The Novels of William Goldman

by William Goldman

  I stayed in my room until seven that night, lying on my bed, thinking about how it would have been to walk all the way from Boston, and what might have happened to me on the way. Which was silly, I suppose, but I couldn’t help it. Then, at seven, I went downstairs. They were still there, a bunch of them, sitting around, talking quietly. Actually, they were different people than before. But they might as well have been the same, for they sat in the same chairs and said the same things in the same hushed voices.

  “I’m taking the car,” I told my mother. “I’m going out awhile.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just for a drive,” was all I told her.

  I headed straight for the cemetery, speeding past the campus and beyond, to the edge of town. Athens Cemetery is very small. Quiet and beautiful, it is set on a hill overlooking a stretch of woods owned by the college. I parked the car and began searching for my father’s grave.

  It wasn’t hard to find, what with all the flowers banked around it. I stepped over the flowers and stood on the grave, staring down.

  Like Mrs. Janes, I had a whole spiel in mind, made up on the drive out. But I’d forgotten most of it. I didn’t know what to say. It had turned into a beautiful night, Indian summer, with just that hint of autumn in the air, sneaking up on you whenever a gust of wind blew by. It was the same kind of night as when Zock died and I couldn’t believe he was less than six months gone. I glanced around, trying to locate his grave. I couldn’t right off, so I dropped my head again and looked at my father.

  “Old man,” I said. “I’m sorry.” But that wasn’t what I meant; not at all. “I guess you knew a lot about Euripides.” And then I muttered: “Indeed,” by way of finishing it off.

  That was it. I took my time walking back to the car, looking around every few feet at my father’s grave, covered with all those flowers. How he would have hated them, the smell and all. A pot of tea would have been better. With a pipe set alongside. But of course, when you got right down to it, it didn’t really matter what they put there. Because he was dead. That was the hard thing to realize. I wasn’t shaken and I never once came close to crying. It was just the realization that was hard. I suppose I had him figured as being too smart ever to die. But there he was, dead, lying under all those smelly flowers.

  By that time I was at the car. And she was there, standing, waiting beside it, waiting for me.

  “Hello, Annabelle,” I said.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” she said. I nodded, not saying a word. She began to fidget. “I called your house. They said you’d gone for a drive. I thought you might come here.” She stopped then, waiting for me to say something, anything at all, I suppose, so she could lead into whatever it was she had come to tell me. But I wasn’t talking. She got worse and worse as the quiet stretched on, fidgeting more, staring out past me to the woods beyond, where her third man was, biting her lips, hands clenched, pale. I waited.

  Finally, she cracked, everything pouring out at once. “I’m in trouble. Ray, I’m in trouble. I’m going to have a baby. His baby. I need help. Money. Three hundred dollars. I’ve got to have it. You’ve got to give it to me. You’ve got to give me three hundred dollars.” I let her go on until she’d been all through it a couple of times. Then I stopped her.

  “Your folks have money. Get it from them.”

  “I can’t,” she said, as if it was an explanation.

  “Get it from Janes.”

  She shook her head. “His wife would find out.”

  I had to laugh. “His wife knows. She knows all about it.”

  “She’d divorce him.”

  Which was funnier still. “Not a chance,” I said. “Not if he’d knocked up half a dozen girls.”

  “I love him,” she whispered, shivering. “If that makes any difference.”

  “Well now,” I said. “Why didn’t you say so? Sure. That makes all the difference. Love does. I mean, I loved you once. Of course, being as I’m shy, I never told you. But now I can. I loved you, Annabelle. What do you think of that?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “About what happened.”

  “No need, Annabelle. It probably did me a lot of good.”

  She believed me. “I’m glad. That you feel that way.”

  “So you need money. Well, it’s sure in a worthy cause. You might even start a fund. “Abortions for Annabelle.’ ” I think she was about to scream when I put my arm around her. “Hey now,” I said. “Hey now, Annabelle. Take it easy.” But feeling her body warm against me threw me for a little, and I didn’t know if I could go through with it. Finally, I started to move.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “For a walk,” I told her. “Just for a stroll.”

