The Novels of William Goldman

by William Goldman

“I’d like some roast beef, Mr. Klein. Enough for four. The very best you have.”

  “I’ll cut you some, Mrs. Trevitt. Just take a minute.”

  My mother looked at her shopping list, then at me. “I’ll have to hurry,” she said. “I have a meeting at two. You wait here for the meat, Raymond. Then come to the A&P.”

  I nodded and she went out. There was a big fan blowing over in one corner. I walked up and stood in front of it while he got to work. Neither of us said a word. Then, when he was almost finished, he called to me over his shoulder.

  “Your mother’s a fine woman,” he said.

  “She sure is.”

  “A fine woman,” he came again. I waited. “Meat’s all done,” he went on, holding it over the counter. I went up and put a hand on it but he held tight, didn’t let go, and started whispering to me. “She’s the best there is,” he whispered. “And the whole town knows it. Ain’t a person in this town wouldn’t bend over backward for your mother.”

  “Swell,” I said.

  “So you just forget it, son,” he whispered. “Forget the whole thing. Just drop it from your mind.”

  “Forget what, Mr. Klein?”

  “What happened with the Crowe boy,” he said, softer still.

  “Oh, the Crowe boy. Hell. I forgot about that already.” And I grabbed the package and took off for the A&P.

  It was the same there. This time from the cashier. And in the shoe-repair shop. Every place we went, somebody said it to me. Or you could tell they were thinking it. From their faces.

  That I was the boy who killed Zachary Crowe.

  Finally we finished shopping and started home. “Wasn’t that wonderful?” my mother said, once we were under way. “They were all so glad to see you. They told me.”

  I didn’t answer.

  But she rambled on just the same, jabbering about this and that, asking me questions, answering them herself. We were almost home before she put her hand on my arm.

  “Is something wrong?” she said. “Why are you so quiet?”

  “No reason.”

  “Then why are you so quiet?”

  “I just made a mistake, Mother. That’s all.”

  “Mistake?” she said. “Mistake?”

  “Nothing, Mother,” I answered, and then I swung the car into the driveway.

  So I didn’t go shopping any more. And I didn’t have a party. My mother got the hint, left me to myself, and my father was forever working in his study or his office at school. Everything went along quietly for the next couple of days, nothing much happening, one way or the other.

  And then, that afternoon, Sadie Griffin came back.

  I was alone in the house, my father at school, my mother at a meeting, when I heard a car stop next door. I didn’t get up to see, didn’t move, but stayed where I was, lying on my bed, smoking, staring at the trees outside my window. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. I answered. She was standing there.

  “Hello, Euripides,” she said. “Do you remember me?”

  I nodded. “You’re Sadie Griffin.” We shook hands. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m going to be living next door for a while,” she said. “Sort of keeping Uncle Willard company, while his wife”—and she paused—“while his wife is away. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  “No. Nobody told me.”

  “He won’t be home until tomorrow. So I thought I’d drop over and say hello. Besides, I’ve never much liked empty houses. Do you?”

  I shrugged.

  “It’s wonderful seeing you again, Euripides.”

  “Nice seeing you,” I said, edging away. “And I’d like to talk with you but I’m awful busy now, so you better excuse me.”

  “Let me come along,” she said, following me inside. I just couldn’t get rid of her. And then before I knew it she had me cornered in the living-room and was telling me the story of her life, of what had happened since I’d last seen her. About how her folks had died, her father first, her mother close after. And how she’d had a kid. And how her marriage had gone to pieces. And the divorce. She went on like that, talking quiet, staring down at her hands most of the time but occasionally up at my face, to see was I still listening. And if she’d been through hell in those years, it didn’t show. For she looked the same as she had that day we first met, long before, when Zock and I were stranded in Chicago and she came roaring up from out of nowhere in that white convertible.

  I never looked back at her, but instead out the window, hoping my mother could come home and break it up. She didn’t. So I had to do the job myself.

  “What the hell are you telling me for?” I said.

  Which stopped her. “I thought you’d be interested,” she told me first. Then she fiddled with her hands awhile, kneading them, watching them move. Finally, she looked square at me, gave me the answer. “Nobody around here,” she whispered. “Nobody here...knows me. Not from before. You do. And I thought...I thought...”

  “I can’t bring back the old days, Sadie Griffin,” I cut in. “You can’t expect me to do that.”

  “I know,” she said, still whispering. “But—”

  “I’m sorry,” I told her. “But I’ve got a lot of work to do, and I’m not getting much of it done here.” I stood up and was almost out of the living-room when she called to me.

  “I’ve some letters from Zachary,” she said. “If you’d care to see them.”

  I went to my room and lay down. A little later the front door opened and closed and I was alone again.

  My mother came home about an hour later, yoohooing, calling my name. I heard her tramping up the stairs and when she got to my room, she was beaming.

  “Sadie Griffin’s back,” she said to me.

  “Is that right?” I said.

  “Yes. She’s here this very minute. Next door. She’s going to be living there. I’ve known about it for a week. I was saving it as a surprise.”

  “Swell,” I said. “Now we have someone to invite to my party.”

