The Novels of William Goldman

by William Goldman

  “I’m going away for a while,” I said, pulling loose.

  “Where?” she asked, following me. “Where?”

  “Away.”

  “When? For how long?”

  “Now.”

  “You’ll come back soon,” she said. “You’ll come back soon.”

  “I don’t know, Mother,” I told her.

  Five minutes later I was packing.

  Ten minutes later I was gone.

  But this time I knew where I was going. Just the same, though. I didn’t hurry getting there. Because it’s beautiful in late September, and there were afternoons, as I hitchhiked my way East, when I just had to get out of whatever car I was in and walk for a while, limping along, the sun at my back, the smell of burning leaves always coming from somewhere off in the distance.

  Then, early one evening, I got to Harvard.

  Which isn’t nearly as nice-looking a place as I thought, being crammed full of old buildings, one flush against the next. As a matter of fact, Harvard is ugly, comparing favorably to Athens in that respect, only bigger. I wandered around for a while, getting my bearings. Then I took out Zock’s letter, checked the address, and found my way to his dorm. I went in, located the proctor’s room, knocked on the door. He said to come in, so I did, holding the letter in my hands.

  “I’m looking for a guy named Zachary Crowe,” I said. “I think he lives here.”

  The proctor thought some, then shook his head. “Not any more,” he answered. “This is a freshman dorm.”

  “I got a letter from him,” I said, waving it. “It gives this for an address. So I thought he’d be here.”

  “He was here,” the proctor told me. “Last year. But this is a freshman dorm. Zock’s a sophomore now. I don’t know where he’s living. Maybe at Lowell. Try there.”

  “Zock?” I said.

  The proctor laughed. “It was his nickname.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “What did you want to see him about?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing much. I was just passing through and my mother told me if I did I ought to stop in and see him. My mother’s a friend of his family.”

  “Give Lowell a try,” the proctor said, and he turned back to his desk. “It’s as good a bet as any. Sorry.” He started reading. I watched him.

  “Do you know Zock?” I asked.

  “What?” he said, looking up.

  “I asked did you know him.”

  “I was proctor here last year. Sure I knew him.”

  “What kind of a guy was he?”

  “Never gave me any trouble,” he answered, starting to read again.

  “But what kind of a guy was he?” I said, walking up, standing over him. “My mother told me to be sure and find him. She told me he was a great guy and to be sure and find him.”

  “Well,” the proctor said, getting fidgety. “Everyone liked him, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Why did everyone like him?” I asked.

  “How do I know why?” he said, closing his book, trying to get up. I put my hand on his shoulder, pressing down.

  “Maybe because he was such a great guy,” I said. “Maybe that was it.”

  “Sure,” the proctor said. “That was the reason. He was such a great guy everyone liked him.”

  “That’s what I figured,” I said, and I took my hand away. He watched me as I left, his eyes still on me as I nodded good-by and closed the door.

  I didn’t go to Lowell House. Because Zock wouldn’t have been there; never in a million years. Instead, I just stood on the sidewalk, reading his letter over and over. Then I put it away.

  “Hey,” I said to the first kid who walked by. “I’m looking for somebody named Clarence that writes epic poetry.”

  He wasn’t hard to find. Since no matter where you are, you’re not going to meet too many people named Clarence. And when you tag the epic poetry on, it gets easier still. So, hardly a half-hour later, I was knocking on his door.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Come in, come in, come in,” someone bellowed. I opened the door and there he was, huge, with bright-red hair, pacing the room in his underwear shorts, a pad of yellow paper in his hands.

  “Congratulate me,” he said. “I’ve just rhymed hideous with gaseous.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “It’s all in the pronunciation,” was his answer, and with that, he began to read to me. He was trying to make an epic poem out of War and Peace, and I got there just in time for the battle of Borodino, which, judging from what I heard, must have been a long one. After a little, I sat in a chair, watching him as he walked around the room, reading away at the top of his lungs, playing all the parts, waving his free arm in the air, firing shots, drawing his saber, riding his horse, dying.