  We began moving silently among the graves, going up one row and down the next. We did that about ten minutes with never a word spoken. Then I found it.

  “Zachary Crowe,” it said. “1934-1954. R.I.P.”

  “Here’s a nice place,” I said, pushing her down on the grass. “Here’s a swell place. It’s beautiful here.” I knelt beside her and my hands shook as I started to undo the buttons of her blouse.

  At first she didn’t stop me. Then she tried pushing my hands away. But I went right on, finally pulling her blouse off, slipping it over her tanned arms, throwing it aside. “Relax,” I whispered, blowing softly on her neck. “Relax, Annabelle.”

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t do this to me.”

  I went right on. “An exchange,” I whispered. “For services rendered. Now that makes sense, doesn’t it, Annabelle? You want three hundred dollars. Isn’t that right? Well, guess what I want.”

  But I didn’t want it. Because all the time I kept thinking to myself: “This is for you, Zock.”

  Even as I listened to her groaning underneath me, I kept on thinking it. “This is for you, Zock. This is for you.” Over and over and over.

  And then it was done.

  I looked down at her. She was almost smiling. But when I jumped up, she stopped. And when I started walking away, she got afraid, kneeling there naked in the cemetery, on Zock’s grave, trying as best she could to cover herself with her long black hair.

  About twenty feet away, I turned and called to her.

  “If it’s a boy, name it after me.” Then I ran.

  When I got back to the house, everyone had gone except Mrs. Atkins, who was to spend the night. I paid my respects, excused myself, headed for my room. Even though I wasn’t tired, I went to bed. I was still wide awake when my mother came in, sitting down close beside me, staring.

  “That Mrs. Atkins is very nice,” I began. My mother nodded. “How long is she going to stay?”

  “How long are you going to stay?” my mother whispered then. I didn’t answer. “When you left,” she went on. “When you left, you weren’t coming back. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, Mother,” I said. “That’s right.”

  She started to cry softly. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t leave me again. Raymond, don’t leave me now.”

  I looked at her for a second, then away, out the window at the night. I thought for a long time, finally turning, holding out my hands to her. “All right, Mother,” I said. “I’ll stay home.”

  And I did.

  I stayed home, inside the house, mostly in my own room, for the next ten months. Sometimes, at night, I’d slip out and drive to Crystal City for a visit with Terry Clark, but that never took long, seeing as Terry was a pretty busy girl. Otherwise, I never left the house.

  My mother resumed her club work, worse than ever. She’d get up at the crack of dawn, zip through breakfast, and then off she’d go to the Red Cross, or some place else, crammed full of energy. But that energy drained as the day went on, so that when she’d come home, there wasn’t much left. We’d have dinner together, the two of us, and then talk or watch television until it was time for her to go to bed. She was looking better, but it was a long process, a slow one, getting back to normal.
And nothing either of us could do could hurry it along.

  Still, things happened in those ten months.

  Sadie Griffin left town in November, heading for New York. Two weeks later Mr. Crowe sold his house and everything in it. He came over to say good-by and we chatted some, mumbling about this and that, both of us smiling. Then he drove away, picked up his wife, and went to live in California. I got a postcard from him later, from Los Angeles, in which he said that he was fine and his wife was fine and they had a fine apartment and he was working in a clothing store in the downtown area, and good luck, Euripides. Mrs. Janes was sent away for the cure. My mother told me that, and also how proud she was of me for having a friend who was also a friend of hers. Because I was the last person Mrs. Janes asked about before she went.

  So life went on. People kept busy. And I kept busy too.

  By reading.

  Just as soon as I was awake in the morning I started, and I read all day long. I began with the Greeks, working forward, from Homer and Sophocles to that bloody Roman, Seneca. After him a jump to Shakespeare. All his plays, even Hamlet again, which improves, I guess, as you get older.

