“Terry,” I said, “you know I hate that. Will you please stop?”
“You don’t care,” she mumbled. “You don’t care what happens to me.”
“Sure I do,” I told her. “Now please stop that crying.”
“If you care,” she went on, “why do you ignore me?”
“I don’t ignore you. I think about you all the time.”
“When you’re down at that goddam magazine,” Terry cried, “I hate that goddam magazine. I hope the goddam thing burns up.”
“You’re being irrational,” I said.
“What does that mean?”
“Silly.”
“Silly! Silly, for chrissakes. Here I put on my best nightie and my best perfume and I spend hours combing my hair and what do I get for it? ‘Something smells awful.’ ”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was just trying to make you talk.”
“Sorry! You’re sorry. You know what I am? I’m bored. B-o-r-d. Bored to beat hell.”
“Go play with Andy Peabody,” I said. “He’s a nice boy. He gave you a bracelet for Christmas.”
“I do,” she said. “I see him all the time. He loves me. He writes me poems. He—”
“When do you see him?” I cut in. “When?”
She threw her arms around me then, pressing her body close, kissing me, holding me tight.
I pushed her away. “When do you see him?” I said again.
“Every afternoon,” she whispered.
“What about the Red Cross? You work there afternoons.”
She shook her head. “I quit. Three weeks ago.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said. “Why didn’t somebody tell me?”
“I was afraid you’d be mad, Trevitt. And Kate promised that she—”
“Maybe you’ll go back tomorrow,” I said.
She pressed close to me again, whispering so soft I could hardly hear. “I hated it, Trevitt. I only went because you wanted. That’s the only reason. I always hated it. So I quit.”
“You’ve just got to go back,” I told her. “You’ve got to go back tomorrow.”
“I won’t.”
“Then I don’t give a damn what you do,” I said and I lay down again, my eyes closed. Tight.
The next day, when I came home from school, my mother was waiting for me in the living-room, Adrian beside her. “Raymond,” she called as I went by, “come in here.” I did. “Raymond,” she said, “we want to have a talk with you.” She turned to Adrian. “Yes,” he began. “We feel, Raymond—Katherine and I both feel—and we reached this conclusion separately—we both feel that you are spending altogether too much time at the magazine and...neglecting other things. Such as your wife, Raymond, and your mother who, we must remember, is leaving you and going to England before too much longer. And you’ve been terribly nervous of late and...” He chattered away, with me listening politely, nodding when I was supposed to. As soon as he’d finished, I told them I’d think it over, thanked them for their kind attention, and took off.
For the magazine. Harriet was working. I threw my jacket at a chair, missed, swore, picked it up, crumpled it in my hands. Then I heaved it all I had against the wall, yelling, “Goddam it to hell,” as loud as I could.
Harriet looked up. “A new poem you’re working on?”
I grumbled something.
“You know, Euripides,” she said, “come to think of it, I’ve never seen you looking better. All that weight you’ve lost and those wonderful shadows under your eyes. You’re dreamy.”
“Not from you,” I said. “Please.”
“I just thought you’d like one woman’s opinion.”
“Frankly, Harriet,” I began, “you can take...”
“If you swear at me,” she cut in, “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“O.K.,” I said. “All right. I’m sorry. But Jesus, Harriet. Why can’t they leave you alone?”
She got up then, came around the desk to me. “ ’Cause hims is such a cutie pie,” she answered. After which we both started laughing. ...
The magazine was printed on the night of the 10th of April, and a pretty great night it was. At least I thought so at the time, standing there in the basement of the college newspaper, Harriet beside me, the two of us filthy dirty, black with ink. I stared straight ahead, listening to the presses, watching as those sheets of glossy paper came slapping out, clean, printed, done.
Finally, Harriet turned to me. “You did it,” she said, laughing. “That’s your baby.” And she pointed at those presses, shouting over the noise. “All yours, Euripides, and you’d better take care. Because next year you’re going to be editor, so you ought to practice feeling like a father.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so,” she went on, yelling louder, laughing more. “There’s no one else Janes can put up. Just you, Euripides. You’ve made it! It’s all over but the shouting! You’ve won!”