  When the battle was over, he put the pad down. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “It’s something, all right,” I said.

  “Inarticulately put,” he answered. “But it has the ring of sincerity.” He went to the bureau, grabbed a picture, shoved it at me. “And what do you think of her?”

  I looked. “She’s something, all right,” I said.

  “Something!” he roared. “Something!” He cradled the picture in his arms. “She is my muse.”

  Which was the truth, but she looked more like his mother. Still, he showed me her picture again and again, just as though she was the goddess Aphrodite in the flesh.

  “Unfortunately,” he muttered. “She goes to Radcliffe.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He looked at me then. “Who the hell are you?” he asked. “There’s nothing about you remotely familiar.”

  “My name is Ray Trevitt,” I told him. “And I’m looking for a guy named Zachary Crowe.”

  For once, he quieted down. “Didn’t you know?” he said. “Zock’s dead. He was killed in a car crash last summer. I’m going to write a commemorative poem in his honor, just as soon as I finish this goddam thing,” and he kicked the battle of Borodino across the room.

  “Was he a friend of yours?” I asked.

  “Friend?” Clarence laughed, pointing to the next room, which was empty. “He was going to live right there.”

  “I didn’t know him very well,” I said. “He—”

  “I’ll tell you all,” Clarence interrupted, putting on his pants. “But now we must away.”

  “Where?”

  “To meet my muse,” he answered, and he took off out the door.

  Her name was Martha and that photographer should have been paid double for the job he did on her. She had long dirty hair stringing down her back and an enormous nose and she was wearing a gray T shirt when I met her, in a crowded college bar a little way from Clarence’s room.

  “Muse, muse, muse,” Clarence said, coming up behind her. “I just finished the battle of Borodino.”

  “He rhymed hideous with gaseous,” I said, sitting down.

  “How?” Martha asked.

  “It’s all in the pronunciation,” I told her.

  She looked at me. “Who are you?”

  “Tell her,” Clarence cut in. “I’m off for some beer.”

  “Who are you?” Martha asked again.

  I told her my name.

  “Where you from?”

  I told her that, too.

  “Illinois,” she answered, and that was all we said until Clarence came back. “You’re looking particularly beautiful tonight,” he whispered, slopping some beer on the table. “You’ve a wild, raving beauty tonight, my sweet. I love you madly.” He kissed her hand. “Have you got the history notes?”

  Martha sighed and handed him some papers.

  “Without you I would die,” Clarence said, stuffing them into his pocket.

  “Tell me about Zachary Crowe,” I said.

  “Who’s that?” Martha asked.

  “A prince,” Clarence answered, raising his glass. He’d gotten about two sentences out when Martha stopped him.

  “You’re i
gnoring me,” she said.

  Clarence patted her arm. “Muse,” he said. “I have my reasons.”

  And then he began.

  Martha left awhile later, but we didn’t. We stayed right where we were, drinking beer, me listening to Clarence as he went on and on. He told me how he and Zock met, their first day at Harvard. And Bunny, and how the three of them had gone out a lot together as the year wore on. And pretty soon, he was talking about me, Euripides. How Zock and I had gotten drunk that night in high school. And my first date with Sally Farmer and the phone call that went before. And Felix Brown. I never stopped him, never said a word, only listened while he told about the two of us, Zock and me, growing up together. And as I listened I felt pretty great, almost as though I wasn’t there at all but way off some place, high in the distance, looking down like God.

  They threw us out when the bar closed, except by that time it didn’t matter, seeing as we were both drunk. We left the bar and walked until Clarence sagged against a lamppost.

  “I may be ill,” he said.

  “Don’t you worry, Clarence,” I said, coming up to help. “You’re among friends.”

  “Am I, Euripides?” he said.

  I nodded, waiting.

  “You were driving the car, weren’t you?”

  I nodded again, watching him, both of us covered with yellow light. Then he smiled.