  Then I took up poetry. First Shakespeare and his sonnets, then Milton, who is worse than the Chinese Water Torture, no matter what anyone says, and Tennyson, and Browning, together with his phony wife. Then Chaucer, who is worse than Milton, and Spenser, who is worst of all. And the Romantics—Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats. Then Donne with his ladies and Herrick with his broads. Then Eliot and Housman and Yeats and, naturally, Kipling.

  I read everything, anything I could get my hands on, understanding some, but not all, which is par. I read most of the books in my father’s study, the English ones anyway, and when I began running low, my mother got more out of the library for me. I read for ten months solid, one day slipping easily into the next without a hitch of any kind.

  Then one night, late in April, my mother came into my room, smiling but nervous, standing over me.

  “Raymond,” she said. I looked up. “Raymond.” And she paused, walking around to the other side of my desk. “Raymond.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “There’s someone downstairs I’d like you to meet,” she answered, blurting it out. I nodded. “Be polite,” she whispered as we headed for the door. “Please, Raymond. Please. Remember your manners.”

  “I shall endeavor to try,” I said, following her down.

  “Adrian,” my mother said, when we got there. “This is my son, Raymond. Raymond. This is Adrian Baugh.”

  “Jolly glad to meet you,” he said.

  “Jolly glad myself,” I answered.

  “Adrian’s from England,” my mother said.

  We shook hands.

  Adrian Baugh stood nine feet tall. Actually, that’s not true. Actually, he only stood six foot six, but he looked nine feet tall, he was that skinny. And English. He said “chaps” all the time. I was a good chap; the students were good chaps; even my mother was a good chap. And I’m sure that no one has really used that word, except in movies, since the dear, days of old Victoria. But Adrian Baugh did. He was so English you almost couldn’t stand it, never wearing anything but tweeds and never smoking anything, naturally, but a pipe. Aside from that, though, he wasn’t a bad guy at all.

  “Adrian has taken over your father’s position at the college,” my mother said. “As head of the department.” We walked into the living-room and sat down. My mother smiled at Adrian; he smiled at her; they both smiled at me. But nobody said anything.

  Finally, my mother broke the ice. “Would either of you care for anything?” she asked.

  “Tea,” Adrian replied. “If you have it.”

  “I’ll make some,” she said, standing up. “You two stay here and get acquainted. I want you to get to be pals.” She left us.

  “So you’re from England,” I said, after a minute or two more of silence.

  “Righto,” Adrian said.

  “Well,” I asked. “How are things over there?”

  And believe it or not, he told me. Starting with Churchill and working down. I sat there, nodding every so often while he chattered nervously on, lighting his pipe, letting it sit, then knocking the ashes into the fireplace.

  We were in the middle of the House of Commons when my mother came back. “How are we getting on?” she asked.

  “Fine,” Adrian answered. “He has a genuine interest in England.”

  They sat across from each other, balancing teacups on their knees, smiling. I watched them. The silence dragged on and on, with nothing to break it up but the sound of their sipping.

  “Adrian loves sports,” my mother said then. “He played cricket in college.”

  He nodded. “I don’t believe you play it much over here.”

  I pulled away at my lip awhile. “No,” I said.

  “It’s a delightful game,” he began. “You see, in cricket, the pitcher bowls the ball, attempting to knock over the wicket. Meanwhile, the batsman—”

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “You got a wicket in cricket?”

  “Raymond,” my mother said.

  So I sat back and listened while he told me about cricket, which is a game I think I could really learn to hate if given half a chance. Adrian talked on and on, gesturing to me, explaining, smiling at my mother. Finally, gym class let out and he had to go home. My mother walked him to the door. “Delightful chap,” I heard him say just before he left. The door closed and my mother came back humming.

  “Mother,” I said, beating her to it. “We’re great pals already. But what difference does it make?”

  “No difference, Raymond,” she answered. “No difference at all.” Then she started to hum again.

  From that day on she pestered me.

