by Packer, Vin
One of the things he liked best was marketing at the A&P in town. He worked it so that he would only have one large paper bag to carry on the bus, but he spent hours inside the store, wandering from display to display, picking out new products, and selecting or rejecting products he had seen advertised on television. He was meticulous about that, punishing those manufacturers whose commercials were bad, and rewarding those whose commercials were good. When he came upon products whose companies he knew well, such as Baker Oats, he was faithful to them too. Sometimes, after one of these expeditions to town, while he rode the bus home, he would momentarily start dwelling on the food bills Robert Bowser had paid. He was not even sure of the amounts. Margaret had handled that. But he had a rough idea — a sure knowledge that they had been preposterously large. Instead of anger, he felt only a terrible confusion, as though all of it had nothing to do with him any more, and yet there you were — it had everything to do with him. Immediately following that thought was the thought that now he was simply going through the motions of living, waiting for a real thing to happen — marking time — this wasn’t real. A fearful loneliness overtook him then. He wanted to talk to somebody, anybody. Not about himself — just to talk, and listen, and talk — with somebody. Usually he would write Harvey Plangman on those nights after he got home. Sometimes he would write very elaborate letters telling everything he had done, what he had seen at the movies or on TV, and say what he thought about it all. But he always ripped them up, and sent, instead, a very terse note answering Harvey’s latest questions.
There were times when he talked to himself aloud. Never very loud. He was a little embarrassed when he did it, and always aware he was doing it. Usually he ended with a silly little chuckle, as though he knew he were foolish — as though he knew, and anyone listening would know he knew. But of course there was no one listening. He never would have chanced it, if there were that possibility.
• • •
That morning, after he ripped up Harvey’s newest letter and flushed it down the toilet, he said to himself, “The little crown and the C.M.! The little crown and the C.M.!” His chuckle was sarcastic, superior. Then he jumped. He heard a voice from the next room.
He called, “Hello, who is it?”
“Mrs. Hill, Mr. Battle. I’ve been knocking on your door. I didn’t know if you were in or out, so I just tried the handle.”
“I’ll be right out.”
“I’m sorry if you were in the bathroom.”
Mrs. Hill was wearing tight violet pedal-pushers and a tight lemon-colored sweater. On her feet were over-sized white furry slippers, and she was carrying a long cigarette holder, with a cigarette burned down nearly to the end. She gave Raymond Battle one of her quick, prefatory smiles and launched in. “You’re such a nice man, Mr. Battle. I couldn’t come to many men with this sort of problem. But you’re such a nice man! My daughter and I often mention that fact. I’d trust you with anything I had, though the good Lord knows that isn’t much these days. I hope I didn’t get you out of the bathroom … the thing is, Mr. Battle, I’m supposed to go into St. Louis tonight and stay over, and my daughter’s trying out for The Corn Is Green, over at the University. The thing is, Mr. Battle, we called three sitters and they’re all booked.” “Baby-sitters, Mrs. Hill?”
“My daughter’s not going out until eight and she’ll be back before midnight. If the kids miss their naps this afternoon, they’ll be sound asleep in their beds at eight, Mr. Battle.”
“I see … you want me to sit.”
“Would you, Mr. Battle? Believe me, we’d never ask you again; it’s just this once.”
“Once, I suppose. I suppose I could once.”
Mrs. Hill bounced across the room and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Oh, God love you, Mr. Battle!” she said.
When she banged out the door and up the steps of 702, Raymond Battle touched his cheek, moist from her lips. He realized it was Raymond Battle’s first kiss. There was the aroma left from her perfume, an irritating spicy odor of some cheap scent. He felt a sudden slow aching inside that was not desire, that was not revulsion either — but that gave him a very fleeting vision of a pale blue chiffon scarf whipping in the wind, against a creamy summer crêpe dress and the glint of the large gold Jay Thorpe necklace in the sun.
“Balenciaga’s Quadrille?” the familiar voice said, “I wear Quadrille most of the time.”