My mother was married on Friday the 14th of April in the college chapel at four o’clock in the afternoon.
By eleven that morning she was in a state of panic. Everything was going wrong. The reception was to be held at our house after the wedding and here it was eleven already and the food hadn’t arrived. And what should she do about the way she looked? And she’d tried on her dress and it didn’t fit and her girdle hurt and where oh where was that food?
I did what I could to calm her, but she just went on and on, nervous, scared, tears in her eyes, giggling every once in a while when she couldn’t think of anything else to do. Terry wasn’t much help either. There were tears in her eyes, too, as, muttering to herself, she followed my mother around.
So finally I gave up and went to the kitchen, made a bunch of sandwiches. I carried them out to my mother and Terry and they looked at me as if I’d committed a cardinal sin. I shook my head, returned to the kitchen, and ate alone.
When the caterers did come, my mother really took off, zipping around the house, from living-room to dining-room to kitchen and back again. The punch bowl goes here, the this goes there, the that goes over in the corner. Watching her, I couldn’t help laughing.
“Raymond,” she said, “there is nothing funny.”
“I wouldn’t say that, Mother.”
“Raymond, please. If you can’t help, don’t hinder. Do you remember when to give Adrian the ring?”
“Ring?” I said. “Do I have to give Adrian a ring? Why didn’t somebody tell me?”
“Trevitt!” Terry said.
“Why don’t you two go off and play,” my mother suggested. “Do something. Is your suit pressed, Raymond? Have you bathed? Are you clean?”
“Yes, Mother.”
She turned to Terry. “Have you shown Raymond your new dress?”
Terry’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “I was saving it for a surprise,” she said. “At the wedding.”
“Surprise him now,” my mother told her. “Please, Terry. Right this minute.”
Terry nodded, grabbing me by the arm, leading me upstairs, talking a mile a minute. “Kate bought it for me last week. It’s all pink. With lace. Pink and lace all over. With a great big skirt that swirls around. And I got new shoes to go along with it. They match. And a new hat. And—”
“Where is it?” I said, sitting on the bed.
“I can’t just show it to you. It’s gotta be modeled.”
“O.K.,” I said. “Model it.”
“I gotta clean up first. You can’t just model a dress like this. I gotta bathe and clean up.” She pushed me flat on the bed. “You wait right here, Trevitt. I’ll hurry.”
I stretched out, listening to the water running in the bathtub. I closed my eyes and thought about a nap, but two minutes later my mother was calling my name.
“What is it, Mother?”
“Phone,” she told me. “As if I didn’t have enough to do. Be quick, Raymond. Don’t block the line.”
I hurried into her room and answered. It was Harriet. “What’s new?�
�� I asked.
“I have to see you,” she said. “I’m at the office and I have to see you.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I have to see you,” she said again. “I can’t tell you now. I have to see you.”
“Be right down,” I told her and I hung up.
Terry was still in the tub when I started getting dressed, putting on my suit, clean shirt, tying my tie. Finished, I knocked on the bathroom door. “I’ve got to go out,” I said.
I heard her scrambling from the tub and then the door opened. She stood there, dripping, a towel draped around her. “I’ve got to go out,” I said. “I’ll meet you at the chapel.”
She shook her head. “But I’m going to model my dress. You said that—”
“Harriet has to see me,” I cut in. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how long it’ll take, so we better plan to meet—”
“You said you wanted to see my dress.”
“I do,” I told her. “But this is important. I’ll see the dress at the wedding.”
“You promised,” Terry said, her voice rising.
“Don’t make such a big deal out of it. Please. And don’t start bawling.”
“Which means more to you, for Christ’s sake? Me or that goddam magazine?”
“Don’t ever ask,” I laughed, grabbing for her.
She stepped away. “Don’t go.”
I headed for the door.
