know why, Mr. Crowe,” I said. “But it was my fault. I know that much.”

  He sat down on the edge of the dusty road, me alongside him, our arms around our knees. “I don’t care about the fault, Ray. I just want to know why it happened. I’ve thought and I’ve thought and I’ve thought and I can’t understand it. Why did it happen? Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I brought him up wrong.”

  “No,” I said. “That isn’t true.”

  “My wife thinks it was.”

  “How is she, Mr. Crowe?”

  “She’s fine,” he said. “Fine.”

  “How is she?” I asked again.

  He looked away, staring off at the rim of the setting sun. “You heard about the funeral? What happened?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I heard.”

  “She took it hard,” he muttered. “Very hard.”

  “Is she all right, Mr. Crowe? Better?”

  “She’ll be fine,” he answered.

  “What do you mean, Mr. Crowe? Will be?”

  “They sent her off,” he whispered. “The doctors. She’ll be back in a little while. I still have the house. In Athens. And then, when she gets back, I thought we might head for California, Mrs. Crowe and I. It’s supposed to be wonderful in California. Warm. Lots of sunshine. She’ll like it. I think maybe I’ll open a new store. There’s opportunity in California. New people moving in all the time. New people need new clothes.”

  “Sure they do, Mr. Crowe.”

  “And I can sell clothes. I can sell clothes with the best of them.”

  “I know,” I said.

  And then all of a sudden he was crying, the sobs deep in his throat, trying not to, trying to force them back, only making it worse. They came out like screams.

  “Don’t,” I said. “Come on, Mr. Crowe. That’s not going to help anything.”

  “It’s thirty-nine days since he died, Ray. Just thirty-nine days.”

  “Is that right?” I said.

  He nodded, his head pressed down on his knees, his tears dropping in the dust.

  “I got to get back, Mr. Crowe,” I said, and I started pulling him to his feet. He was limp, like Zock after the crash, but I pulled him up, holding him as steady as I could.

  “Come on, Mr. Crowe,” I said again. “I got to get back.”

  We started along the road, walking slow, my arm around his shoulder now.

  “Zock loved you, Mr. Crowe. I swear to Jesus he did. He loved you. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “He knew you best,” Mr. Crowe answered. “I thought you might know why. He knew you better than me. Best of all.”

  “You don’t believe that, Mr. Crowe. You know you don’t believe that. He loved you. You were his father. He loved you best in all the world. Right before he died he told me. That he loved you. Me. I was just his friend. But you. You were his father. He loved you best in all the world,” I said. “It wasn’t your fault, Mr. Crowe. It wasn’t your fault. He loved you best in all the world. He loved you best in all the world, in all the world,” and I chanted it to him, saying it over and over and over as I carried him along, until he was able to walk by himself, until he’d stopped crying.

  Finally, we got to his car. He looked worse than ever now, his face streaked with dust and tears. But at least he was smiling. Or trying to.

  “So long, Mr. Crowe,” I said. “Good luck in California.”

  We shook hands. “Good-by, Ray,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you back in Athens.”

  “Swell,” I said.

  “What was it that Zachary called you?” he asked. “Euripides?”

  “Right the first time,” I said.

  He got in the car. “I’m glad I came down to see you then, Euripides. And I’m sorry for what happened out there.” He pointed toward the ranges.

  “Forget it, Mr. Crowe. And I’m glad you came down too.”

  “Maybe I’ll buy you a meal some other time.” He turned on the ignition, started the motor.

  “Like I said, Mr. Crowe, great seeing you.”

  Then, finally, he drove away.

  I didn’t sleep much that night, but just lay there, wishing to God he’d never come. I thought about him, broken; his wife, cracked up; Zock, dead.

  All because of me.

  I thought about it that night and the next morning and the next afternoon and I suppose it was around dusk when I first thought of committing suicide. Which always sounds heroic or stupid, never correct, never the right thing to do. But suicide’s no different from murder, only more personal. And then a line in Shakespeare kept coming back to me, a good line, Zock liked it. Where Othello says he’s going to knock off his wife before she destroys anyone else. Destroying is worse than killing. Mr. Crowe; he was destroyed.

  The days went by and as they went I kept thinking about all the people I’d known in my life and where was the good I’d done any of them. The more I thought the more I kept ringing up a zero. So I was Desdemona now, and there wasn’t any Othello around to do the job for me. And when you’re a boy, and you get to thinking that you’re Desdemona, you’re in pretty bad shape.

  Which I was, really bad, on the Sunday of our fourth week of basic. For the first time, the company was given passes and they all took off, most of them heading for Hastingsville, a typical Army town a couple miles from post, full of military stores, churches, and
saloons.

