by Gene Wilder
After she poured our drinks, she said: “To us, Robbie—I think we both deserve a little happiness.”
We clicked glasses and she leaned over and kissed me. Her kiss was not passionate but mine was. I put down both of our glasses and pulled her into my arms.
This extraordinarily thin surgeon with dull brown hair became more passionate than any woman I’ve ever known.
WINNING HEARTS
Dear readers:
Here’s a little tip for you before I go on my two-week vacation. If you should fall behind by ten or even twenty points . . . you mustn’t give up. Just concentrate and learn from the past; I promise that you can still win.
And here’s a special message to those wonderful girls who have proposed marriage to me, even though we’ve never met. Thank you for such a lovely compliment, but I’ve recently become engaged to a great heart surgeon. She’s always cheerful and has the loveliest brown hair.
Good luck to you all from your King of Hearts,
Robbie Sherman
The Kiss
Becky Goodenough fell hopelessly in love with Robert, a penniless young man who wrote beautiful poems and two novels but couldn’t sell one page of his work for enough money to buy a cup of hot chocolate in the cold Milwaukee winter of 1947.
Becky and Robert met each other at the Milwaukee Community Theatre, where casting was open to anyone in the city. They both auditioned and were cast in the leading roles in Romeo and Juliet.
Becky was an obvious choice . . . a lovely girl, seventeen years old, with a face that had the clear, creamy skin of a baby, and with her long, golden brown hair she looked perfect for the part.
Robert was twenty-four years old and wasn’t what you would traditionally call handsome, but he had a unique voice and a striking presence on stage. The director also thought that Robert was a natural actor, even though he looked like a starving Romeo.
Becky and Robert fell in love, on stage and in real life, during the third day of rehearsals, when they kissed during the balcony scene.
All the actors worked solely for the love of art and the desire to show off. To survive, Robert had a job delivering the Milwaukee Journal between 5:30 and 6:30 each morning, for which he was paid eighteen dollars a week. After he finished his paper route, he spent the whole day writing; then he ate a tuna salad sandwich on his way to rehearsals, which began each weekday at 7:00 p.m.
One evening after rehearsal, Becky asked Robert why they couldn’t go to his house and touch each other and see each other’s naked bodies.
“Don’t you want to?” Becky asked.
“Of course I do,” Robert said, “but you’re too young, and I wouldn’t feel right about it.”
“Oh, pooh!” was Becky’s reply.
Becky’s father was named Boris Goodenough, aptly named after Mussorgsky’s opera, Boris Godunov—the story of a Russian tyrant who became tsar—but the last name was slightly altered when his family came through immigration. An officer changed Godunov to Goodenough, believing it would be easier for Americans to pronounce. The change didn’t bother Boris’s father because he couldn’t hear the difference.
When Boris was twenty-eight, he married a beautiful, frail woman named Sarah, who had also come from Russia. The two lovers were giddy when they talked about how many children they would have, but Sarah died giving birth to their only child, Becky.
When Boris heard that his beautiful seventeen-year-old daughter had fallen in love with a twenty-four-year-old “beggar who doesn’t have a pot to pee in” he shouted, “YOU ARE NOT PERMITTED TO LOVE! You’re too young and that’s it and that’s all!”
At Becky’s urging, Robert, the penniless boyfriend, came to meet Boris Goodenough. Becky had hopes that a little ice might melt if only her father could see what a beautiful young man Robert was.
“Daddy, this is the gentleman I’ve told you about,” she said with glowing cheeks. “This is Robert. He has a master’s degree in English literature from Marquette University.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Goodenough,” Robert said nervously as he extended his arm for a handshake.
“Do you have a last name,” Boris Goodenough asked, “or are you too poor?”
“Frost, sir.”
“Robert Frost?” Mr. Goodenough repeated skeptically.
“Yes, sir. Our family name was Frost. My father chose Robert for my first name because of the poet Robert Frost, whom he admired.”
“WHOM he admired! Oh, well—that’s different. We’ve got a ‘whom’ in the house.”
