I'll Get There. It Better Be Worth the Trip.: 40th Anniversary Edition

by John Donovan

  "Sure it is. So's life," she says. "When you've got a business, you remember things which help the business. What people like is very important in candy. Take, for example, if you were to buy Dougie a bag of candy as a present for his birthday, it would be important not to have black jelly beans in it. That's business, sonny. Business is giving people what they want. Remember that, when you're a big man doing a big business somewhere. It's advice like this you need. You'll grow up and go to college someday, and you'll learn business from books and you'll learn economics, and the Wall Street journal will become your favorite comic book, and you might forget what a lady in the candy business told you. But you try to remember: Give the people what they want. That's business," she says, handing me a plate with fudge on it. "Try some. It's good."

  I do. And it's good. I tell her so.

  "What did you expect? I made it myself." She points to a row of jars. "That stuff I import from England. People in New York like to suck candy made in Europe. We got stuff here that tastes better and is cheaper, but New Yorkers like the English stuff. It's a cheap way to take a trip, you think?"

  She tells me she forgot my name and I tell her what it is. She tells me I'm a good boy and I listen to advice.

  "Poor Larry," she says. She takes a handkerchief from her apron pocket and blows her nose. "Such a boy!" She begins to cry, I think. "Like clockwork, every Friday, for years! Larry and Dougie would come in here for candy. Such a boy! You never knew him, if I recall. Him and Dougie were such a pair. Nice boys, not fresh like some kids I know. Always polite. Always please and thank you. That's manners. Kids today forget those things. Maybe it's because you boys are richer than most. Oh, I don't know. I like rich kids better than poor ones. Not that I don't like poor kids too. There's a lot of poor kids with fine manners, and very nice to talk with too. Oh, but there's something to be said for being rich. You boys start out with so much more. Count your blessings, sonny. Excuse me, I forgot your name."

  "Davy Ross," I tell her.

  "You're a nice boy, Davy. I can tell from the way you act. You're Dougie's new friend, aren't you?"

  "Sure," I mutter.

  "So where is he? Where's Dougie? He hasn't been in to see me since the last time you two passed by. Not once since poor Larry died. What kind of friend do you call that, who won't come to see me?"

  "I'm sure he'll be in," I say.

  "Davy, that's the right name, isn't it?" she says. "Promise me something. Tell Dougie that Mrs. Greene is a friend indeed. Promise you'll tell him."

  "Sure."

  "That's a good boy. Now choose what you want. For you there's no charge today."

  I smile my greedy smile, and she laughs. I pick out some of Mrs. Greene's fudge and some caramels. She puts a lot of stuff in a bag for me, still laughing. "What did I tell you? Mrs. Greene is a real friend."

  I save some of the fudge for my mother, but when I get home it is easy to see that fudge isn't what Mother wants this afternoon. On several days Mother works at home, doing this writing stuff she has to do for her job. I had forgotten that this was one of those days, and I'm happy that I had forgotten because if I had remembered I would have been thinking about it all day. She has stayed home to work about five times, including today, since I have come to live with her. On the other four days something awful happened when I walked through the door. It usually had something to do with Fred, who bothered Mother when she was trying to work. Mother gets a lot of pep for her writing out of the array of liquor bottles spread around the kitchen and living room. I can see right away that she is filled with plenty of pep today.

  "Davy! Davy! Davy!" she says. "My precious lambie pie, my scrumptious strawberry tart, my delicious draught of apricot nectar! Come give Mummy a swell kiss."

  I give Mother a kiss, practically falling on the floor because there's so much alcohol in the air around her.

  "You must be working on a food account today," I say. Me, the comedian.

  "What do you mean, my precious?" she says, sweeping me into her arms to kiss her again.

  "All those food names you kept calling me." I laugh nervously. "I sounded like a three-course meal."

  Mother doesn't think I'm such a comedian though. She is sitting at her desk, and Fred, of course, is running around both of us like a nut, begging for attention from me. She jumps up now and turns away from me.

  "You've really got a lot of chutzpah, haven't you? Just like your father."