  I didn’t go, but rather stayed by myself in the barracks, sweating from the heat, over 100°. I was all alone that afternoon, lying naked, my eyes closed. I kept staring up, seeing Zock’s ugly face, hearing his voice, trying to figure out what he meant by the temple of gold.

  Which is what he said to me just before he died, as we roared down the highway, out of control, Half Day Bridge looming just ahead, big as death, getting bigger all the time. And I know there’s a lot of crap gets thrown around about what people say before they die. Such as: “I’ve got the answer, has anybody got the question?” Or stuffy Lord Chesterfield muttering: “Give the gentleman a seat.” Because people don’t like to admit they might die groaning, or just quiet, in their sleep. And you can’t blame them for that; everyone would like to end his life with a punch line.

  But what Zock said, he said. I was there. I heard him. Just before we smashed into Half Day Bridge; just before he died with his red bones jutting through his white shirt, he turned to me, frightened I suppose, and he whispered: “The temple of gold, Euripides. The temple of gold.”

  I heard someone on the stairs, but I don’t think a ringside seat to the Second Coming could have roused me then, so I didn’t move until the footsteps got closer and closer, stopping at the foot of my bed.

  “Trevitt,” somebody whispered.

  I snuck one eye open and saw Kelly standing there in his underwear shorts, the flab of his belly hanging over. I closed my eye and tried a few snores, not very original, but it threw him for a while. Finally he said my name again, and then a third time, and then he shook me.

  “Trevitt,” he said. “Are you asleep?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Me. Kelly.”

  “Never heard of you,” I said. “Anyway, Trevitt’s gone AWOL. I’m only covering for him.”

  “C’mon,” he said, excited. “Quit kidding around.” He shook me again. Harder.

  “You know, it’s funny,” I said, looking at him, “but I could have sworn I was trying to get some sleep.” He didn’t say anything. “I understand your old man won the Silver Star on D-Day,” I went on. “Is that right? That’s a story I’d really like to hear. You bet. A story like that is worth waking a man up for.”

  He was shaking, so I stopped, waiting for him to say something. He did.

  “I’m going to kill myself,” he whispered.

  “You go do that, Kelly,” I told him. “You couldn’t have picked a nicer day.” I shut my eyes again.

  “I’m not kidding, Trevitt. I’m going to kill myself.”

  I sat up. “Well, what are you telling me for? I’m sure not going to stop you.”

  He swallowed hard. “I wanted company.”

  “Sunday is God’s day,” I said. “Leave me alone.”

  “I want somebody to talk to while I do it,” he went on. “I don’t want to die by myself.”

  I stared at him awhile. “O.K., Ulysses,” I said finally. “I’m your boy. Go kill yourself. But do it here,” and I pointed to the next bed. “Because I’m not moving.”

  “Then it’s settled,” he muttered. “I’ll get my stuff.”

  “How you going to do it?” I yelled after him.

  “I’m going to cut my wrists with my bayonet,” he answered.

  “Attago, Ulysses,” I said. “That’s a swell way.” I lay down again, waiting. Not long after he clomped up the stairs and came over, sitting on the next bed. He held out his bayonet.

  “Like a razor,” he said. “I spent all morning sharpening it.”

  “Fine,” I told him. “You do nice work.”

  “Here,” he said. “Feel.”

  “I believe you,” I said, but he kept holding it out so I did what he wanted. It was sharp.

  “How about that, Trevitt? Isn’t it like a razor?”

  “Kelly,” I said, closing my eyes, “I just paid for the main event. Wake me when the preliminaries are over.”

  “You better watch,” he said. “ ’Cause here I go.”

  He took the bayonet and very slowly, very carefully, he brought it down until the tip rested on the blue veins in his wrist. I waited. He began to exert a little pressure and the flesh of his wrist dimpled.

  Then he looked at me. “I bet you wonder why I’m doing this, don’t you?”

  “No, Kelly,” I said. “Can’t say as I do.”

  “It’s on account of my father,” he began. “On account of all my life I’ve been filled full up to here with crap about the Army. I’m going to have to be an officer. Because he’s going to make me. I got to be a career man. A career man in the Army like my father. And as far as I’m concerned, you can take the Army, fold it three ways, and...”

  “Shove it,” I finished. “O.K. You told me. Now do it.”

  “He even named me after a soldier, for chrissakes. Ulysses S. Grant.”

  “Be happy,” I said. “He could have picked Pilsudski.”

  “What does your father do, Trevitt?”

  “He’s a Greek teacher.”