Becky tried to cut off her father’s sarcasm, but Boris shouted, “Shaaa!”
“May I ask what your father’s name is, Mr. Frost?”
“Jack, sir,” Robert replied.
“. . . Jack Frost?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your mother?”
“Early.”
“. . . Your mother’s name is Early?”
“Well . . . it was actually Early May, but all of her friends just call her Early,” Robert replied.
“Of course . . . that’s only natural. And where are Jack and Early Frost right now?”
“They’re in Brazil, sir. They left when my father was offered a job there. I live alone now.”
“May I ask what you do for a living, Mr. Robert Frost?”
“I’m an artist, sir.”
“You mean you paint pictures?”
“No, sir, I mean . . . well, I don’t know how wonderful my poems or novels are . . . I just mean that, to me, being an artist is a way of satisfying the need you feel to create something beautiful.”
“I see,” Boris replied. “How much does a good ‘need’ pay a fellow these days?”
“Daddy!” Becky shouted, getting more and more upset with the conversation.
“What? I’m asking an intelligent question,” Boris replied innocently. “Maybe not an artistic question, but a father’s question. Wouldn’t you agree, Robert, son of Jack and Early May Frost?”
“Yes, sir, I would. I understand and agree with you completely,” Robert said after seeing the panic on Becky’s face.
“And the answer to your question is . . . that it doesn’t pay anything, Mr. Goodenough . . . except for the love I feel that floods my heart every time I write.”
“Well . . . that counts for something,” Boris said. “Not enough for a steak dinner, or a chicken, or a hamburger, or a peanut butter sandwich . . . or a pickle . . . but as long as it keeps flooding you, that’s the important thing. However . . . YOU ARE NOT PERMITTED TO LOVE MY DAUGHTER, and that’s it and that’s all.”
Robert left the house brokenhearted. Becky cried. Boris went back to reading his book: How to Play Chess and WIN.
One month later, after Romeo and Juliet had finished its three-week run, Becky was cast as Marguerite Gautier in the Milwaukee Community Theatre production of The Lady of the Camellias, by Alexandre Dumas . . . the same part that Greta Garbo played in the movie Camille.
This time—also on the third day of rehearsals—Becky fell hopelessly in love with the tall and extremely handsome young man, Gerhardt Schlegel, who was playing the part of Armand, the wealthy aristocrat, played by Robert Taylor in the movie. When the production finished its three-week run, Becky ran off with Gerhardt to Chicago, sending her father a short letter:
Dear Daddy,
I’m in love. Really, truly in love this time. And I’m safe, so don’t worry about me. Gerhardt Schlegel is a wonderful young man and it’s time I grew up. We’re going to live in Chicago for a while, but I’ll write soon.
Love,
Becky
She also wrote a note to Robert.
Dear Robert,
I’m desperately in love with a wonderful young man who is closer to my own age. You and I had nowhere to go, so I’m afraid it’s over. I know you wish me happiness.
Becky
Robert was devastated by the news. He wandered the streets of Milwaukee. He was in a daze as he passed the hardware store o
n Burleigh Street where he used to buy his pencils, and the Sherman movie theater where he used to go with his parents when he was a little boy, and Guten’s delicatessen on Center Street, where he now looked through the window and saw chickens turning on a spit, which made his stomach cry in pain. He looked at the menu posted outside, just to see what he might order if he had the money to pay for it.
After hours of wandering the neighborhood, his gloveless hands were so cold that he couldn’t feel them anymore, even though he kept them in his pockets.
Just when he thought he might freeze to death, he looked up and found, to his great surprise, that he was standing in front of Boris Goodenough’s front door. It was seven o’clock in the evening and the sun had vanished hours ago.
At this point, Robert was beyond fear. Since he saw that the lights were on in both the living room and the kitchen, he rang the doorbell. He kept ringing it—even leaning on it—until the door finally opened. And there was Boris, unshaven and looking like a faded gray portrait of misery. Boris didn’t say “Hello” or “Get the hell out of here”; he just moaned “oy” four times and finally said, “You want some tea?”