He looked down at the rug and saw a long cigarette ash which had dropped from Mrs. Hill’s holder. He took his foot and ground the ash into the rug, thinking, this isn’t like you at all, Robert.
Aloud he murmured, “You know me pretty well, don’t you?”
But he didn’t miss Margaret; it was himself he missed.
ELEVEN
IT WAS good to be waiting for someone. Harvey Plangman did not even care that Boy was already ten minutes late. Harvey sat at a corner table in the Plaza bar, shuffling through his Speak Easy Pocket Language cards.
He was learning German. He was enrolled in a course for beginners at the New School down on 12th Street in New York City. The class was a disappointment. He had hoped to meet people, to make a friend or two whom he could meet for coffee on an afternoon, or drinks some evening; someone to invite up to his apartment, or someone with whom to go to the movies, or the theater. He found that after class everyone hurried off, everyone seemed to have a date, and before class, they all sat with their heads buried in their books, going over their lessons before Frau Browder arrived. In addition, Harvey was not learning the language as rapidly as the others were. He made mistakes when he was called on, and he had purposely missed last evening’s session to spare himself the embarrassment of not having his lesson prepared. With the Speak Easy Pocket Language Cards he bought at Brentano’s book store that afternoon he might very well drop out of that course at the New School and learn German on his own. Why should he be humiliated every Tuesday and Thursday evening; humiliated and then left out after class, while all the others went their separate ways?
He had not enrolled in the course just to meet people. He wanted to have a second language, the same way Lois had French. Lois corresponded with a man who was in Europe, and the whole correspondence was in French. “He’s just a friend,” Lois always said about him, but it galled Harvey that they wrote back and forth in a foreign language; it made it intimate, somehow, and special. French was out of the question, since he could never hope to catch up with Lois. She knew no German. Already in his conversations with her, he was able to throw in snatches of the language. “Ah, guten abend!” he would greet her — and one evening he had purposely chosen a restaurant in Yorkville to take her to, so he could tell the waiter, “Ich möchte gern einen dry martini, sehr kalt, bitte.”
• • •
He was not seeing as much of Lois as he had hoped. It was a simple matter for her to drive into New York with her father any morning, and return with him in the evening. She had her own car as well. And Harvey had purchased an MG, like the one he had driven East for Tucker Wolfe. (He had told Lois that he had traded his old MG for a new one.) There was no lack of transportation. When Harvey offered to drive to New Hope and get her, she insisted that she would not let him do that — it was too far, back and forth. She was afraid to take her own car, because of the New York City traffic. As for driving in with her father, her answer was, “But what would I do all day while you were in class, Harvey?”
“I’ll take the day off,” Harvey would tell her.
“But what would we do all day?”
Harvey had no answer to that. Somehow he had never anticipated the question. He had thought Lois would know dozens and dozens of people in New York. He had imagined them rushing about in taxis, seeing this one and that, squeezing in a matinee here, a concert there — a trip to a museum — cocktails — lunches. Once he had bought tickets to Sail Away for a Wednesday matinee. Lois had driven in with her father, arriving at Harvey’s apartment at ten-thirty in the morning. Harvey’s place was a sublet, complete
with a record collection and hi-fi, off Fifth in the eighties. He had Carmen turned up very loud when Lois rang his bell, and over his trousers and shirt (with a handsome Countess Mara tie) he was wearing his new bright red Oriental-style Sulka Luxury Lounging Robe. On his feet were his new double-duty soft leather slippers from Fellman Ltd., and he had incense burning in a special holder he had purchased at Bonnier’s. They had cup of coffee after cup of coffee before Lois said the one opera she most detested was Carmen (Daddy agrees! Daddy calls it Carminative!) and that the incense was making her sick to her stomach. Neither one was hungry at lunchtime, but Harvey had reservations at Sardi’s and they went there. They were herded upstairs, where Lois claimed all tourists were sent, and during lunch they both brooded to themselves and picked at Caesar salads. Harvey, who had imagined a much different luncheon mood
(dazzled by the Sulka robe and the elegant setting and the wild, hot music, she had given herself to him and was still stirred by his prowess; they were holding hands under the table) noticed for the first time that her hair was not golden, it was the color of broken egg yolk, and her lipstick did not follow the line of her lips, but widened to the skin around her mouth, so that literally her mouth was painted on her face. After the theater, the hours before she was to meet her father to return to Bucks County were years long. She did not particularly want a cocktail, and it was raining so that they could not kill time walking about. While Harvey had three Scotches at the Algonquin, Lois Cutler sat beside him ripping paper napkins to shreds and breaking swizzle sticks in half. Harvey had the horrible notion that the whole thing was finished then and there, that disenchantment had been poured down on Lois like dirty dishwater from an upper story window. He blamed her for not having gay, smiling friends they might have gone to see together — and the old feeling came back that she did have them, probably, but she would not call on them with Harvey Plangman.
