The next day was a Thursday and Holden took Sally to the matinee of "O Mistress Mine," which neither of them had seen. During the first intermission, they smoked in the lobby and vehemently agreed with each other that the Lunts were marvelous. George Harrison, of Andover, also was smoking in the lobby and he recognized Sally, as she hoped he would. They had been introduced once at a party and had never seen each other since. Now, in the lobby at the Empire, they greeted each other with the gusto of two who might have taken baths together as small children. Sally asked George if he didn't think the show was marvelous. George gave himself some room for his reply, bearing down on the foot of the woman behind him. He said that the play itself certainly was no masterpiece, but that the Lunts, of course, were absolute angels.
"Angels," Holden thought. "Angels. For Chrissake. Angels."
After the matinee, Sally told Holden that she had a marvelous idea. "Let's go ice skating at Radio City tonight."
"All right," Holden said. "Sure."
"Do you mean it?" Sally said. "Don't just say it unless you mean it. I mean I don't give a darn, one way or the other."
"No," said Holden. "Let's go. It might be fun."
Sally and Holden were both horrible ice skaters. Sally's ankles had a painful, unbecoming way of collapsing towards each other and Holden's weren't much better. That night there were at least a hundred people who had nothing better to do than watch the skaters.
"Let's get a table and have a drink," Holden suggested suddenly.
"That's the most marvelous idea I've heard all day," Sally said.
They removed their skates and sat down at a table in the warm inside lounge. Sally took off her red woolen mittens. Holden began to light matches. He let them burn down until he couldn't hold them, then he dropped what was left into an ashtray.
"Look," Sally said, "I have to know - are you or aren't you going to help me trim the tree Christmas Eve?"
"Sure," said Holden, without enthusiasm.
"I mean I have to know," Sally said.
Holden suddenly stopped lighting matches. He leaned forward over the table. "Sally, did you ever get fed up? I mean did you ever get so scared that everything was gonna go lousy unless you did something?"
"Sure," said Sally.
"Do you like school?" Holden inquired.
"It's a terrific bore."
"Do you hate it, I mean?"
"Well, I don't hate it."
"Well, I hate it," said Holden. "Boy, do I hate it! But it isn't just that. It's everything. I hate living in New York. I hate Fifth Avenue buses and Madison Avenue buses and getting out at the center doors. I hate the Seventy-second Street movie, with those fake clouds on the ceiling, and being introduced to guys like George Harrison, and going down in elevators when you wanna go out, and guys fitting your pants all the time at Brooks." His voice got more excited. "Stuff like that. Know what I mean? You know something? You're the only reason I came home this vacation."
"You're sweet," Sally said, wishing he'd change the subject.
"Boy, I hate school! You oughta go to a boys' school sometime. All you do is study, and make believe you give a damn if the football team wins, and talk about girls and clothes and liquor, and - "
"Now, listen," Sally interrupted. "Lots of boys get more out of school than that."
"I agree," said Holden. "But that's all I get out of it. See? That's what I mean. I don't get anything out of anything. I'm in bad shape. I'm in lousy shape. Look, Sally. How would you like to just beat it? Here's my idea. I'll borrow Fred Halsey's car and tomorrow morning we'll drive up to Massachusetts and Vermont and around there, see? It's beautiful. I mean it's wonderful up there, honest to God. We'll stay in these cabin camps and stuff like that till my money runs out. I have a hundred and twelve dollars with me. Then, when the money runs out, I'll get a job and we'll live somewhere with a brook and stuff. Know what I mean? Honest to God, Sally, we'll have a swell time. Then, later on, we'll get married or something. Wuddaya say? C'mon! Wuddaya say? C'mon! Let's do it, huh?"
"You can't just do something like that," Sally said.
"Why not?" Holden asked shrilly. "Why the hell not?"
"Because you can't," Sally said. "You just can't, that's all. Supposing your money ran out and you didn't get a job - then what?"
"I'd get a job. Don't worry about that. You don't have to worry about that part of it. What's the matter? Don't you wanna go with me?"
"It isn't that," Sally said. "It's not that at all. Holden, we'll have lots of time to do those things - all those things. After you go to college and we get married and all. There'll be oodles of marvelous places to go to."
"No, there wouldn't be," Holden said. "It'd be entirely different."