“Don’t go,” she said again, following me. “Please. Don’t.”
“I don’t know how you look in that dress,” I said. “But you’re pretty damn cute in that towel.” And waving, I left her.
It was a beautiful day, almost too warm for April, as if summer was getting tired of waiting and had decided to give spring a run for its money. I began perspiring the second I got outside, so I slowed, picking up stones every once in a while, skipping them along the street. The afternoon sun slanted in at me as I walked along, from shadow to light, light to shadow. It must have been twenty minutes before I reached the office, and when I did, Harriet was waiting for me, sitting alone.
“Hi,” I said, walking in. “Do I look like a best man?”
“Wonderful,” she told me. “You look wonderful.” After which she started to cry. I hurried around the desk, taking her gently by the shoulders.
“Hey, Harriet,” I whispered. “Stop that. Please, Harriet, cut it out. Ever since Christmas people have been crying at me. The minute I come near them they cry. I’m getting a complex, Harriet, and you wouldn’t want that to happen to me. So stop it now. Please. Stop.”
And she did, gradually, with much blowing of nose and drying of eyes. I sat across from her, smiling, telling her everything was fine. But all that time I was tensing, knotting up, waiting for her to say it.
“Janes was here earlier,” she whispered finally. “And he didn’t do it, Euripides. He didn’t make you editor.”
I nodded.
“I argued with him, Euripides. I did. I tried, but he kept saying you weren’t capable, you weren’t capable.”
“Who got it, Harriet?”
“I did,” she answered, very softly. “He said I was the only one that could do the job. I told him I wouldn’t. He said if I didn’t, he’d only get someone else, because you weren’t capable. And then I got to thinking that if I were editor, you could help me, like you’ve been doing. But I’d let you make the decisions. So it will be the same as if you were editor. There’s no difference, Euripides. Just a title is all. Just a name.”
“I deserved it,” I said. “I worked for it. I deserved it.”
“I know you did. God knows. And I’m sorry, but I couldn’t tell you on the phone. I had to explain it to you. It’s just a title, and it’s a lousy magazine anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”
I didn’t answer, but just sat there in that dark, musty office, staring out at all that sunshine, thinking over and over: “I deserved it. I deserved it. I deserved it.” Harriet came close, put her arms around me, holding me, rocking.
Right then I stood up, heading for the door. Where are you going? Harriet called.
“Terry,” I told her, not turning. “Terry. I’m going home.”
It didn’t take me long, half running, half limping, cursing my leg out loud. It began aching, but I kept on, and when I did get there, the place was a madhouse. I yelled, but nobody answered so I went into the dining-room. A fat Negro lady was spreading silverware on a tablecloth for the buffet.
“Where’s Mrs. Trevitt?” I asked her.
She laughed. “Mrs. Trevitt ain’t gonna be Mrs. Trevitt long. She’s gettin’ married.”
“The other one,” I said. “The young one.”
“Who are you?”
“I live here,” I said. “I’m looking for my wife.”
“She went off with your brother.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Little blond boy,” she said. “Smaller than you.”
I spun around, heading outside, cutting across the lawn, over to Zock’s house. I went in. No one was home. I went upstairs. It was then that I heard them.
Voices.
Coming from Zock’s room. I threw the door open, felt it smack against the foot of the bed.
“Who’s out there?” Terry said.
I didn’t answer, but just stared, stared across the room to the desk chair and the pink, lacy dress spread carefully across it.
Then someone left the bed so I turned, tearing down the stairs, tripping, falling the last few feet. But I got right up, not stopping, never once stopping even though from above I could hear my wife calling my name, screaming it as loud as she could.
I hit the street, my leg killing me, still going on, trying to run. I ran until she’d stopped yelling, until I couldn’t hear her any more. Then I started to wonder. I’ll never know how I found my way to the college chapel. But somehow, I did.
By the time I got there, the wedding was about to begin. Adrian was already at the front, standing very straight. I turned up the aisle toward him. He smiled. I stopped. The music started. My mother appeared at the far end of the aisle. The music got louder, louder, louder still.
