Boys and Girls Together: A Novel

by William Goldman

  Miss Allenby had received her degree in Education from Washington University the summer preceding, so this was, in actuality, her first class. Of course she had had many sessions in practice teaching, but this was her first real class. She was even-tempered and she liked children, so she felt she would be a fine teacher, given time. She was, however, worried about enforcing discipline. She never much cared for punishing pupils, and if they ever found that out, they would obviously take advantage of her weakness, and who could blame them? Consequently, her initial reaction to the start of the belch was confusion. Should she punish the offending belcher? Or should she ignore the whole thing, make believe it never happened? She decided on the latter course of action (or inaction), which seemed sensible because, after all, belches were brief, and in a few moments the whole incident would be forgotten. Miss Allenby printed a “C” and a “D.” But the “D” was a sloppy “D”—by now her hands were shaking, she hoped not too noticeably.

  Because the belch was growing louder.

  Miss Allenby started on an “E,” but she was just not up to it. She dropped her writing hand to her side. Really, it was the most incredible belch she had ever heard. The duration, the resonance, the sheer blasting power! Reluctantly, Miss Allenby turned to face her class. She was about to ask, “All right now, who’s belching?” (a difficult thing to say under the best of conditions) but there was really no need. And so, summoning her fiercest face, Miss Allenby stared at the nice little boy with the glasses.

  Walt had always been able to belch. There was really nothing to it: open your mouth, swallow some air, belch. These were average belches, indistinguishable from any other. The superhuman belch (later to be known far and wide as the “Kirkaby Special”) he had not discovered until one afternoon when Arnold was chasing him with a garter snake. Walt had taken refuge in the toolshed behind the greenhouse, where, in order to quiet his heart, he had begun swallowing air. How many swallows he took he never knew, but ten minutes later the first Kirkaby Special gave his position away. Arnold traced the sound and frightened him plenty, but Walt didn’t mind so much because the belch was such an impressive sound he felt an undeniable pride of ownership. To his knowledge, no one else in the world could belch as well. Being dimly aware of social amenities, however, he hid his light under a bushel; RT. would doubtless have been unimpressed, and even though his mother or Maudie might have shared his pride, there seemed to Walt no point in putting them to the test. So his belches he kept private and secret, used only when he had to quiet his heart (as from Arnold) or when he wanted to remind himself of his limitless capabilities. Hiding from Wimpy, that second recess, he had needed to quiet his heart, so, without really knowing it, he had swallowed air for perhaps ten minutes.

  The resulting belch was, even by his standards, fantastic.

  Walt looked up at Miss Allenby. She was obviously not happy. He turned his head from side to side, watching all the eyes. There was no other sound in the room, which only served to make his seem all the louder.

  Without warning, the belch ended.

  The classroom stayed silent. Walt was less aware of it than of the look on Miss Allenby’s face. Slowly he stretched out his hands toward her, as if saying, “Whatever you decide to do to me, I’ll understand.”

  Miss Allenby began to laugh. At first she resisted it, but not long, and as she leaned against her desk and dropped her head, the girl in front of Walt started laughing and then the boy across the aisle and then the boy behind him, and as the pandemonium built even Wimpy laughed and after that Walt himself went, putting his face on his desktop and howling like a fool. More laughter came, louder; there was simply no stopping it now, and when Miss Allenby realized this she managed to announce that class was dismissed for the day. But no one moved. Eventually Walt stood, and then so did everyone else. He moved toward the door, and as he did they surrounded him, the circle thickening as he left the school and walked down the steps to the playground. “Hey, Kirkaby, howja do it, Kirkaby? Do it again, Kirkaby. Once more, huh, Kirkaby—just one more time, please, Kirkaby—please.” They peppered him mercilessly and he stood there safe inside them, waiting for them to pause.