Sally looked at him; he had contradicted her so quietly.
"It wouldn't be the same at all. We'd have to go downstairs in elevators with suitcases and stuff. We'd have to call up everyone and tell 'em goodbye and send 'em postcards. And I'd have to work at my father's and ride in Madison Avenue buses and read newspapers. We'd have to go to the Seventy-second Street all the time and see newsreels. Newsreels! There's always a dumb horse race and some dame breaking a bottle over a ship. You don't see what I mean at all."
"Maybe I don't. Maybe you don't, either," Sally said.
Holden stood up, with his skates swung over one shoulder. "You give me a royal pain," he announced quite dispassionately.
A little after midnight, Holden and a fat, unattractive boy named Carl Luce sat at the Wadsworth Bar, drinking Scotch-and-sodas and eating potato chips. Carl was at Pencey Prep, too, and led his class.
"Hey, Carl," Holden said, "you're one of these intellectual guys. Tell me something. Supposing you were fed up. Supposing you were going stark, staring mad. Supposing you wanted to quit school and everything and get the hell out of New York. What would you do?"
"Drink up," Carl said. "The hell with that."
"No, I'm serious," Holden pleaded.
"You've always got a bug," Carl said, and got up and left.
Holden went on drinking. He drank up nine dollars' worth of Scotch-and-sodas and at 2 A.M. made his way from the bar into the little anteroom, where there was a telephone. He dialed three numbers before he got the proper one.
"Hullo!" Holden shouted into the phone.
"Who is this?" inquired a cold voice.
"This is me, Holden Caulfield. Can I speak to Sally, please?"
"Sally's asleep. This is Mrs. Hayes. Why are you calling up at this hour?
Holden?"
"Wanna talk Sally, Mrs. Hayes. Very 'portant. Put her on."
"Sally's asleep, Holden. Call tomorrow. Good night."
"Wake 'er up. Wake 'er up, huh? Wake 'er up, Mis' Hayes."
"Holden," Sally said, from the other end of the wire. "This is me. What's the idea?"
"Sally? Sally, that you?"
"Yes. You're drunk."
"Sally, I'll come over Christmas Eve. Trim the tree for ya. Huh? Wuddaya say? Huh?"
"Yes, go to bed now. Where are you? Who's with you?"
"I'll trim the tree for ya. Huh? Wuddaya say? Huh?"
"Yes, go to bed now. Where are you? Who's with you?"
"I'll trim the tree for ya. Huh? Wuddaya say? Huh? O.K?"
"Yes! Good night!"
"G'night. G'night, Sally baby. Sally sweetheart, darling."
Holden hung up and stood by the phone for nearly fifteen minutes. Then he put another nickel in the slot and dialed the same number again.
"Hullo!" he yelled into the mouthpiece. "Speak to Sally, please."
There was a sharp click as the phone was hung up, and Holden hung up, too. He stood swaying for a moment. Then he made his way into the men's room and filled one of the washbowls with cold water. He immersed his head to the ears, after which he walked, dripping, to the radiator and sat down on it. He sat there counting the squares in the tile floor while the water dripped down his face and the back of his neck, soaking his shirt collar and necktie. Twenty minu
tes later the barroom piano player came in to comb his wavy hair.
"Hiya, boy!" Holden greeted him from the radiator. "I'm on the hot seat. They pulled the switch on me. I'm getting fried."
The piano player smiled.
"Boy, you can play!" Holden said. "You really can play the piano. You oughta go on the radio. You know that? You're damned good, boy."
"You wanna towel, fella?" asked the piano player.
"Not me," said Holden.
"Why don't you go home, kid?"
Holden shook his head. "Not me," he said. "Not me."
The piano player shrugged and replaced the lady's comb in his inside pocket. When he left the room, Holden stood up from the radiator and blinked several times to let the tears out of his eyes. Then he went to the cloakroom. He put on his chesterfield without buttoning it and jammed his hat on the back of his soaking-wet head.
His teeth chattering violently, Holden stood on the corner and waited for a Madison Avenue bus. It was a long wait.