The two mourners commiserated over tea and strudel for two hours. Boris kept pushing food at Robert. Every time Robert started to say, “Thank you, but I really—” Boris would say, “Shaaa! Just eat! It’ll do you good.”
After half an hour together they stopped talking about Becky. Instead, they talked about chess, after Boris learned that Robert had played chess on his college team.
After six helpings of tea in a glass, the Russian way, plus ten pieces of strudel that were forced upon him, happily, Robert stood at the front door, ready to say good night, when Boris suddenly threw his arms around Robert and hugged him, holding on to him for ten or fifteen seconds. Boris finally said, “Get out of here and don’t catch cold!”
Robert and Boris played chess and ate dinner together for the next ten nights. The food was delivered from Guten’s delicatessen, where Boris had a charge account.
On the first night they played, Boris looked at the chessboard, with its beautiful porcelain chess pieces all set up.
“White or black?” he asked, as if any answer Robert gave would be a trick.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter to me, sir. You choose,” Robert answered.
“I’m asking you—white or black?”
“White,” Robert answered.
Boris turned the chessboard around so that the white pieces were facing Robert, but somehow he suspected that a trick had already been played on him.
Since Robert was playing white, he had the first move and quickly pushed one of his pawns to a spot that would be easy for Boris to take. Boris yelled: “AHA! Queen’s Gambit! I knew you’d do that—you not-so-clever sucker. All right, how do you like this?” he said, taking Robert’s white pawn with bravado.
Robert was prepared and quickly moved another pawn. Boris looked puzzled. “What the hell kind of a cockamamie move is that?” Boris asked.
“The Sicilian Defense,” Robert answered.
“WE’RE NOT IN SICILY!” Boris shouted. “Why do you do what a mafioso would do?”
“Because I let you have more control of the center, while I build a safe wall of pawns,” Robert answered.
“Hmmn!” Boris groaned.
The game lasted another seven minutes, after which Robert quietly and politely said, “Checkmate.”
Boris stared at him for several seconds, then quickly got up, saying, “I’m hungry! Let’s have something to eat before we start another game. And this time I won’t feel sorry for a poor artist—I’ll play for real.”
Over the next seven days Robert won seven games. On the eighth day of this little marriage, Boris finally won a game and crowed like a rooster. “ALL RIGHT—NOW WE’RE TALKING BUSINESS! Come on, let’s eat! I’m starved.”
When they finished their brisket of beef with red beets and mashed potatoes, Boris poured both of them a glass of tea and put a plate of eight or nine pieces of strudel on the table.
“By the way, I want to read one of those stories you’ve written that floods your heart,” Boris said affectionately.
The next day, Robert brought Boris one of his short novels. He also let Boris win the chess game that night, just to put him in a receptive mood.
Boris was completely puzzled over the title . . . The Last of the Running Footmen.
“What the hell is a running footman?” Boris asked.
“Well, we don’t have them in Milwaukee,” Robert said with a little laugh, as he took a sip of tea.
“So answer me—what is a running footman?” Boris asked again.
Robert began slowly. “In the eighteenth century, wealthy people in England always had a young man who would help his master and mistress in and out of their carriage, and then he ran alongside the horses until the carriage reached its destination.”
“They had slavery?”
“No, they had money.”
“And that’s all they did? . . . help them into a carriage?”
“No, they always had a pole that they carried with them on rainy days, just in case the carriage got stuck in the mud. Then the running footman would have to help the carriage driver get the carriage out of the mud. He also had to run ahead and advise the nearest innkeeper that aristocrats or royalty were coming . . . it was sort of like making a reservation at a restaurant . . . then run back as fast as he could to help his master and mistress out of the carriage and down the little carriage stair until their feet were safely planted on the ground.”
“How much did these fellows get paid?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Goodenough—I don’t know what a pound was worth then—but it wouldn’t have been very much.”