  "What's chutzpah?"

  "It's New York for nerve. You think you have all the answers.

  "I'm sorry," I say. "I thought it was funny the way you called me all those foods. You must have been hungry," I continue, now nervous as hell. "Maybe you didn't have anything to eat today."

  "What does that mean?" she says in a very loud voice, turning to me.

  "Nothing, Mother."

  "I think it means something. You are just like your father. I don't know why I let you see him every week. You're getting more like him every day."

  "I'm sorry."

  "With cracks about eating." She moves away. Fred follows her. I think he heard the word "eat," which he understands well, and thinks she is going to feed him. He gets mixed up in the hem of the long robe she is wearing, and Mother pulls it up from the floor.

  "Get the hell off my robe," she says to Fred.

  "Come here, Fred," I call. He comes dashing over to me. "I'll take him out, Mother." She doesn't answer, so I go out with Fred. I stay out about seven times as long as I would ordinarily, and Fred couldn't be more pleased. I walk him toward Fourteenth Street, which to Fred is like going to heaven since that's where the wholesale meat dealers are. When I have been out as long as I dare without there being a terrible scene about where I was for so long when I get home, I take Fred back to Mother's. The end of the Huntley-Brinkley news report is coming through loud and clear from the television set.

  "Good night, Chet."

  "Good night, David."

  "Good night to both of you," I hear Mother call. "You bastards, I'll bet you don't spend your lives dog-sitting and kid-sitting. Good night, good night, get lost, both of you!" She turns off the television set and sees that Fred and I have returned.

  "Good night, good night," she says, mimicking herself. "Good night, Chet. Good night, David. Do you suppose his mama called him Davy? What do you think, Davy?"

  "I don't know."

  "Of course you don't. If you cared for your mama, you'd get right on the telephone and call that man and ask him if his mama called him Davy. That's what good little boys do. Isn't that right, Fred?" She bends down to Fred, who runs toward her and jumps up to lick her face. "That's a good doggie. Isn't our Davy bad? He won't call up the television man and ask him what his mama called him. What do you think, Freddy baby? Isn't our Davy a bad boy not to do that?" Fred gives her another lick. I don't know what she does then, but she must be pinching Fred or squeezing him tight because he suddenly yelps in pain and makes a snapping sound.

  "My God!" Mother jumps up. "He tried to bite me!" Fred is confused and runs away from Mother.

  "No, he didn't," I say. "You frightened him. You must have pinched him."

  "He tried to bite me."

  "It's because of what you did, Mother. You must have done something to him."

  "I did not."

  "He wouldn't have yelped unless you did."

  I go after Fred. He has run into the bathroom and curled himself up behind the toilet. I bend down, and he growls at me, softly but certainly. I am surprised, so I don't say anything. I do put out my hand toward him, and he growls again and shows his teeth slightly. Fred has never done this to me before.

  Finally I speak softly. "That's all right, Fred. It was an accident, Fred. No one is mad at Fred. I promise." Fred stops growling and looks at me very tentatively. "That's all right," I say. "Good Fred, good Fred." I put out my hand once again, and he lets me pat him. "Good Fred. Come to Davy." He uncurls himself from the back of the toilet and moves slowly out. On one or two occasi
ons before, I think Fred has tried to walk on tiptoe, and he tries to do it again. I'm sitting there on the floor, so he marches right between my legs and jumps up to kiss me. We have a big love feast for five minutes. I tell Fred that accidents will happen and he shouldn't be mad at anyone. "Accident" isn't a word in Fred's vocabulary of course, unless he's smarter than even I think he is. I read somewhere that dogs have a thousand-word vocabulary as far as comprehension goes. Some people say that is crazy. All dogs do is respond to the tone of your voice. I don't believe that. I know dogs who are smarter than people. I know a specific dog who just may be smarter than my dumb mother with her dumb drinks and all that dumb talk about love and that crazy way she acts, one minute all love and kisses and the next minute like I just put a knife in her back. At least with Fred I know where I stand. Altschuler and my mother would make a great pair.

  he next day when I go out with my father and Stephanie, I am a regular gloomy Gus. My father doesn't pay any attention to me, but Stephanie can tell right away that I'm not the usual trying-to-please me. I already mentioned that Stephanie is schmaltzy. She has a cool outside, but if everything isn't hunky-dory she knows it in two minutes, and I can see her trying to find out what's wrong. I try to be jolly as hell and it's fake, and Stephanie knows it, so she works even harder, which makes me gloomier, and so forth. You get the picture. On some days it is not satisfactory to deal with people.