His comeback was spectacular. A week later he called Lois and suggested a little surprise birthday party for her father. The two of them took Daddy to Odette’s for dinner. Harvey had arranged for a huge cake, for the piano player to burst into Happy Birthday as the cake was served, and for the lights to dim, and everyone to sing. He had paid for the whole evening, and Lois had kissed him very passionately in the parking lot ouside, afterwards, and told him it was the nicest thing she had ever heard of anyone doing. It was the first night he had been invited to stay over at the Cutlers. Again, he had hoped Lois would express her appreciation in emphatic physical display, and again, Lois had resisted what Harvey was sure, by now, must be a temptation to her.
Meeting Boy Ames quite accidentally on Fifth Avenue last week was a stroke of luck. Harvey had heard that Boy had transferred from Missouri, but he had not known Boy was living right down the block on Park Avenue, that he had dropped out of college altogether. In their brief conversation, Boy did not say he had left school for financial reasons, but Harvey believed that was the reason. His father’s death had caused a drain on the family’s finances, Harvey suspected, never mind the Park Avenue address. There were plenty of people with the same address, struggling to afford it.
Harvey had told Boy nothing of his own doings, simply that he had an apartment a short way from where they had stopped to talk. They had agreed to look up one another very soon. Harvey had gone home feeling gay and clever, planning a future that now included Boy. Since they were neighbors, they would see one another — occasionally, in the beginning — by accident, as they had that day. Harvey would have Boy around for drinks. Boy would be able to see immediately that Harvey was a new person. Then too, Boy’s own predicament would make him more sympathetic to Harvey. Neither one of them would ever be college graduates. Harvey would make up for all the Kappa Pi’s who had probably dropped Boy by now, or simply forgotten him. Harvey would demonstrate true loyalty; he would even offer to lend Boy money, if Boy needed it. Eventually, if things worked well, Harvey would confide in Boy — ask his advice. Harvey was tired of Bowser’s advice. He would like to write Bowser and tell him he no longer needed advice. He imagined Bowser’s anxieties at such news, imagined a worried letter from Bowser. (That doesn’t mean you’re going to turn me in, does it? Please don’t.) He imagined Boy and Lois and himself out on the town one night, night clubbing and laughing in the purple beginnings of dawn, whistling for cabs, all a little high, with Lois snuggling up to him.
“Do you like Boy?” he would say.
“Oh, yes! He’s great fun! And I love you!”
He imagined them, whipping down Park in a cab singing “We Three” at the top of their lungs, all in evening dress, bound for nightcaps at Harvey’s place. Lois would stay over.
As it turned out, Boy and he did not meet by accident after their initial meeting. Several times, Harvey walked along Fifth at the same hour he had first encountered him, and several times he walked by Boy’s apartment building, around six p.m., when he imagined Boy would be returning from work. He was not sure where Boy worked; he hoped it was someplace that would not embarrass him. Four days passed, and finally Harvey called Boy. He asked him to drop over to the apartment, but Boy said he was tied up that night. They had agreed to meet this night, at the Oak Room in the Plaza, at nine-thirty.
