Anyone Got a Match?

by Max Shulman

  “No.”

  “Then may I ask one?”

  “Of course.”

  “What, exactly, is going through your mind?”

  “I can’t tell you. I just can’t!” he exclaimed in anguish.

  “All right, dear.”

  “But I must!” he cried, abruptly giving way. “If I don’t talk, I’ll break into pieces, little jagged pieces!”

  “Poor, tormented dark angel!”

  “Listen, Boo,” he said, grasping both her hands. “What I’m about to say, it’s not an offer, you understand. Not a proposal. Not a commitment.”

  “Speak, my love.”

  He spoke. Wildly, gushingly, he undammed his thoughts about divorcing Polly, burning his bridges in commercial television, taking a job with Linus, living on Boo’s money.

  She gasped. Even in the scant moonlight he could see her face go pale.

  “No, no, Boo!” he said hurriedly. “No, no! Don’t be frightened. I’m not proposing. I’m just thinking out loud, is all.”

  “Ira, I love you.”

  “And I love you,” he replied loudly. “I love you, love you, love you!” He poured kisses randomly on her face and shoulders.

  “Ira, please let me finish.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I love you,” she repeated. “But we can’t do this to Polly.”

  “You’re right.”

  “We can’t.”

  “I know,” he said. Then: “Why not?”

  “You know why, Ira.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “We must be brave.”

  “Brave!” he said bitterly. “Heaven within our reach, and we must bravely turn away!”

  “We must.”

  “Boo, I don’t know if I want to go on without you,” he said quietly.

  She looked deep and long into his eyes. “Think some more about it, darling. Think it through calmly, slowly. Then we will talk again.”

  “You mean you would marry me?” he asked, half-hopeful, half-fearful.

  “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. Perhaps if you can find it in your heart to hurt Polly, I might be strong enough to go along with you.”

  “I see,” said Ira. “Terrible mean thing to do to a good woman like Polly, of course.”

  “Unspeakable.”

  “But you’d go along, you say?”

  “I don’t know,” Boo answered. “You must think it through first.”

  “Good idea. I’ll think it through.”

  “I love you, Ira.”

  “I’ll think real hard,” he assured her. “Real, real hard … And,” he added, “I love you too.”

  They exchanged a soft good night kiss, got into their separate cars, and drove to Owens Mill. As he drove, Ira tried hard to sort out this night’s developments, but the din of his pounding heart made thought impossible. Whether his heart pounded with joy or fright, he could not tell. But pound it did, and his extremities were clammy, and his face was feverish, and his mouth was dry.

  He parked the car in the Stonewall Jackson garage, walked into the hotel lobby, and stopped at the desk for his room key. “Oh, Mr. Shapian, here’s a message for you,” said the room clerk, handing him a telephone slip. “Urgent, it says.”

  Ira looked at the slip. It was a phone call from Polly, the first she had made to him in all the weeks he had been in Owens Mill. “URGENT” said the operator’s notation, and the word was underlined three times.

  There was no confusion now in Ira’s mind as to whether his heart pounded with joy or with fear. It was pure, raging fear, irrational fear, a wild, demented certainty that somehow Polly had been leaning over his shoulder tonight and listening to every word.

  Ira did not wait for the elevator but ran up the four flights of stairs to his room. He snatched the phone off the hook and stammered his home number to the operator.

  “Hello,” said Polly in Bel Air.

  “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” he yelled. “What’s wrong?”

  “Ira, are you loaded or what? Who says anything’s wrong?”

  “The phone message. Urgent, it says. Urgent. Urgent. Urgent!”

  “Will you calm down, you nutsy Armenian? I told them to write ‘urgent’ because I wanted to be sure you’d call back tonight.”

  “Why? Huh? Why?”

  “Oh, brother, you are in terrible shape! It’s a good thing I’m coming out there tomorrow.”

  Ira’s voice fell to a hoarse whisper. “You’re what?”

  “That’s why I wanted to be sure you’d call tonight. My plane gets into Owens Mill at ten A.M.”

  “But how can you come out here?”

