When HARLIE Was One

by David Gerrold

  He sat morosely in his chair and stared at the opposite wall. There was a place where the paneling was cracked; it looked kind of like a dog’s head. Or, if one considered it from a different angle, perhaps it was the curve of a woman’s breast. Or perhaps it was Australia. . . .

  Abruptly, a phrase suggested itself to him, a snatch of a Tom Leher song he had heard once, a few isolated words that had stuck with him ever since. It perfectly described his mood: “. . . sliding down the razor blade of life . . .”

  He shuddered. And then exhaled loudly in annoyance.

  This was stupid. He wasn’t going to accomplish anything if he let a blue funk be the master of his day. The only way to get rid of it would be to lose himself in work.

  He turned to his terminal and began to make some notes for the upcoming board meeting, but his heart wasn’t in it. He killed the file. He could have accessed HARLIE, but he resisted the temptation. For some reason, he did not feel up to talking with HARLIE again today. He knew he would have to talk to him about the use of the telephone and that was still one confrontation he wanted to avoid.

  Or would that be a cop-out? He worried about that one for a while and decided that it probably would be.

  But—on the other hand, he needed time to prepare, didn’t he? Yes, he rationalized, I need time to prepare. I’ll come in tomorrow and talk to HARLIE about it. Or maybe Sunday. The plant was open all week long.

  Idly, he found himself wondering—What did HARLIE do on weekends?

  Instead of a restaurant, they ended up at his apartment.

  “When was the last time you had a home-cooked meal?” she had asked him in the car.

  “Huh? Oh, now look—”

  “Listen, I know what your idea of cooking is, David. Slap a steak in the broiler and open a Coke.”

  “I thought this was supposed to be my treat.”

  “It is—pull into that shopping center there. I’ll pick up the fixings and you’ll pay.”

  He grinned at that and swung into the parking lot. Dusk was turning the sky yellow and the atmosphere gray.

  As they wheeled the cart through the package-lined, fluorescent-lit aisles, he realized that something about the situation was making him uneasy. As he usually did in cases like this, he tried to pinpoint the cause of his unease. If he could isolate it, then perhaps he might understand it and be able to do something about it.

  But whatever the cause of it was, it eluded him. Perhaps it was just a hangover from this morning’s malaise. Perhaps. But then again—

  Annie was saying something.

  “Huh? I didn’t hear you.”

  “You weren’t listening.”

  “Same thing,” he said. “What were you saying?”

  “It is not the same thing. I was asking, Do you eat all your meals in restaurants?”

  “Um, most of them. I don’t do much cooking.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Too much fuss and bother, I guess.”

  She reached for a package of noodles. “Beef Stroganoff all right?”

  He made a face, and she replaced the package. “Have you ever had beef Stroganoff?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Then how do you know you don’t like it?”

  “Uh—”

  She nodded. “I thought so.” And picked up the noodles again. “Let’s find out if you don’t like it.”

  He shrugged.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s almost like real food.” She took the cart from him and wheeled determinedly toward the end of the aisle. He trailed after. The feeling of unease was becoming a sense of pressure.

  “You know,” she said, “it’s really a shame they don’t make boys take home-economic courses. I’ll bet you wouldn’t know a good piece of meat unless you bit into it, and by then it’s too late—you’ve already paid for it.” She selected a head of lettuce; it was plastic-wrapped. “Go pick out some salad dressing and croutons or garbanzos. I’ll pick a vegetable.”

  A few more items in the cart and they were through; she selected a bottle of cabernet sauvignon from a northern California winery and he added a small package of vanilla ice cream for dessert.

  “You know,” he whispered as they headed for the checkout stand, “you don’t really have to go to all this trouble.”

  “Yes, I do,” she said.

  “But I’d be just as happy with a restaurant.”

  “But I wouldn’t, David,” she said. “Did you ever stop to think that I might want to cook? How often do I get a chance to fuss over someone? Now please, shut up and let me enjoy it.”

  He shut up. He thought about it. Well, maybe she did enjoy cooking. Just because he didn’t, it didn’t mean that everybody felt the same way. Maybe some girls liked to play house—

  And that was it. That was what was bothering him.

  House.

  The cash register clattered and rang. He shoved the cart forward mechanically.

  “Why the long face?” she asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re frowning.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Want to bet?”

  “I was just thinking, that’s all.”

  “Well, it looked like a frown.”

  “Um. Sorry.”

  She shrugged it off. “What for? What were you thinking about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Just about our different attitudes on things.”

  She shrugged. “I like to cook.”

  “And I like to eat.”

  The clerk checked them out, a steady pattering of packages and prices, punctuated by the electronic coughs of the register. “Twenty-nine forty-three,” she said.

  He handed her two twenty-dollar bills; then, noticing that there was no boxboy, he stepped down to the end of the checkstand and began putting the groceries in a bag. He was able to put them all into one sack, and hefted it once to test its weight. He looked back to the clerk. “My change?”

  “I gave it to your wife.” The clerk gestured to Annie.

  “Oh, we’re not—” they both said at once and stopped. Annie laughed. David didn’t.

  Now, why don’t I like playing house?