  “Raymond, you’re staying home too much,” “Raymond, you ought to go out more.” “Raymond, why don’t you bring someone home to dinner?” “Raymond, Adrian and I are going to the concert. Come along.” “Raymond, Adrian and I are going out to dinner. Come along.” “Raymond, Adrian and I are going for a walk. Come along.”

  All of which was easy enough to ignore, at least in the beginning. But then one night they both cornered me in the living-room.

  “Raymond,” my mother said, “I’m worried about you.”

  “Yes,” Adrian said. “Katherine”—and he smiled at her—“Your mother feels that perhaps you might use your time to some better advantage.”

  “So we thought”—she went on, taking over—“Adrian and I thought that it might be easier for you if we all went out together.”

  “You mean the three of us, Mother?”

  “No, Raymond. I mean four. You know. A double-date.” She giggled.

  “Mother,” I said, “you’re kidding.”

  “Raymond,” she answered, “I’ve never been more serious.”

  “Who would you like me to bring?”

  She smiled across at Adrian. “Surprise us,” she said.

  At which I started laughing. “Mother,” I told her. “I will.”

  And so, three nights later, we were driving out to Crystal City, me behind the wheel, my mother and Adrian in the back seat. When we got to Terry’s place, I parked, honking the horn. We waited awhile. Then Terry appeared, walking toward us.

  “Why, Raymond,” my mother said, “she’s adorable.”

  Which was the truth. Terry Clark’s face was her fortune. She had a wonderful smile, dimples, a perfect, straight nose. And the greatest eyes I’ve ever seen. Round, innocent, pure; they were doll’s eyes.

  She got in the car. “Terry,” I said, “my mother and Adrian Baugh. Meet Terry Clark.”

  “Pleased,” Terry said, and we drove off.

  “I thought we’d go to the drive-in,” I told Terry.

  “Good deal,” she nodded. Then she turned around and faced the back seat. “Apologies for keeping you waiting,” she said. “But I was reading the Digest!”

  “Digest?” Adrian asked.

>   “Bedside,” Terry explained. “Honest to God, I get so wrapped up in that sheet I don’t know what’s going on. Just now I read about this dope peddler who found God. How about that? There he was, pushing ‘H’ in the back of this church, when whammo! it hits him. So he—” She stopped, staring at Adrian. “What’re you sittin’ on?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he answered.

  “Adrian’s very tall,” I put in.

  “You’re not whistlin’ Dixie,” Terry said. She turned back to him, smiling. “It’s good, y’know. Being tall. Females prefer it. Tall men. The Digest took a poll. The tall men came out best.” She patted his knee. “I like tall men myself.”

  “How nice for you,” my mother said, ice cold. Which killed the conversation for a while.

  When we got to the drive-in, I heard Adrian fumbling around in the back seat, but I raised my hand. “This is on me,” I said, and I paid for all of us. We parked, adjusted the mike, and relaxed. A Western was playing and we got there just in time for the barroom brawl.

  “Brain him,” Terry muttered. “Kick his teeth out.”

  “What’s going on?” Adrian asked. The car was full of punches, broken bottles, grunts, groans.

  “Shhh,” I said. “You’re spoiling the love scene.”

  “I can’t see,” Adrian said. I turned around. He couldn’t. He was too tall.

  “I’ll give you a play by play,” I said. There was a terrible splat as the hero unloaded on somebody. “He just told her he loved her,” I said. Somebody else broke a chair on the hero’s head. “She says she loves him too.” The hero knocked a third guy over a table. The table collapsed. “Now they’re kissing,” I said. The sheriff appeared in the doorway and fired a shot at the ceiling. “Wow,” I said. “Some kiss.”

  “Kiss,” Adrian said.

  “Raymond,” my mother said.

  Adrian bent down. Or tried to. All he really managed was to graze my mother on the temple with his elbow. He sat up again. “Dreadfully sorry, Katherine,” he said. “But I can’t see.”

  “Quiet,” Terry put in. “You’re spoiling the mood.”

  “Raymond,” my mother said, “Adrian can’t see.”