  “Well, Ira, it’s not simple, but here’s how you do it. You take a taxi to the Los Angeles airport, see? Then you get on a big, shiny airplane. Then you fasten your seat belt. Then you—”

  “Polly, cut the clowning. How can you leave the twins home alone? You know how they are.”

  “Boy, do I know how they are!” said Polly with feeling. “But,” she added cheerfully, “it’s not my problem any more, or yours either.”

  “Polly, listen to me. I’m not yelling now, right? I’m calm, right? What are you trying to tell me?”

  “Just this: our boys were inducted into the Marine Corps this morning.”

  “Huh?”

  “A very colorful ceremony. Too bad you had to miss it.”

  “Marine Corps? What Marine Corps?”

  “The United States Marine Corps,” said Polly. “Our kids are now the responsibility of the government, which, if you ask me, is only fair. We’ve been paying taxes for a lot of years; it’s time we got something in return.”

  “Polly, what kind of gag is this? Those kids can’t join the Marines without their parents’ signatures. Both parents.”

  “Oh, honey,” said Polly gaily, “I learned how to forge your name years ago.”

  “My God,” said Ira.

  “Well, I’ll see you at ten tomorrow morning. Good night, old husband.”

  Ira listened to the click at the other end of the line. Then slowly, very slowly, he hung up the telephone.

  Chapter 14

  At twenty minutes past eleven the following morning, Polly and Ira Shapian were in Ira’s suite at the Stonewall Jackson Hotel. Polly was unpacking the bags she had brought from California; Ira stood with his back to her, staring silently out the window.

  As Polly hung dresses in the closet and stashed lingerie in drawers, she paused occasionally to look at her husband. But he did not look back; his eyes remained stonily on the window. After several minutes, she muttered a brief expletive, flung a panty-girdle into a corner, and said, “Listen, Ira, I really didn’t expect you to leap with joy when I got here, but do you have to look so stricken?”

  Ira turned. “I’m sorry, Polly,” he said, attempting a smile. “It’s just that I’ve got things on my mind.”

  She gave his arm a light, tentative touch. “You’re miffed because I let the twins join the Marines without asking you. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “No, Polly, Not at all. Honest.”

  “Yes, that’s it. And I apologize. It was a brassy, bitchy thing for me to do.… But I had to, don’t you see?” Her grip tightened on his arm. “Those kids need to be shaped up—and fast. So who’s going to do it? Soft old Dad? Spongy old Mom? No, Ira, this is a job for an iron-assed drill instructor with a heart to match.… And, believe me, the job will get done. Those kids have great stuff inside of them, in spite of our best efforts to lard it over. It’s there, and the Marines will find it, I promise you!”

  Ira patted his wife’s hand. “I know, I know. You did the right thing, and I’m not a bit sore.”

  “So why are you walking around with a face like a basset hound?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Smile. Your wife is here. If you can’t smile, spit. Do something!”

  “Polly, it’s only that I’m working day and night on the tv show, and suddenly you arrive in t
his hick town, and I don’t have time to entertain you, and I’m afraid you’ll get bored into a coma.”

  “Rest easy, chum. I don’t expect you to entertain me, and I don’t intend to be bored. I’ve got friends in Owens Mill too, remember? In fact, I sent a note to Virgil Tatum a couple of days ago to let him know I’d be here.”

  “Virgil? Good, good.”

  “I also wrote Boo.”

  “Boo?” he said. He was feeling, actually feeling, the blood drain from his head.

  “Yes, Boo. You remember. We knew her during the war. Southern belle type—portico, thoroughbred horses, eighteenth-century furniture, high cheekbones—everything antebellum except the legs. Haven’t you seen her since you’ve been here?”

  “The phone is ringing,” said Ira gratefully and snatched it up. “Hello,” he said. “Oh, hi, Virgil … look, I didn’t even know about it myself till last night.… Yes, she’s right here. Just a minute.”

  “Virgil!” said Polly joyfully into the phone. “How are you?”

  “Never mind the small talk,” said Virgil. “Just one question: are you still beautiful?”