  Today we go to a large department store uptown on the East Side in a part of New York people who live around Mother call fancy. Stephanie wants to look at some enameled pots she read about in The New York Times, and my father wants to get out of the store as fast as he can. He designs things like dinner knives, letterheads, lighting fixtures, doorknobs-all that kind of stuff. He is always talking about the low level of the public's taste and says that particular store goes out of its way to find ugly. Stephanie tells him he is mad because he can never find anything there he designed. He says of course he's mad for that reason and isn't that reason enough. It's not serious, the way my father and Stephanie talk. If I quoted them word for word, it would sound like an argument. It's not that at all. It's more like a joke where they both tell the truth to each other but without meanness. I wonder if my mother and my father were ever this way. Probably not. They could have been, I suppose. Would Father be a totally different person with Stephanie? Why does my father like Stephanie as a friend and not like my mother at all? I wonder whose son my father thinks I am. His? Mother's? His and Mother's? I don't usually give much thought to stuff like this, but because of the strange things on the day before with both Altschuler and Mother I feel sorry for myself, I guess. Especially since Father didn't say anything about bringing along Fred when he picked me up. And Fred knew right away when he saw Father that there was a real possibility that a lot of free food from Stephanie might be in the offing and that the alternative was to stay home with Mother, who loved him one minute and said some crazy things to him in the next.

  The fact is that it's not Mother I'm thinking about so much that makes me gloomy. I'm used to her. Lady Mercury. It's Altschuler, and the way he ran away from me yesterday just because of today. What a twirp!

  "I think I won't stay with you for dinner tonight if that's OK," I say.

  Stephanie practically falls through the floor. My father pretends that I said it looks like rain until I pursue the subject.

  "You don't care, do you," I say, "about my not coming to dinner?"

  "Of course we do, Davy," Stephanie says. "We care very much."

  "Stop it, dear," my father says to Stephanie. Then to me, "You don't feel very well, kid? Is that it?"

  Kid? What's this kid stuff? I think to myself. I don't always say what I want to say. Kid! It's like a movie, my father calling me kid as though I am an object, as though he wouldn't dream of being close to me or telling me things which are essentially private things, like the time a few weeks ago he told me about the Jewish cemetery and how Stephanie is Jewish. That was a personal and private thing for him to tell me. I know from the fact that I remember what he said that I was impressed with his having said anything to me about something like Stephanie being Jewish. Who the hell cares what anyone is? But if you talk about that stuff, it must be because it is important to you, and personal, or private, or whatever the hell you want to call it. I have so many thoughts about a lot of stuff lately. I used to have them before too, but with Grandmother there was a way to talk about something without actually coming out and saying let's talk about-well-why Mother doesn't come to see me very much. When I thought about this, and I thought about it a lot, it was possible to talk about how fast people could get around today, and Grandmother would say that the very rapidity which brings people together parts them as rapidly and things like that, which was our way of saying that even if Mother came to see me-and her-it didn't matter because she would disappear in two shakes anyway. So they could all stay away for all we cared. For all I cared. Who needs a lot of people who see you because they think they have to? Not me, that's for sure. I'd rather spend my time with Fred. There's a bastard who wants to be around me twenty-four hours a day. He wants me.

  "I feel fine," I answer my father. "There's a lot of stuff I want to do at home, that's all."

  Stephanie is fidgeting so much that I say they should forget what I said and that I want to have dinner with them. They stumble over each other to say I should do what I feel like doing. They each say that about four times.