  Once inside the apartment, she tossed her coat on his couch and followed him into the kitchen. “I’ll unpack. You fix the drinks.”

  “You ever had a green slimer?” he asked, hesitating at the liquor cabinet.

  “I’m afraid to ask what’s in it.”

  “Green stuff.”

  “Uh . . . right.”

  “If I have to eat your Stroganoff, you have to taste my slimer.” He stopped, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. That really sounded stupid—”

  “No, it wasn’t. Besides, I love it when you talk dirty.”

  He put her drink down on the counter and looked at her. “Um, Annie. Stop a minute. Please.”

  She turned to him, her eyes curious.

  “Sometimes I don’t know what to say to you. It’s like I want to do everything right for you. And sometimes it all comes out stupid anyway.” He waited for her reply.

  She didn’t speak, she just moved into his arms and held him for a long moment. Finally, she whispered, “David, I think you’re terrific. You’re one of the most honest men I know—I really appreciate that. I love you for it. And it’s all right with me if you make mistakes. I forgive you in advance. Just keep on being yourself, okay?”

  “Who else could I be? Okay—don’t hit. I promise.” He bent to kiss her.

  A moment later she pulled away from the resultant embrace. “Um, I really do hate to break this up, but if we’re going to eat, I’d better get started.”

  He sat down on a bar stool to watch her as she cut the meat into strips. He said, “I think I may be setting some kind of a record.”

  “Oh? What kind?”

  “We’ve been together for an hour or more now, and I haven’t mentioned HARLIE once.”

  “You just did.”

  “Yes, but that was just to tell you I hadn�
�t—and I’m not going to say anything more about him tonight.”

  Expertly, she sliced a tomato into neat little chunks. “Okay, fine.”

  He sipped his drink again. He found that he was enjoying this. He even felt . . . almost relaxed.

  Annie worked with a minimum of fuss and frills. She plopped the salad bowl before him. “Here, you toss.”

  “With my bare hands?”

  She was already reaching for salad fork and spoon. She handed them to him, then put out the small salad bowls. Carefully, he filled them.

  Before he had finished she was seated at the table, looking at him. She took a bit more of her drink, then said, “Want to eat your salad now, or wait a bit? The meat needs another few minutes.”

  “Oh, we can wait, I guess.” He sat and stared across the table at her, stared at her fascinating sea-green eyes. They seemed to glow as if they were translucent, as if there were tiny gems deep within them catching the sunlight and sparkling it brightly back. Her smile was like an open window into a summer’s day, all warm and inviting. She lowered her eyes shyly then lifted them back again.

  She was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever known—certainly the most beautiful he had ever cared about this closely. Her hair was a shining red, streaked with shimmers of gold as well as a hint of deeper brown. Her skin was so bright and pink it seemed to glow. Her lips parted slightly; they were moist.

  And she smelled good too. So very, very good. David Auberson felt suddenly dizzy.

  “Want to talk?” she asked.

  “What about?”

  “Us.”

  “Um.” He didn’t want to break the mood. But it was too late. He distracted himself with his green slimer. “What about us?”

  “Am I pushing too hard?”

  “Huh?” He wished she hadn’t asked that.

  “Lately, David, I’ve had the feeling that except for business reasons you’ve been avoiding me.”

  “Now, that’s—”

  “Well, not avoiding,” she said quickly. “That’s the wrong word to use. Let’s just say I’ve had the feeling you’re holding back. And that makes me feel like I’m forcing myself on you.”

  “That’s silly,” he managed to say.

  “Is it?”

  He thought about it. “Well, I have been caught up in this board of directors thing, you know.”

  “I know—and maybe I’m just reading meanings—but it still feels like that.” She got up from the table and went to the stove to check on the noodles. She took them out of the boiling water and held them under a running stream of cold water in the sink. “My mother taught me this trick,” she said. “It stops them from cooking in their own heat and getting too limp. Al dente means al dente.”

  “Al Dente? Didn’t he play for the Dodgers before they left Brooklyn?”

  She ignored the joke. She frowned as she tasted her sauce. She stirred it gently and tasted again, then shrugged. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It tastes fine. But I keep thinking there’s something else I’m supposed to do.” She came back to the table for her drink. “You know, I remember something I learned in school once—not in class, but from some friends. It’s the reason there’s more hate in the world than love.”

  “It’s easier?” he offered.

  “Sort of. Relationships are always about two people. No more, no less. A positive relationship—that’s the fancy word for love—only happens when both people work at it; that’s uncommon, almost extraordinary; but a negative relationship only needs the work of one person to make it happen. Go ahead, pick a fight with someone and watch what happens—you’ve made a new enemy. But just try to make a new lover . . . you can’t do it without his or her consent.”

  He considered it. “A funny idea, but it makes sense. Hm. Okay.” And then he remembered where this conversation had begun. “So what does that have to do with us?”

  “Well . . .” She paused uncertainly. “I want to know where I stand. Is this a one-sided thing, or are we both working to make it happen?”

  He didn’t answer right away. He looked at the floor, at his feet, at his drink, and then back to her again. “You mean—do I care for you as much as you care for me?”