  “Oh, yes,” answered Polly. “Withered and wrinkled also, but beautiful, definitely.”

  “That’s all I wanted to know,” said Virgil. “Now, in reply to your note inquiring whether we might have lunch sometime, let me state that we are going to have lunch every single day, starting today. In addition, on every evening when your greasy-grind husband finds himself occupied with his television show, we are going to have dinner. And after dinner—well, my dear, who knows? Perhaps we can provide one another with a little Southern comfort.”

  “You are a dirty old man,” said Polly.

  “You’re thinking of my father,” he answered. “However, I’m trying.… Now what time shall I pick you up for lunch?”

  “One hour.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “You see?” said Polly to Ira as she hung up the telephone. “I’m going to be royally entertained while I’m here, so you tend to your business and don’t worry about me languishing alone in a hotel room.”

  “Fine fellow, Virgil,” said Ira.

  “A lamb,” agreed Polly, “which is precisely his trouble. A little less lamb and a little more toro, he would have it well and truly made.”

  “Poor Virgil. All right, Polly, I better get over to the factory.”

  “Listen,” she said, touching him again, lightly, almost shyly, “I’m not pressuring, you understand, but I didn’t really come flying out here to parley with the natives. So if you can spare some time from your job—”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Will you have your secretary phone the hotel about five and let me know how it looks for tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, wait a minute. I might not be here. If she doesn’t reach me at the hotel, tell her to try Boo’s house.”

  “Boo?” said Ira and felt his blood plummet again.

  “I thought I’d call and invite myself over for tea this afternoon.… Ira, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Got to run!”

  Run he did—down the stairs, out of the hotel, across the street, into a drugstore, into a phone booth. Rapidly he dialed Boo’s number.

  “Boo, listen—”

  “I know, dear. I just now opened Polly’s letter.”

  “She’s going to call you in a few minutes. She wants to come for tea this afternoon.”

  “I shall invite her.”

  “You shall?”

  “Ira, it is fated. Last night we had a vexing riddle to fathom. Now is it answered for us.”

  “Could you be a little less oblique?”

  “Don’t you understand? We can’t see each other again. Not ever.”

  “Oh,” said Ira. “Now I understand.… Except one thing: why can’t we see each other again?”

  “A sign has been given us, my darling. Acknowledge it, and praise what was.”

  “Oblique again! Goddammit, will you talk plain?… Sorry, Boo.”

  “It’s all right, dark angel. My heart breaks with yours. But we must do what we must.”

  “So you’re going to have Polly to tea?”

  “Yes.”

  “Boo, you’re crazy! What will happen if Polly sees Gabriel? She’s got an eye like a chicken-hawk, that wife of mine. Shell figure it out in two seconds.”

  “Oh, dear!” said Boo.

  “So if you’re going to have Polly to tea—and obviously you are—”

  “I must, don’t you see?”

  “No, I don’t. But never mind. Just listen. When Polly is in your house, make damn sure Gabriel is away—far away.”

  “I can’t send him out, Ira. The boy has a heavy cold.”

  “All right, then, lock him in his room. Lock him tight! And keep him there!”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “You sure you’ve got to have Polly to tea?”

  “Ira, sweet, blind Ira, a higher power has provided us with an answer.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ!”

  “Perhaps,” said Boo softly.

  “Boo, listen—”

  “Good-bye, Ira. Good-bye, dear soul and flesh. Good-bye.”

  For an hour Polly and Boo had been sitting in Boo’s eighteenth-century drawing room drinking Lapsang souchong out of Sèvres cups, nibbling delicately at ladylike cookies arranged on a Dresden plate. The conversation had been steady and easy. They covered the old days, the new days, the days in between. They touched on life and art and domestic matters. The talk flowed placidly, with an occasional ripple of pleasant laughter.

  Yet, to Polly’s chicken-hawk eye and Doberman ear, it was clear that beneath Boo’s composure there lay a tightly controlled, but unmistakable, stratum of hysteria. What I think, Polly told herself sagely and silently, is that this lady is under-screwed. I know the feeling.