  “Don’t you worry, Euripides,” he muttered, starting to fold. “You’re among friends.” With that he crumbled.

  I got him back to his dorm, half carried him up the stairs, led him to bed. Then I stood by the window awhile, looking out at the quiet street beyond. Finally I lay down, eyes open, fighting sleep, cozy, drunk, and warm, lying there, in what would have been Zock’s room.

  I spent the next three days at Harvard, talking with Clarence during the afternoons, listening to his poetry, drinking with him at night. Martha hopped over all the time, bringing him notes and outlines and whatever else was needed to keep him in school. For he never took it seriously, only his poems, bad as they were, and I had to respect him for that.

  Then, the fourth morning, we went out for breakfast, mainly coffee. Clarence bought a copy of The New York Times and we split it, sipping away, not talking. It was the early edition and I thumbed through, noting mostly the sports results, which were pretty incomplete. So I went on, glancing here and there, and suddenly I saw my father’s picture staring out at me.

  HENRY BAXTER TREVITT. AUTHOR AND EDUCATOR. That was the headline. I read every word, very slow, pausing after each sentence. Graduate of Harvard, it said. And it told about his Ph.D. from that unpronounceable school somewhere in Italy. And how he was the head of the Classics department at Athens College, Athens, Illinois. And how he had lectured all around the country. And his books: Euripides and Modern Man, The Euripidean Hero, The Medea Myth, plus a couple of others I didn’t even know about. And his translations of all the Greek plays. And the honors and prizes he had won. They listed everything there was to list, including my mother and me. I read it through twice and my only thought was: “Everything’s here. They got it all right.”

  Then I quit the crapping around and realized it was my own father who was dead. And I knew, just as sure as God made green apples, that I was going to be there when they put him in the ground.

  The next hour or two are pretty jumbled in my mind. I showed the clipping to Clarence, ran to his room, got my bag, said good-by to him, and headed for the airport. Once I got there I had more trouble, what with only five dollars in my pocket—not enough. But I talked and waved the paper and somebody must have taken pity on me because somehow I got a ticket.

  I waited around the airport awhile before I could board the plane, getting more and more nervous. Finally we took off and I tried to sleep but never made it. Instead I just thought about my father and how mad he must have been when he knew he was going to die, with all those books left unwritten, all that work left undone, piled up there, on his desk. And what was the funeral going to be like. And facing my mother. And would Mrs. Crowe be there. And what would I say to her if she was. And on I went, trying to sleep, not being able to.

  We were about an hour away from Chicago when the announcement came. Because of fog, we were not going to land in Chicago at all, but instead were going north to Milwaukee. And be calm because the bad weather is moving south across Lake Michigan and won’t bother us.

  I started up to the pilot’s room but a stewardess stopped me from going in. “You’ll have to sit down,” she said. “And don’t worry about the weather.”

  “It’s not the weather,” I said, waving the clipping in her face. “But my father’s being buried this afternoon and I’ve got to be there.”

  “I’m sorry,” she answered. “You’ll just have to sit down.”

  I went back to my seat, tensing up inside. My stomach started aching so I hit it, swearing quietly, trying to concentrate on something, anything at all. I knew that Milwaukee wasn’t any farther from Athens than Chicago, but that didn’t matter. Nothing did. I called to the stewardess and asked how long it would be before we landed. She said probably less than an hour. “Tell the pilot to hurry,” I said. “Tell him I haven’t got much time. Tell him my father’s being buried this afternoon.”

  She didn’t, naturally, but I kept after her, asking her every two minutes how long until we landed, and when we finally did get there, I know she wasn’t unhappy being rid of me.

  As soon as we were on the ground, I grabbed my bag and ran. I tore through the airport out to where the cabs were. “Athens, Illinois,” I said, hopping in.

  The driver looked at me awhile. “Forty bucks,” he said. “In advance.”

  I checked my wallet, pulled out the five. “Here,” I said. “Give you the rest when we get there.”

  “In advance,” he repeated.