18. A Young Girl In 1941 With No Waist At All
THE young man in the seat behind Barbara at the jai alai games had leaned forward finally and asked if she were ill and if she would like to be escorted back to the ship. Barbara had looked up at him, had looked at his looks, and said yes, she thought she would, thank you, that she did have kind of a headache, and that it was certainly was awfully nice of him. Then they had stood up together and left the stadium, returning to the ship by taxi and tender. But before she had gone into her cabin on B deck, Barbara had said nervously to the young man: "Hey. I could just take an aspirin or something. I could meet you on the deck where the shuffleboard stuff is. You know who you look like? You look like a boy who was in a lot of West Pointy pictures with Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler and - when I was little. Never see him anymore. Listen. I could just take an aspirin. Unless you have something else - " The young man had interrupted her, saying, in so many words, that he had nothing else to do. Then Barbara had walked quickly forward to her cabin. She was wearing a red-and-blue striped evening gown, and her figure was very young and sassy. There were several years to go before her figure stopped being sassy and just became a very pretty figure.
The young man - his name was Ray Kinsella, and he was a member of the ship’s Junior Entertainment Committee-waited for Barbara at the railing on the portside of the promenade deck. Nearly all the passengers were ashore and, in the stillness and moonlight, it was a powerful place to be. The only sound in the night came from the Havana harbor water slucking gently against the sides of the ship. Through the moon mist the Kungsholm could be seen, anchored sleepy and rich, just a few hundred feet aft. Farther shoreward a few small boats corked about.
"I’m back," said Barbara.
The young man, Ray, turned. "Oh. You changed your dress."
"Don’t you like white?" - quickly.
"Sure. It’s fine," said Ray. She was looking at him a little nearsightedly, and he guessed she probably wore glasses when she was home. He looked at his wristwatch now. "Listen. A tender’s going to leave in a minute. Would you like to go ashore again and horse around a little? I mean do you feel all right?"
"I took an aspirin. Unless you have something else to do," said Barbara. "I don’t want to stay on the ship very much."
"Let’s hurry, then," said Ray, and took her arm.
Barbara had to run to keep up with him. "Golly," she said, "how tall are you anyway?"
''Six-four. Hurry a little."
The tender bobbed only slightly in the calm water. Ray slipped his hands under Barbara’s arms, eased her down to the tender pilot and then jumped into the boat himself. The little action disordered a single lock of his dark hair and hiked up the back of his dinner jacket. He pulled down his jacket, and a pocket comb immediately found its way to his hand; he passed it just once, brought up in the rear by the careful flat of his other hand, through his hair. Then he looked around. Besides Barbara and himself and the pilot there were only three people in the tender. One of them he identified as a A-deck stewardess-she probably had a shore date with one of the crew. The other two people, a couple in their late forties, were familiar-faced passengers whom Ray didn’t know by name-they were regulars at the horse-racing game each afternoon, he knew though. He lost interest at that point and steadied Barbara as the little craft shoved off.
The wife, however, was beginning to look interested in Barbara and Ray. She was a beautifully, a perfectly, gray-haired woman in a long sleeved evening gown with Thurber dogs in the pattern. She was wearing a pear shaped diamond ring and a diamond bracelet. Just on sight no one very sensible would have laid bets on her background. She might, years ago, have walked very erectly across a Broadway stage, with an ostrich fan, singing A Pretty Girl Is Like A Melody, or something similarly ostrich fan-ish. She might have been an ambassador’s daughter or a fireman’s daughter. She might have been her husband’s secretary for years. As only second class beauty can be identified, there is no way of telling.
She spoke to Barbara and Ray suddenly.
''Isn’t it a heavenly night?"
''It certainly is," Ray said.
''Don’t you just feel wonderful?" the woman asked Barbara.
''I do now. I didn’t before," Barbara answered politely.
''Oh," said the woman, smiling, ''I just feel wonderful." She slipped her arm through her husband’s. Then for the first time she noticed the stewardess from A deck, who was standing beside the pilot. She called to her: ''Don’t you just feel marvelous tonight?"
The stewardess turned. "I beg your pardon?" Her tone was that of an off-duty snob.
"I said don’t you feel just wonderful. Isn’t it a heavenly night?"
"Oh," said the stewardess, smiling briefly, "I guess so."
"Oh, it is," said the woman emphatically. "One would never know it was nearly December." She visibly squeezed her husband’s hand and addressed him in the same ecstatic tones she had been using. "You do feel marvelous, don’t you darling?"