  “There,” Kelly said, pointing the bayonet at me. “See?” I didn’t, but I nodded anyway. “So I got a no-good bastard for a father. What can I do about it? I’d rather be dead than spend my life in the Army, so what’s there to do? But this?” He gestured with the bayonet. “You tell me, Trevitt. What’s the point of going on?”

  I thought for a long time. “I don’t know,” I said, finally.

  “Well then,” he said. “This is it.” He began pushing the bayonet down again. I watched his face. He closed his eyes. I waited.

  Then he opened his eyes. “I mean, what’s the point of living? You tell me, Trevitt. You’re a smart guy. Go on. Tell me.”

  “Jesus Christ, Kelly!” I exploded. “Are you going to kill yourself or aren’t you?”

  “O.K.,” he muttered. “This is really it. So long, Trevitt.”

  He took a deep breath, closed his eyes tight. It was stifling hot in the barracks right then. My bed was soaked with perspiration and as Kelly grabbed hard onto his bayonet, sweat ran across his knuckles. He pushed down on his wrist, farther and farther down.

  Then he screamed “OWWW!!!,” dropped the bayonet, and began to swear. “Goddammit! Goddammit! It hurts!”

  I started laughing, kicking my feet in the air. “What did you expect, Ulysses?”

  He stood up, bleeding a little at the wrist. “I’ll bleed to death,” he said. “Trevitt. What’ll I do?”

  “See the Chaplain,” I told him. “Last rites only cost a quarter.” He was licking at the cut with his tongue, making faces.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said, kicking the bayonet across the floor. And with that he took off down the stairs, and I heard water running in the sink. I stretched out, trying to think of Zock again, but the sight of Kelly yelling, “OWWW!!!” kept getting in the way and I couldn’t help laughing.

  Then he was back, walking stiff, looking determined as hell.

  “Hi, Kelly,” I said. “What’s new?” He didn’t answer. “You got any more games we can play?” I asked.

  “Same one,” he answered, more serious than ever. “I’m going to swallow a bedspring.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, scratching my head. “But I swear it sounded like you said you were going to swallow a bedspring.”

  He brought one out from behind his back. “I said it and I meant it.”

  “God damn, Ulysses,” I said. “You pick the nicest ways. Did you ever think of roasting yourself over a spit?”

  He looked at me. Then he started whispering. “I’m going to tell you something, Trevitt. Something I never told anyone else.” He paused, looking around. Finally, he said it. “I’m going to die a virgin.”

  I shook my head. “Well, you can’t blame the old man for that, Ulysses. It’s nobody’s fault but your own. Because there’s a billion women in this world, Ulysses.” I started drawing numbers in the air. “One-nine-zeros-billion. And out of all of them the law of averages says there’s got to be one would
do the trick for you.”

  “Well,” he said, staring at the bedspring, “I never found her.”

  “First you got to look, Ulysses.”

  “It’s too late now,” he said, and with that, he stuck the bed spring in his mouth.

  I won’t describe what happened next in too much detail, seeing as it gets a little messy, even though it was pretty funny at the time. Kelly’s face turned different colors, most of them green, and his eyes started watering, and then the bedspring hit the floor, quickly followed by his breakfast and lunch.

  After it was over, we stared at each other. Then he broke out crying, turned, and tore away. I could hear him blubbering in the latrine, all the faucets going full, trying to blot out the sound.

  I went to the head of the stairs. “Hey, Kelly,” I yelled down. “Best you come back here and clean this. Because I’m sure not going to.”

  Then I sacked out again, waiting. Awhile later he appeared, carrying a mop and a bucket of water.

  “Clean it up good,” I told him. “All of it.” He didn’t answer so I just stared at the ceiling and listened to the mop make swishing sounds along the floor. “You know,” I said, after a couple of minutes, “if you want a woman, I’ll do what I can for you.” He still didn’t answer. “Goddammit, Ulysses. If you want to get laid, I’ll see you get laid. Now don’t say you were never asked.” I could hear his brain working.

  “How you going to do it, Trevitt?”

  “I’m magic,” was all I said.

  “How you going to do it, Trevitt? How? You really going to do it? Naw. You’re just kidding. You’re not really going to do it. I know you’re not.”

  “O.K.,” I said. “I guess I’m not.”

  He grabbed me by the arm. “How? Go on. Tell me. How?”

  “Get your clothes on and we’ll go into Hastingsville and find somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “How do I know who? Somebody. Just get your clothes on.”

  “O.K., Trevitt,” he said, patting me. “O.K. Great.” He was jumping around like a Mexican bean. “Terrific.” He headed for the stairs. Then he stopped. “You mean with a whore?”

  “I sort of had that in mind,” I said.

  “I don’t know,” he began. “What if I catch something?”