And before I knew it, my mother was a wife again. She kissed Adrian. They ran down the aisle together. I stood still. Everyone swooped down on me, told me how lucky I was, and I smiled, said: “Sure am, sure am, thank you.” Finally, the crowd thinned, all of them heading back to our house for the reception.
I waited in the church awhile, then walked home. The place was jammed. With faculty and students and a million friends of my mother. I watched them a second through the window, saw them drinking away, heard the laughter and the screaming. I turned, continuing on to the back door, sneaking in as quiet as I could, hurrying up the back stairs to my room. I opened the door, walked inside.
Terry was there.
I closed the door, not saying a word, but instead going to the bathroom, splashing some water on my face.
“I been waitin’ for you, Trevitt,” Terry said when I came back.
I nodded, listening to the roar from below as it came through the walls, filling the room.
“I’m sorry,” Terry said.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” I told her.
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“That sure is a nice pink dress,” I said. “I guess it looks even better on you than folded over a chair. You folded it nice and neat over that chair. There wasn’t a wrinkle.”
“Trevitt—” she began.
“Maybe we ought to go into business,” I said. “I’ll pimp for you. We’ll split fifty-fifty. That’s fair. And you’ll need a pimp. Whores need pimps, don’t they? Don’t whores need pimps?”
“Sure,” Terry whispered. “Please—”
“And we won’t work out of any of those Crystal City whorehouses either. We’ll do it right here. Mother won’t mind. And when we’ve got enough money, we’ll go to New York. And then maybe we’ll try Europe. There’s a big market in
Europe. And we’ll buy a house and settle down on the Riviera with servants and cars and all the rest.”
“Please,” Terry said, starting to cry. “I told you I was sorry. Please. Don’t be mad, Trevitt. I’m sorry, honest to—”
“Mad?” I cut in. “I’m not mad. You marry a whore and she turns out to be a whore. What right have you got to be mad?”
“Please,” she sobbed. “Please. You got to help me, Trevitt. I’m sorry and you got to help me.”
I just shook my head. “Why do you always ask for help when it’s too late? Everybody’s always asking for help when it’s too late.” I opened the closet door, took out a bunch of dresses, carried them over, dumped them on the bed. My back was to her when she said it.
“I love you, Trevitt. No crap. I really do.”
I got some more dresses, carried them over, stacked them on the first pile. “You know,” I said. “You’re the first person ever told me that. In all my life. I used to daydream about it, about how it was going to be. I never figured on this.” She was crying harder now, gasping, getting close to hysteria. Then she was up, brushing by me, tearing at the clothes in the closet, ripping her dresses off the hangers, throwing them wildly around the room.
“I guess you can pack for yourself,” I said. She stopped, trying to look at me. “Don’t forget anything,” I told her, pointing to the bookcase.
“To hell with the Bedside Digest!” she screamed.
I closed the door and went downstairs.
The noise was terrible. The house was crammed with noise, drunken laughing, loud talk, and I waited a minute before I could force my way through it. People came up to congratulate me. Old women kissed me. Men shook my hand. I tried losing myself in the living-room, but Mrs. Janes, who was “much better now,” got roaring and started a Charleston demonstration. I couldn’t watch, so I began edging out and as I did, I saw her husband. He saw me too. We both smiled, nodding to each other.
Then my mother cornered me, asking questions, where was Terry, where was Terry, what happened to Terry? I tore loose and headed for the bar.
Swallowing drink after drink, throat open, pouring them down as fast as I could. It all got hazy very quick and I needed a chair for support, but I kept drinking. Then my mother was on me again, Adrian beside her, asking me questions, again and again. The noise was worse than ever and I started shaking as if I had a fever, that noise pushing at me, knotting me so I couldn’t breathe. I felt myself going and I knew if I stayed in that house one minute more I’d split wide open.
The Novels of William Goldman Page 140