  “Please.”

  “Look, buddy,” he said, staring at me in the mirror.

  “You son of a bitch!” I yelled, getting out. “My father’s being buried this afternoon.” I slammed the door all I had, hoping it would snap off at the hinges. Then I tried another cab, but it was the same thing. So I stood there, not knowing what to do, thinking: “If only I could find Mr. Hardecker. He’d drive me home all right. Mr. Hardecker would never let me down.”

  Then somebody honked at me and I jumped out of the road. Scared, alone, with only five dollars in my pocket and no train that made any time at all. I just wanted to sit down there by the cab stand and die. Because my father was being buried that afternoon, and it began to look as if I wasn’t going to make it.

  Finally I got the idea of hitchhiking, so I ran to the main parking lot and stood at the exit, yelling, “Athens, Illinois” to all the cars going by. But nobody answered and nobody stopped, not for a long time. Then, maybe half an hour later, the law of averages came through. A car pulled up. “You want to go to Athens?” the driver asked.

  “I sure do,” I answered. “Yes, sir. Please.”

  “Well, get in,” he said. “I’m going by there. And I’m in a hurry.”

  “So am I,” I told him, opening the front door. “You can’t get there fast enough for me. Because my father’s being buried there this afternoon.”

  We took off.

  I never found out his name, but whoever he was, he could drive. We tore down the highway hitting eighty miles an hour, never talking but staring instead at the road as it stretched on ahead or the telephone poles that blurred by on either side. “I got a chance,” I told myself over and over. “If only we don’t get a flat, I got a chance.”

  When we reached the Athens turn-off, I spoke to him. “Let me out here,” I said.

  “I’m not in that much of a hurry,” he answered, and he made the turn toward town. I directed him on how to get to my house and in a few minutes we were there. “Thanks,” I said, jumping out. He nodded and drove away. I ran inside.

  They were all there in the dark living-room; my mother, Mrs. Janes, Mrs. Atkins, the wife of th
e college president, plus half a dozen more, sitting in a semicircle with my mother in the middle, talking softly, hushed. When I came in, they stopped.

  I went up to her, staring because she looked so awful. Pale and tired and almost dead; not crying any more but puffy still around the eyes. My mother looked to be about one hundred years old that afternoon and I couldn’t watch her, so I glanced out the window, over toward Zock’s house.

  “I came as fast as I could,” I said.

  “You’re too late,” she told me. “We buried him this morning.”

  “Oh,” I said. That was all. Then I turned and went up to my room.

  I lay on my bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, not able to feel a thing, but thinking: “I didn’t have to hurry at all. I could have walked. I could have walked all the way from Boston, Massachusetts, because they buried him this morning.” I had been there about an hour when my mother knocked on the door. “Come in,” I said, not getting up but just lying flat, my hands behind my head, staring at those cracks in the ceiling.

  It wasn’t my mother who came in, though. It was Mrs. Janes, with the cloudy smell of alcohol trailing behind her. I didn’t say a word.

  “Your mother isn’t herself,” Mrs. Janes said. “She’s very upset. It was a terrible thing.”

  “He was sixty years old, Mrs. Janes. You can’t ask for more than that.”

  “A terrible thing,” she repeated.

  “Hubris,” I said, for no good reason. But it stopped the conversation for a while, so we were quiet and just looked at each other. I began getting edgy, what with her standing over me. I turned away, but she didn’t move.

  “What is it, Mrs. Janes?” I said finally.

  She fidgeted awhile. “That girl’s back,” she told me.

  I looked at her. “What girl?”

  “You know.”

  “What girl?” I said again, knowing who she meant but just wanting to hear her say it.

  “Annabelle,” Mrs. Janes whispered.

  I nodded, waiting. I knew she had a whole spiel worked up, but the way I was acting upset her. She got that way easily, from her drinking and all.

  “I thought you’d like to know,” she said, heading for the door.

  “Good-by,” I called. “Thanks.” But I really didn’t care.