"Sure do," said her husband and winked at Barbara and Ray. He wore a wine-colored dinner jacket that was cut very full, letting him look huge rather than overweight. The woman turned and looked out over the water.
"Heavenly," she said softly. She touched her husbands sleeve. "Darling, look at those sweet little boats."
"Where?"
"There. Over there."
"Oh yeah. Nice."
The woman spoke suddenly to Barbara. "I’m Diane Woodruff and this is my husband Fielding." Barbara and Ray in turn introduced themselves "Of course!" said Mrs. Woodruff to Ray. "You’re the boy who runs all the tournaments. Lovely." She again looked out over the water. "Those poor little boats. They all belong in bathtubs." She looked at Barbara and Ray. "Where are you both going? Why don’t you come along with us? Of course! You must. Say you will. Please do."
"Well, I - it’s very nice of you," answered Ray. "I don’t know what Barbara had - "
"I’d love to," said Barbara. "Where are you going? I mean, I’ve never been to Havana before."
"Everywhere!" said Mrs. Woodruff roundly. "Well, isn’t this just perfect?" She leaned forward and called again to the stewardess. "Dear, wouldn’t you like to join us? Please do."
"I’m sorry. I hafta meet somebody. Thanks just the same, though."
"What a pity. Fielding, darling, you look like a college boy, so young. It’s indecent."
"Me? An old punk like me?"
"Where are you from dear?" Mrs. Woodruff asked Barbara.
"Coopersburg, Pennsylvania. It’s near Pittsburgh."
"Oh, how nice. And you?"
"Salt Lake City," said Ray.
"We’re from San Francisco. Isn’t it wonderful? Do you think we’ll be in the war soon, Mr. Walters? My husband doesn’t think so."
"Kinsella," corrected Ray. "I don’t know. I go in the Army anyway when the cruise is over."
Mrs. Woodruff put a hand to her mouth...."Oh!" she said. "Oh, I’m so sorry!"
"Oh, It won’t be
too bad," Ray explained. "I have a commission in the artillery from R.O.T.C. I’ll have my own battery and all. I mean I won’t have to take anybody’s guff."
As the tender bumped gently into port, Ray put his arm around Barbara’s waist to steady her.
"She has no waist at all," said Mrs. Woodruff and looked gently at Ray. "How perfect it must be for you to be out on a night like this with somebody who has absolutely no waist at all."
Ray, who had recommended it, led the way into Viva Havana. It was chiefly a tourist spot, but with money and highhandedness behind it. There was nothing inside except the waiters. The owner was Irish, the menu was French, the headwaiter was Swiss, the orchestra was mostly Brooklyn, the chorus girls were former citizens of Shubert’s alley, and Scotch sold better than any other drink. The jai alai games over, the crowd from the ship had already arrived at Viva Havana and were distributed sunburntly around the vast, noisy room. Ray immediately noticed the young lady whom he and the other Junior Committeemen had intimately voted Miss Latex Bathing Suit of 1941. She was swaying, half in and half out of her partner’s arms, near the orchestra stand, talking to the leader, probably asking him to play Stardust. Ray also spotted the governor elect - the ship’s celebrity - on his way to the game room, wearing a white dinner jacket, not his usual man-of-the-people skimpy black suit. The Masterson Twins, Ray also noticed, were at a table with - in the parlance of the ship’s employees - the Chicago Catch and the Cleveland Outfumbler, was just unquestionably tight. Mr. Woodruff attended to the ordering when they were all seated. Then he and Mrs. Woodruff pried their way to the dance floor.
"Would you like to dance?" Ray asked Barbara.
"Not right away. I don’t know how to rumba. I need something very slow, anyway. Look at Mrs. Woodruff. She’s very good."
"She’s not bad," conceded Ray.
Barbara said excitedly, "Isn’t she nice? Isn’t she beautiful? She’s so - so I don’t know what. Golly!"
"She certainly talks a lot," Ray said, stirring his highball.
"You must meet a lot of people, going on these cruises all the time," Barbara said.
"This is only the second time. I just quit college. Yale. I was going in the army anyway, so I figured I might as well have a little fun." He lit a cigarette. "What do you do?" he asked.
22 Out-of-print J. D. Salinger Stories Page 16