  But not a blink, not a twitch, not the tiniest shrillness perturbed the serenity of the hour. Like a mill-run it trickled gently by, until, all of a sudden, an apparition filled the doorway: a gangly young man with wrinkled pajamas, a floppy robe, tangled hair of shining black, smoldering dark eyes, and a nose grotesquely red and rheumy.

  “Hey, Ma,” said Gabriel indignantly, “what’s the idea of locking me in my bedroom?”

  “What ever can you be talking about?” replied Boo, tittering nervously, trying to interpose her body between Gabriel and Polly without actually making a standing broad-jump. “I didn’t lock you in your bedroom.”

  “You did too,” Gabriel insisted. “I heard you turn the key.”

  “Nonsense, dear, you were dreaming,” said Boo. “How’d you get out?”

  “Any fool who can’t pick a simple lock—”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” said Boo, taking a firm hold on his arm. “Back in bed with you now. You know what the doctor said.”

  Gabriel stood rooted, staring at Polly. “Who’s this lady? I think I know her.”

  Polly stared back. She did not think she knew Gabriel; she knew she knew him. One look into those burning, black, Armenian eyes, and she was sure beyond the doubting of it. Ira’s son, she said to herself, and there was a hollowness in her belly and a banging under her breastbone, and her color mounted, and there was a tightness in her throat, and her lips clung together as though sealed.

  Her head swiveled slowly from Gabriel to Boo, and there she saw a blush as deep as her own, an aimless flexing and unflexing of fingers.

  “This is Mrs. Shapian, Gabriel,” said Boo hollowly.

  “Yeah!” he cried with a broad smile. “Sure, that’s who it is—Ira Shapian’s wife. She was in the picture you used to have by your bed.”

  “Does anybody smell something burning in the kitchen?” said Boo, desperately avoiding Polly’s stare. “I’m sure there’s something burning in the kitchen!” she cried and fled from the room.

  “Mrs. Shapian?” said Gabriel.

  Polly turned her face back to him.

  “
Excuse me, Mrs. Shapian,” he said, “but you’re spilling your tea in your lap.”

  “Oh, thank God!” said Polly. “I was afraid it was something else.”

  Gabriel looked at her curiously for a moment, then laughed loud and deep. “That was funny, what you just said,” he told her.

  “Yeah,” said Polly.

  “You’re kind of a funny lady,” continued Gabriel.

  “Thanks.”

  “Good-looking, too,” he said. “I don’t mean you’re pretty or glamorous or like that, but you’ve got character in your face.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Polly.

  “Are you smart?”

  “No,” said Polly.

  “Aw, come on. Don’t be modest. I’ll bet anything you’ve got a sensational I.Q.”

  “Young man,” said Polly, rising, “I am without question the stupidest woman you will ever meet. Now, if you’d be kind enough to say good-bye to your mother—”

  “Wait, wait, wait!” Gabriel spread his arms and barred her way. “There’s something I want to ask you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Actually, there’s something I want to tell you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you have any idea what my I.Q. is?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m a little embarrassed to give you the actual figure. Let me put it this way: in the entire history of intelligence measurement—and I include Europe as well as America—there have only been two scores higher than mine.”

  “I am very happy for you,” said Polly.

  Gabriel frowned. “Now why do you suppose I went and told you that?” he asked, honestly puzzled.

  “I don’t know, Gabriel. Why don’t you go back to bed and figure it out? I have to call a cab.”

  “A cab?” he cried. “I won’t hear of it! I’ll drive you home.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” said Boo, returning to the room. She was composed now, or nearly so. A small spot of crimson remained high on each cheek, but her limbs were still and her voice was firm. “Gabriel, you will march right to bed and stay there. I will drive Mrs. Shapian home.”

  “No, no, I’ll get a cab,” said Polly.

  “You will not,” said Gabriel vehemently to Polly, and to Boo he said, “Honest, Ma, I feel fine now. No fever or anything. I’ll take Mrs. Shapian home.”

  “Gabriel, no!” said Boo.