“Well, since you’re not my running footman, you can now call me Boris.”
On the tenth night, they sat at the card table where the chessboard was already set up, but before they began playing, Mr. Goodenough stared at Robert for almost half a minute.
“Is something wrong, Boris?” Robert asked.
“I read your book.”
“Oh . . .” Robert said softly, expecting the worst.
“I thought it was going to be all about helping this wealthy lady in and out of a carriage,” Boris said. “But instead, I find out that this schlimazel footman falls in love with her, and she encourages him, and then she drops him like a hot potato and runs away with a baron or a count or some other schlemiel. Sound familiar?” Boris asked.
Robert gave a sigh. “Yes, I think I understand what you’re getting at.”
“Robert Frost—the only thing you understand is heartache and pathos and love.”
“What else is there?” Robert answered.
“Food, money, and marriage with a beautiful woman who dies giving birth to a beautiful baby girl, who grows up and breaks your heart. Nice things like that.”
As if on cue, the front door opened and Becky walked in. When she saw the two men sitting together she froze like a statue.
“So, what brings you back?” Boris asked without emotion.
“It’s my birthday,” Becky answered plaintively.
Robert looked at her, but couldn’t speak.
“By the way . . . how old are you now?” Boris asked.
“Forty-five . . . fifty . . . ?”
“I’m eighteen, Daddy,” Becky mumbled.
“And how is Count Gerhardt Gehagenmachenschlagen these days? Is he waiting in his carriage?”
“No,” Becky replied softly.
“DID YOU OR DIDN’T YOU?” Boris burst out. “That’s all I want to know.”
“I DID! But it wasn’t anything like what I thought it would be,” she said as tears welled up in her eyes. “And Gerhardt kept saying, ‘Don’t worry, Becky, its normal. We just have to keep trying. It will get much better, you’ll see.’ But it didn’t get better—it got worse!”
Now rain poured from her eyes.
“I hated all the hair on his chest and the
way he smelled.”
“THEN WHAT THE HELL DID YOU RUN AWAY WITH HIM FOR?” Boris asked.
“BECAUSE I THOUGHT HE WOULD BE SWEET AND GENTLE AND CONSIDERATE—THE WAY ROBERT IS. BUT HE WAS A FILTHY ROTTEN PIG!” she screamed as she ran up the stairs to her bedroom.
Silence.
The two men sat motionless, each in his own thoughts. Finally: “White or black?” Boris asked.
The two men played chess for fifteen minutes without talking; then Becky came down the stairs and stood in front of them.
“Oh? More good news?” Boris asked. Becky stared at her father defiantly.
“Yes! In case you didn’t know it, your beautiful, angelic daughter is a spoiled, rotten brat!”
After this news bulletin, Becky turned away quietly and walked back up the stairs with as much dignity as she could manage.
By late March, the earth showed the earliest signs of flowers that seemed to be yawning, as if they were trying to decide if it was time to get up.
The Community Theatre held auditions for their next production, Much Ado About Nothing. Becky and Robert auditioned and won the leading roles.
By mid-April, daffodils burst open all along the soft green grass on both sides of Sherman Boulevard, showing their beautiful but fragile yellow faces.
ONE YEAR LATER
Boris Goodenough sat alone at the wedding table with only half a heart because his wife wasn’t there to squeeze his hand at the sight of Becky in her beautiful silk and chiffon wedding gown. He was also a little sad because the gown cost ninety dollars and the ballroom at the Schroeder Hotel cost a hundred and twenty dollars, which, for Milwaukee in 1948, was a considerable amount of money.
He watched Becky feed a huge slice of wedding cake into the mouth of Robert Frost, his son-in-law of five minutes.
As the bride and groom kissed, both their chins got painted white with frosting. All the guests laughed. The small band—which cost three hundred and fifty dollars for the evening—began to play Cole Porter’s “So In Love.” Robert waved to Boris and Becky threw a kiss to her father as she and Robert Frost walked to the dance floor. While they danced, Becky ate Robert’s chin.