  She returned his gaze. “Yes. You can put it that way.”

  He broke the contact first. He looked at his hands. “I don’t know how to answer that. I don’t know how you care. I don’t even know how I care. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time and I still can’t figure it out.” He looked around. “Where’d I leave my briefcase?”

  “Probably where you always leave it.”

  “Damn. I’ll go get it.” He started to rise. Her startled face stopped him. “No, I won’t. It doesn’t matter—I wanted to show you something—a printout—but I can just tell you. It’s HARLIE. We had a conversation today. About love. HARLIE’s confused. He wants to know what it is. And he wanted me to tell him.”

  “You had to tell him what love is?”

  “I had to tell him I don’t know what it is.”

  “Mm,” she said. She was concentrating on plates and noodles, beef and sauce. He didn’t know if she was really listening or not.

  “I mean—it’s not something you think about every day, is it?”

  She didn’t answer. Her lips were slightly pursed, not quite a frown, but no longer a smile either.

  “The thing is—Annie, I don’t know. It used to be all right with me not to know, because even to ask myself about it would be too . . . painful, I guess. I don’t know. Now, I have to ask—because HARLIE wants to know, and it’s not all right with him not to know.

  “The thing is . . .” He fell silent for a moment, wondering how to say the next part. “The thing is . . . he asked me too, how I felt about you. And what I said was—” He flustered for a moment. “—I said I didn’t know if I could let go or not. I don’t like the idea of being out of control.”

  He looked over at her, waiting. Her face seemed expressionless. She brought the plates to the table and set them down carefully. She sat down opposite him. Her eyes were shaded. Very precisely, she arranged a napkin in her lap.

  “Annie?”

  “Yes, David?” Very quietly.

  “Would you say something, please?”

  “What would you like me to say?”

  “I’d like some reaction from you.”

  “It’s my own fault, David. I asked.”

  “Are you upset?”

  “No. I’m—stupid. I shouldn’t have asked.” She put her fork down. “I’m sorry. I ruined the mood. I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that.”

  “No, you didn’t do it. I did it. Really. Listen to me. Sometimes I can be very stupid.”

  She shook her head curtly.

  David reached across the table and took her hand in his. “Forgive me, Annie. I’m a jerk. Because I looked at what I didn’t know instead of what I do. What is true is that I really do like you. A lot. That’s what’s really confusing me. How much I like you. Because, the thing is, I’ve never liked anybody like this before and I don’t know what it means. I mean, I think it has to mean something. So, I keep worrying at it instead of just enjoying it.”

  “I think—” she said, pulling her hand back a little too quickly, “—it means you should eat your dinner before it gets cold.”

  “Oh. Oh, yeah.” He looked at the plate before him as if it had suddenly materialized there. He picked up his fork and gingerly speared a piece of beef. He didn’t want to eat now. He wanted to talk—but he put it into his mouth anyway. It tasted different than he was used to—but it was good. “It’s good,” he said, almost analytically. And then he really tasted it, and acknowledged, “It’s very good. I like it.” He chewed thoughtfully. “You can make this again. Any time.”

  He looked across the table at her.

  There was a moist look to her eyes. She blinked once, twice, then allowed herself to feel it. “That’s—thank you—that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to
me.”

  “It is—?”

  She nodded shyly. But her eyes were glowing. Shining. “I like doing things for people—for someone I care about.”

  “Really?”

  “My God, David—don’t you know?”

  Slowly, David Auberson lowered his fork. He felt a rush of heat to his face. Embarrassment. And something else.

  A thought flickered across his consciousness—something about sharing food and intimacy—and then vanished, swallowed up in a giddy feeling that began in his belly and raced up his spine toward his throat—and then the words tumbled out. “I never knew that was possible.”

  He allowed himself to look at her, really look. She was so radiant; she almost hurt his eyes. His throat hurt with all the things he wanted to say to her. “You are so beautiful, Annie.”

  “So are you,” she whispered. There were tears of joy on her cheeks.

  How they finished dinner, he was never able to say. And yet, at the same time, it was a meal he would never forget.

  They were in bed and he was poised over her. And still their eyes were locked, an embrace of mutual fascination in which each was reflected in the other’s delight. The delight was joyous. And the bed was full of gasps. And sighs. And giggles.

  And, oh, there was such an overflowing inside him, such a surge of tension released. All this time, all this time, he had been wanting, waiting, it had been building, gathering like water impatient behind a dam. Somewhere in his past he had known this joy—but somewhere also in his past, he had let it slip away. Now here it was again and it was part of him—the sheer animal delight in the joyous experience of sex and love—all tumbled together and laughing in the sheets.

  They paused to rest, to breathe, to share a kiss, to giggle together, to shift slightly, to kiss again. He bent down suddenly and kissed her eyes, first one, then the other.

  She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time, and her arms were tight around him. And tighter, her hands were grasping. “Oh, David—”

  He held her and he held her and he held her and still he couldn’t hold her enough. He was exploding in joy; he could neither contain nor control it. Her little soft gasps were sobs, and he knew why she was crying. He had to wipe at his eyes too.