  My mother shook her head. “You had your chance, Raymond. There’s no point to giving you a party now. But I am going to have Sadie Griffin for dinner.” I started to interrupt but she went right on. “I’m having Sadie Griffin for dinner tonight and you are going to invite her.”

  “Mother—” I began.

  “No ifs, ands, or buts, Raymond. You are going to invite her and that’s all there is to it.” She left me.

  I stayed in bed awhile longer, until it started getting dark. Then I left the house and went next door. Sadie Griffin was sitting alone in the living-room, a drink in her hand.

  “O.K.,” I said. “Show me those letters.”

  Nodding, she stood. “I’m staying in Zachary’s room.”

  “I know the way,” I answered and I led her up.

  It was all changed, made over. The bed was different; the pictures on the walls were different; there were frilly drapes around the windows. If someone had shown me a picture and asked: “Guess what?” I never could have come through with the answer.

  “Here we are,” Sadie Griffin said.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Now show me those letters.”

  “Let me see,” she mumbled, going to the bureau, putting her drink down, talking to herself. “Where did I put them?”

  I stood in the middle of the room, watching her, listening to her talk. First she searched the bureau, muttering away, and when she was through she went to the desk and started on it. And right then I began to realize she was lying, that there weren’t any letters, that there never had been.

  “Where’s your kid?” I asked, stopping the monologue.

  “With him,” she answered after a while, opening one desk drawer, then another.

  “Why is that?” I went on.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t you have the kid?” I said again.

  She slammed the desk drawer all she had, the sound exploding in the room. Then she stood up, staring straight at me. “You
want to know why?” she said, almost yelling. “I’ll tell you. Because I didn’t divorce him. He divorced me! Because it got into all the papers. Didn’t you read about it? I thought everybody read about it. I’m famous.”

  “You didn’t have to come here,” I said. “There are other places.”

  “I’ve never been much good at taking care of myself,” Sadie Griffin said, her voice softer now. “I’ve always needed someone else to take care of me.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Anything more you want to know?”

  “You don’t have any letters, do you? You lied about that.”

  “There were some. A few. But I threw them out. I threw out a lot of things before I came back here.”

  “You never had any letters.”

  “I told you. I did. I threw them out.”

  “You couldn’t do that,” I said. “I don’t believe you.”

  She started laughing.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her. “Good-by.”

  “Wait!” She shot the word at me. I stopped. “Stay with me for a second. I want to change clothes. I chose the wrong dress to wear. Here it is summertime, and I still think it’s spring.”

  “You’re a big girl now,” I said.

  “Isn’t it funny,” Sadie Griffin whispered. “I’ve done it all wrong. I’ve done everything wrong.” She shook her head, trying to clear it. Then she smiled. One last time. “Start over,” she said. “That’s what we’ll do. We’ll start over. Now. Please. I’ve just rung your doorbell. Please. ‘Hello, Euripides. You remember me?’ ”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You’ve got to answer,” she said. “You’ve got to help me.” And all of a sudden she was crying, hysterical, her face red, contorted, tears streaming down her face. “Help me. Please.”

  Then she started coming toward me.

  “Please. Please. You’ve got to help me. Help me. Help me! Please God, help me!” She reached out, tried to take my hand, but she was crying too hard. She couldn’t see.

  I made it to the door before I stopped. “My mother wants you for supper,” I said, not turning. Then I went on down the stairs, holding tight to the banister all the way, listening to her as she wept, standing there alone in what once had been Zock’s room.

  When I got home, my mother and father were waiting. “What did she say?” my mother asked. “Is she coming?”

  “I don’t think she’ll be here,” I answered. “Not tonight. I don’t think she’s very hungry.”

  “Raymond,” my mother asked, “are you all right?”

  “Me?” and I laughed. “I’m fine.”

  But I wasn’t and I knew it and inside of five minutes I knew I couldn’t stand it, being with them a second more. Because my mother chattered away, mostly about the Red Cross, and my father just poked at his food, muttering answers when he had to.

  “Eat, Raymond,” my mother said then, pointing to my plate. “Before it gets cold.”

  “I guess I’m not so hungry either,” I told her, and with that I got up from the table and left them. I headed for the car, jammed it into reverse, swerved onto the street and took off.

  Inside of ten minutes, I was at the Crib.

  It was like Old Home Week. All the lushes at the bar mumbled hello to me, asked me where I’d been, and the bartender gave me a couple of quick ones, on the house. Nothing had changed there either; it was still as dark and dirty as before. I started drinking, gulping them down one after the other, as fast as I could. They hit me right away and pretty soon everything began getting blurry. Within an hour I was as drunk as I’ve ever been. But I have no memory of it.

  I woke up in bed the next morning, feeling terrible, my head throbbing and my knee, where I guess I must have smacked it on something. I went to the bathroom, drank some water and showered, which didn’t help much. Then I got dressed and went downstairs.

  He was waiting for me.

  Standing at the foot of the stairs, his hands clasped behind his back, looking up. I stopped. We nodded to each other. Then he spoke.

  “Perhaps I might have a few moments of your time,” my father said.

  “Later,” I answered.