  “You really want me to do it again?” he said then, trying not to beam at the shouted cries of “Yes!” “Well, I hope I’m up to it, but it takes time.” Walt started swallowing air. “It’s not as easy as it looks. I learned how when I was a child in India, living at the Taj Mahal.” They laughed. He moved to the teeter-totters, sitting in the very center of one, balancing cross-legged while they grouped around him, breathless. (It was the first of such gatherings; they were to come often, with word spreading for hours beforehand—“Hey, didja hear? Kirkaby’s gonna do it after school.”) When he had swallowed sufficient air, Walt had nothing to do but wait for the belch, so he filled the time with stories (they laughed) and imitations (he was terrific on Humphrey Bogart, so they laughed) and occasional snatches of song. Walt sat above them, chattering on, pausing for his laughs, timing them instinctively, hurrying on as they reached a climax—the Whizzer triumphant, hiding no more.

  So what if he was funny-looking? Who cared about being small? And what did it matter if he was never able to punt a spiral? (he) Or hit a flat backhand? Or make the pivot on the double play? Or move with grace? (he) Or dance the rumba or get A’s without studying (he was) or win contests or elections or friends or wars or climb a rope hand over strong hand or fight without losing or lie without suffering or be President or King or Champion or strum banjo or play drum or mournful trumpet (he was ... ) or do great things or even good things or run fastest or throw farthest or jump highest or skipper a ship or fly naked up through cool night air to sleep on clouds or love his father or not love his father or write or paint or sketch or slash beauty from stone?

  HE WAS FUNNY.

  (yeah!)

  III

  FROM THE FIRST, SID and Esther were at war.

  Sid was the declarer. He entered Turk’s Delicatessen, planted himself at the counter, looked around, and there, standing on a ladder reaching up for a can of sauerkraut, was Esther Turk. Of course, Sid did not know her name then. Nor was he aware of the color of her hair (black) or her age (nineteen), height (she claimed five three but the three was a lie) or disposition (unstable). His total concentration was reserved for what he immediately termed “the sweetest little ass in Chicagoland.” Sid stared at it, expertly, his bright eyes dancing. Esther turned, sauerkraut in hand, saw the bright eyes, read their message and immediately sent forth a message of her own: You should live so long.

  Not remotely daunted, Sid let fly a smile.

  Esther caught it nimbly, swatted it to death with a yawn.

  “Hello, Tootsie.” He did a Valentino with his eyes.

  “Hello, Sport.” Obviously she was not a fan of Valentino.

  Sid surveyed the selection of cold meats. “What’s good?”

  “Everything. What do you want?”

  Sid ogled her ripe bosom. “What do I want?”

  She withered him and walked away down the counter.

  “Back or front, either is perfection.”

  She stopped, hesitated, turned sideways.

  “No complaint with the profile,” Sid said.

  She faced him, hands on round hips. “You’re a smart guy, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right. Also good-looking.” The eyes danced again.

  “Tall, too,” she replied. “A real skyscraper.”

  Sid reddened, sensitive about his height, or lack of it, and her open laughter only colored him darker. “Five foot two, eyes of blue, that’s me.”

  “Little fella’s blushing,” she said, laughing on. “Fancy that.”

  “Pastrami!” Sid told her. “Heavy on the mustard.”

  “Pastrami for the skyscraper.”

  Vulnerable, Sid was; but not permanently. “So after dinner, do we go to a movie or a walk along the lake?”

  “Pest,” she gave him.

  “That’s right.”
>
  “Neither. We do neither.”

  “A little wager?”

  “Listen to Mr. Irresistible.”

  “That’s right. I’m Sid Miller, the world’s greatest door-to-door salesman.

  I can sell anything. Ice to Eskimos, you to me. On account of I got the secret ingredient.”

  She was obviously not going to ask him, so he told her anyway.

  “Charm,” Sid said. “I am loaded with charm.” And he smiled at her, knowing it was a good smile, knowing he was handsome. Small? Sure, but, dammit, he was handsome.

  “Catch me, somebody, before I swoon.”

  “Esther, quit fighting with the customers.” The man standing at the far end of the counter was obviously the morsel’s father. The resemblance was unmistakable, in spite of the fact that the old man had the largest nose Sid had even seen.

  “Not a customer, Father. A gnat.”