  "I want to be left alone!" I say. And I say it loud. We are still in the store, but we have moved from the enameled pots to the place where they have louvred blinds for windows. A lot of people turn to look at me. My father and Stephanie look as though I had tossed some enameled pots at them. I am surprised. I have raised my voice in a public place and in front of a lot of people, and to adults.

  "I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean it to sound that way."

  That's all right, that's all right, they both tell me. Maybe I should tell them honestly what I feel. Since they see me so infrequently, it's more important for all of us to be straightforward than to be polite. The people who sell louvred blinds are looking at us with curiosity now. We have attracted a lot of attention from Saturday shoppers, so we leave the store. It's my fault. I know it is. I have upset the day, and that is dumb, and my father and Stephanie don't have anything to do with why I have ruined everything for them. And that makes me unhappy. They don't really have anything to do with me, do they? We see each other because we see each other. If I am teed off at something and it's my father and Stephanie I'm with, it's Father and Stephanie I am going to seem to be teed off at.

  "Your father wouldn't take you to dinner?" Mother exclaims when I come home at six o'clock.

  "Sure. They wanted to take me to dinner," I answer. "I didn't feel like it. That's all."

  Mother is sloshed, it being a ritual with her that on Saturdays she can get sloshed earlier in the day than during the week. She knows that Father is supposed to keep me until late in the evening, and I have figured she does some serious gargling with Listerine around nine thirty every Saturday night so that when I arrive and Father takes me up to Mother's apartment, Mother will be ready with the I'm-a-nun act she puts on for Father whenever she has time to prepare it. She wasn't ready for me to come home at six, and not ready to see Father at all. Father understands this right away and doesn't linger to hear Mother's inevitable invitation to him to have a drink.

  "Good luck, kid," he says to me. In a few hours I have grown to dislike the word kid, so I don't answer Father, or say good night to him either. He can really be a bastard when he's not even half-thinking about it. What a team they must have been, my mother and my father.

  "If they didn't take you to dinner, you must be hungry. I'll rustle up something fabulous," Mother says in her dumb, sloshed tones.

  "I'm not hungry, Mother."

  "Of course you are."

  "I'm not. Really."

  "If your father and Stephanie didn't take you to dinner, y
ou're hungry."

  "No. I'm not."

  "They didn't feed you, Davy. You've got to be hungry, sweetheart. I don't understand why they didn't take you to dinner, but that's beside the point. Davy's hungry. Stingy Daddy wouldn't spring for dinner. That's stingy Daddy for you. Mother's got a good idea. Mother and Davy will get all dolled up and go out to a posh restaurant and charge it to Daddy. Would you love that, sweetheart?"

  No.

  "That's what I think we'll do. I'll get all dolled up. Mother will be the doll, and you'll be a regular wolf going out with an older woman. Wouldn't that be fun, sweetheart?" Mother is laughing away as though she has said the funniest thing in the world.

  "I'm going to take Fred out," I say.

  "They won't serve him in the restaurants I go to," says my mother the comic.

  "I mean for a walk," I say.

  "Go ahead. You can always get away from me, can't you, Davy?"

  I tell her that I don't know what she's talking about, and she says I damn well do, and I tell her again that I don't, and she says I can run away with my dog all I want to but that when I come home I'll be coming home to Mother, and I'd better not forget that because it's Mother's life which is being wasted...

  "You understand that, don't you, Davy? My life is being given over to someone else. I'm giving up everything, just as I always have. Your father. Now you."

  I'm used to Mother sloshed, and I keep hearing about her lost life in one form or another, but she doesn't usually accuse me personally of being the source of her problem with life and all that. The closest she gets is Fred. It's Fred who is using up her life.

  I take out Fred. It's a long walk. When I come home, it's seven thirty.

  "Mother," I call when I get in. She doesn't answer. "Mother," I say again. I want to tell her that I'm sorry she is wasting her life. She isn't in the living room: "Mother!" I say once more. Her bedroom door is closed. I knock on it and go in. Mother is lying on her bed. She is dolled up. She is asleep too. She snores. Fred jumps at the side of the bed.