  “I think now,” he told me and with that he turned and walked into his study. After I’d sat down he went over, shut the door, returned to his desk, staring across at me.

  I waited.

  Still watching me, he reached for his pipe, put it in his mouth, drew on it a couple of times. Then he took it out of his mouth, rolling it between his dry hands.

  “Where to begin?” he muttered. “Where to begin?”

  He toyed with the pipe awhile longer, looking at it now, not me. Finally, he pursed his lips, wrinkled up his forehead, and started talking.

  In Greek. He said a few lines, not bothering to translate, and when he did that, I glanced around the room, sweating, because it was so stuffy inside, with the door and the window closed, the smell of leather and tobacco hanging in the air. He was going on about how I got home, about how the bartender at the Crib had called him, told him I wasn’t in shape to drive, how he’d taken a taxi out there, loaded me in the car, driven me home. I didn’t listen close, but instead stared at that spot by the door where the guppies used to be. How many years ago? Twelve? Or was it thirteen? I couldn’t remember. But whichever it was, it was the only thing different. There were still books piled up all over the room, on the floor, on tables, overflowing, jammed sideways into the bookcases all around me. Hundreds of books, thousands, some new, some dog-eared, some...

  “What happened last night between you and the Griffin girl?”

  “What?” I said.

  “I asked you what happened with the Griffin girl.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Please,” he said. “I know that isn’t true. I’m not such a fool, my boy. You may think so, but I’m not.”

  “Nothing happened.”

  My father shook his head. “I gather she turned out to be—” And he stopped, looking for the word. “I gather she turned out to be a courtesan.”

  At which I started laughing. “Courtesan. Courtesan for Christ sake. Sadie Griffin is a whore! Why don’t you say it?”

  “Indeed,” my father muttered, his pipe back in his mouth. “Terminology is, at best, of but peripheral significance.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, very low. “I—I lack adroitness. Where to begin? Where to begin?”

  Felix Brown. That was the last time I’d been in his study. Five years. No. Four. You live in a house all your life and it’s been four years since you’ve been in one of the rooms. Four years. One thousand days.

  “The Garden of Gethsemane,” my father said. “Yes. The Garden of Gethsemane.” He looked across at me. “Please. Listen. My boy. Please.”

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  “The Garden of Gethsemane,” he repeated.” The Agony of the Garden.”

  I waited, staring back at him.

  “ ‘My God. My God. Why hast thou forsaken me?’ Christ said that. To his Father. Don’t you understand?”

  “No,” I said.

  “God failed. God failed His own son. God failed His own son in the Garden of Gethsemane.”

  “So what?”

  “Please, my boy. I am trying. I lack adroitness. But I am trying. Please.” He closed his eyes for a second. Then he reached out, his hands, reached out across the desk, toward me. “My boy,” he said finally. “Ray. Answer me. Do you think I’ve failed you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You are mistaken.” He leaned forward, his hands still held out, closer. “Don’t you see? You are wrong. I have failed you. I have failed you constantly, continually. And I will go on failing you. Don’t you see?”

  “See what?” I said, sweating now, pulling at my T shirt, for it stuck to me like skin.

  “Everyone fails,” my father said. “Everyone fails everyone. It must be. Failure is a fundamental law of living. We all hav
e our own lives to lead, separately, so when you cry out for help, I can’t give it. No one can. We are all human, Ray. All with our own lives, duties, complexities, problems, torments. Now do you understand?

  “ ‘My God. My God. Why hast thou forsaken me?’ Don’t you see? You will, someday. I pray you see it now. And understand it. And accept it. For once you do, then you may forget about it and concentrate on what you can control, on what is within your power.”

  “Such as, Father?”

  “Here are my books,” he said. “Look at them. Think. Think of the wisdom contained therein. The understanding. Think how far we have come. Think how much farther we can go.”

  “You’ve got all the answers, haven’t you, Father?”

  “No,” he said. “No one has all the answers. No one can. I don’t. I don’t pretend—”

  “So everybody fails you. Is that right?”

  “Yes, my boy. That is right.”

  “Well, Zock never failed me. Not once. Never.”

  “Only because you killed him,” my father said. “Before he had the chance.”

  I sat there a second, staring.

  “Facts must be faced,” he went on. “I’m sorry, but facts—”

  And then all of a sudden I was standing up, yelling, for the first time in my life yelling at my father. “I hate guys like you! I honest to God really hate guys like you. I’ve met you before. In the Army there was a Colonel and the worst son of a bitch in the world, but he had all the answers too. Well, you can keep your answers! Tell them to your students when they come sucking around. But don’t tell me. Don’t try helping me. Because back there in the Army I tried helping somebody. I wet-nursed him for weeks—and you know what happened? He blew himself up. So keep your advice and everything will be fine. And save your understanding for your wife, because she sure as hell can use it. But don’t ever tell me anything! Don’t ever try!”

  I ran for the door, him calling to me: “My boy, my boy, my boy—” Over and over, calling for me to come back, his voice ringing in my ears. I opened the door, then turned on him.

  “Shove it, old man!” I said, and I left him there.

  My mother was waiting in the hall. I tried brushing by, but she caught me and held on. “What’s the matter?” she said. “What is it?”