  “Well, quit fighting with him and let him go.”

  “If he’d go I’d quit fighting.”

  The old man took two steps toward them and started to speak, his voice kind, explaining. When he spoke, his nostrils dilated. Sid watched them. “My daughter is the local lure. Granted she is ripe, she is also, believe me please, sour.”

  “I am helpless before her charms,” Sid said.

  “I assure you, you have no chance. Is your suit cashmere? If not, strike three goodbye.”

  “Persistency is my middle name,” Sid said.

  “Then I weep for you and also wish you joy.” Old Turk gestured softly and retired.

  “Nice man,” Sid said.

  “He’s word-happy. A frustrated philosopher.” She handed him the sandwich. “Two bits you owe me.”

  “You can have my heart.”

  “A quarter is preferable.”

  Sid held the change in his hand. She reached out and took it. Even her fingers, soft and pink and round, aroused his passion. “We touched,” Sid said. “Your hand and mine. Now I can die.”

  “Outside, not here.” She moved down the counter, disappearing behind a barrel of pickles.

  Sid pursued her to the pickles and beyond until their eyes met over a chunk of Swiss cheese. “When shall we two meet again?”

  “Whenever you’re hungry, feel free.”

  “Looking at you, I starve.” Now she was starting to color, so he pressed on. “My name is Sid. Say the word. Let me hear you say it.”

  “If you’re not outta here before I count two, I’m calling the cops.”

  “I want a corned-beef sandwich,” Sid said. “Heavy on the mustard.” He smiled. “Now the law’s on my side, so call who you want.”

  She backtracked to the corned beef and he followed along on the outside of the counter. “You really think you’re something, don’t you?”

  “What’s my opinion against thousands of others?”

  She hacked at the corned beef with surprising vigor. “I wish you eternal indigestion,” she said.

  “She cares for me,” Sid said.

  Esther snorted.

  “Movies tonight or a walk along the lake?”

  “I’m busy tonight.”

  “Tomorrow night, then.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “This week sometime.”

  “All week I’m busy.”

  “I never ask a girl out more than a week in advance. That’s a rule. Break one of your dates or you lose me.”

  “Here’s your corned beef.” And she slammed it on the counter. “Two bits and get out.”

  Sid paid her and started for the door. “The week after,” he yelled, whirling.

  “I’m busy the week after.”

  “Goodbye. You’ll never forget me.” He was halfway out the door.

  “Two weeks from Thursday.”

  Sid jumped back inside. “What?”

  “I happen to be free two weeks from Thursday.”

  “Why not say next year?”

  “That’s the best I can do. Take it or leave it.”

  “Sold!” Sid said and he stormed out pursued by her laughter. He did not like her laughter. But when she laughed her body shook. And he did like that. He did indeed. He liked that fine.

  He had, however, no intention of keeping the rendezvous. Pride was pride and he had plenty, so even though he called her on the phone later that week to reconfirm and set seven as the time, it was all show. Set her up high, let her down hard. He was much too successful with women to let a garlic maiden ruffle him. He called her again to inquire innocently about the color of the dress she might wear. Naturally, she would envision flowers. Sid chuckled as they hung up. (Set her up high, let her down hard.) His normally busy social life—he had a string of succulent South Siders—became abnormally busy: Tilly one night, Adele the next, Adele again, then mysteriously Claudette, and Esther Turk disappeared from his life during the day.

  But at night, on his bed, he had visions.

  Oh, that ass, Sid would moan, seeing it twinkle. And he would rise and grope through the darkness to the kitchen sink and there attempt to drown his passion with glasses full of Chicago water.

  So, in the end, he kept the date. He had to make her suffer for her lip and he plotted this tiny revenge, then that. His final decision was simply to keep her waiting. She had, after all, asked him for the date, was undoubtedly looking forward to it, and the idea that she had been stood up (or worse—that he had simply forgotten all about her existence) would be punishment enough. So Sid, a prompt soul, arrived at the deli at a few minutes before seven, smirked up at the lighted window over the store and took a walk. The night was steaming, but he did his best to ignore it, strolling around and around the block. At a quarter of eight (no point in making her hysterical) he presented a slightly perspiring version of himself at the Turk door. Sid knocked. There was a pause. Then the nose peeked out.