The first thing Boy said when he joined Harvey at the table was not, “I’m sorry I’m late.” (Harvey had planned to say back, “That’s all right, I was late myself.”)
Boy said instead, “Good God, are you wearing perfume, Plangman?”
“It’s ‘pour Un Homme’.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Men’s cologne. Pour un Homme — for a man.”
“Smells more like it’s for a fruity man. I hope you haven’t gone that way.”
“It’s a very expensive French product,” said Harvey. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it, Boy.”
Boy Ames shrugged and lit a cigarette. Harvey had not expected things to begin this way; it threw him off. He put his Speak Easy Pocket Language Cards back in his coat and stared glumly down at the ashtray. Boy signaled the waiter and ordered a Seven-Up.
“Aren’t you drinking?” said Harvey.
“Too soon after dinner.”
Harvey had imagined them both getting a little high together, a little confidential.
“I just had dinner a while ago myself,” he said, “but I’m having some Old Smuggler and water.”
“I’m having Seven-Up,” said Boy. “How’s Mom Plangman?”
“Oh, fine, fine. How are you, Boy? How are you making out?”
“I’m doing okay.”
“Really?”
“We’ve been pretty busy these last few days. There was a news leak on rising soybean prices that had us jumping.” “Soybeans?”
“I’m with the New York Mercantile Exchange.” “I see,” Harvey lied.
“You know, it’s a commodity exchange. Soybeans, eggs, grain, potatoes. Commodities is the rage now, and I wish it weren’t. Less work for old Boysey when it’s quieter.”
“It’s too bad about your not finishing college, Boy. I know how you feel.”
“I miss the old KP’s, but I was wasting my time back there. Say, I saw Lake Budde the other night. He said he’d seen you during the summer. Didn’t you drive Tucker’s car East or something?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Lake said it was July, wasn’t it? June or July?”
“No,” Harvey said, “what I mean is, a lot has happened since then. I’m living here in New York now.”
“So you said the other day. What are you doing?”
“Business. It’s a deal I’m working on.”
“You were always a hustler, Plangman.”
The waiter brought Boy’s drink and he raised it in a salute to Harvey. “Cheers!”
“Sursum corda!” said Harvey.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means ‘Lift up your hearts!’ It’s Latin.”
“You beat all, Plangman!” Boy Ames chuckled
.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing, buddy, nothing! Tell me about your new business deal.”
Harvey said, “It’s very strange the way I’m treated by both you and Lake. You seem to say what the hell this and what the hell that, no matter what I do or say.”
“C’mon, Harv, sursum corda!”
“What the hell am I wearing, and what the hell do I mean, and what the hell this and that. It’s really very boring.”
“Do I see red suspenders under your suit coat, Harv?”
“I suppose that’s wrong too. For your information, Boy, I bought them at Schoenfeld’s. They’re red moire suspenders, and they sell matching garters with them.”
“No kidding!” Boy Ames grinned. “Matching garters?”
“You know very well that if Lake Budde were sitting here telling you what I’m telling you, you’d listen.”
“I’m listening, buddy.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“Same old Harvey.”
“No,” Harvey Plangman said, “I’m not the same old Harvey!”
“Okay, Plangman, okay — no need to raise our voices. Say, Lake said you were interested in some gal from Bucks County.”
“Yes, yes, I am. She’s a very nice girl.”
“You know who I liked, Plangman? I liked that Gertrude you were shacking up with! Didn’t she teach shorthand or something? Jesus, I remember how mad Mom P. was when you were carrying on with her over at your place. Mom P. used to get us boys in her suite and rant and rave about ‘that woman’. Wasn’t her name Gertrude?”
“She was trash,” said Harvey Plangman. “She used to write me very obscene notes. Every single one of them was oestrous.” “Was what?”