  “Young Lochinvar,” Old Turk said.

  “I desire your daughter,” Sid said, entering the apartment.

  “A worthy ambition,” the old man allowed. “Hardly unique, but worthy.” He gestured around the living room, at the sofa, at the two overstuffed chairs. “Pick. Each is uncomfortable.”

  Sid settled on the sofa, the old man on a red chair. Sid glanced around. The room was very neat. “Your daughter is a fine housekeeper,” Sid began.

  “Nothing could be further from the truth. Cleaning vexes her. I clean.” And he bowed.

  Sid glanced at his watch.

  “She is anointing her body,” the old man said. “Sometimes that takes a while.”

  Sid nodded. He loathed being kept waiting; one of his notions of Hell was a waiting room with him at the end of an infinite line.

  “I believe I warned you she was sour.”

  Sid nodded again, folding his hands in his lap, his left wrist turned so he might stare at the plodding second hand.

  “What would you like to talk about? Please, choose your subject. I pride myself on versatility. History, politics, astronomy. Pick. You’ll find me equally dull on everything.” When Sid made no reply the old man smiled. “Some prefer silent suffering,” he said and he opened the Chicago Daily News.

  Sid transferred his stare from the second hand to the front-door knob. His legs wanted to leave, and if his mind could have stopped envisioning Esther Turk’s backside, his legs would have carried him away. But his mind could not stop, so he waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  And precisely at thirty-one minutes after eight, she appeared.

  “Shall we go?” Esther said.

  Sid took her in a while before rising. A pale-blue dress, tight across the bosom and the butt; a single strand of phony (but who could really tell?) pearls; black hair loose and long, tumbling down between the young shoulders; black eyes shadowed and bright; lips red.

  Sid stood. Across, Old Turk dreamt, the world his bed, the Daily News his blanket. Sid led her quietly from the room. They descended the stairs, exchanging the apartment’s heat f
or the night’s, walking down the street toward the bus stop. As he paused, she said it.

  “Bus?”

  There was a world to be read in that word. Sid browsed through some of it. You mean we’re going to take a bus? You mean you are such a short little two-bit piker you’re going to let me ride on public transportation? Big talk, little do. Phony. Faker. Mouth. Hot, hot air.

  “Who said anything about a bus? I got a stone in my shoe.” He ripped off his shoe and deposited the imagined blister maker onto the baking cement. Then, battling for aplomb, he hailed a cab.

  As they rode silently north (who needed talk when there was that Mozartian meter to listen to) Sid pondered killing her. She had kept him waiting and she had as much as called him a piker, and to top it all off she looked so sexy he was weak. She sat—lush, plump, ripe, rich, ready—staring out at the city. Nineteen and already she had designs on the whole world. Sid watched her, passion mounting. He was not used to women giving him trouble and it upset him. And when he got upset, he got upset right smack in the pit of his stomach. So when they reached the Red Star Inn (to Sid’s mind the best German restaurant in captivity, no question) his stomach was as knotted as a basket of snakes. He ordered the duck but picked at it only, and the apple pancake for dessert went so untouched as to be salable all over again with maybe a little reheating. Esther, however, ate like a wrestler. Oblivious to his torment, with delicate fingers she spooned down the sauerbraten and potato pancakes and red cabbage and applesauce and strudel. When she was done, Sid paid (bitterly) the bill and they walked out of the Red Star, crossed Clark Street (here Sid took her soft arm, the shock of contact almost electrifying—can a mere arm be voluptuous? Ye gods!) and headed east toward the Gold Coast. The uniformed doormen filled Sid with even more than customary envy (he saw her eyes, saw them covet the shined doorknobs, the carpeted entrance-ways, the spotless elevators beyond), so he walked faster, quickly leaving Esther paces behind. She noted the separation but made no attempt to catch up. Finally, Sid dropped back until they were parallel again.