Boys and Girls Together: A Novel

by William Goldman

  Walt grabbed her. “What about it?”

  “What about what?”

  “Getting married.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “I’ll kill you so help me. I’ll kill you.”

  Blake started running.

  Walt overtook her and grabbed her from behind and they stumbled off the path against a tree. “Marry me!”

  “I can’t. I’m really a boy. See, I went to Sweden last summer and I had this operation and—” She broke loose and started running again. “Besides,” she shouted over her shoulder, “I’m already married.”

  “You’re really gonna get it now,” Walt yelled, chasing her down, grabbing her again, spinning her into his arms.

  “I’m already married. I am, I am. And I will not commit bigamy. Dutch and I—”

  “Dutch! Who’s Dutch?”

  “Dutch Cleanser. He’s a nice Jewish boy.” She stepped down hard on Walt’s loafer and took off again.

  “That hurt.”

  “Tough.”

  “See you tomorrow,” Walt called.

  Blake stopped. “Aren’t you going to chase me?”

  “No.”

  Blake came back to him. “It’s no fun if you’re not going to chase me.” They started walking again. “Now what was it we were talking about?”

  “I think it had to do with marriage.” Walt shrugged.

  “Yes. That’s right. You were proposing.”

  “I was?”

  “I think so. I don’t know. Maybe I was proposing. Anyway, somebody was proposing, I’m quite sure of that.”

  “Was I down on one knee?”

  “No.”

  “Then it couldn’t have been me. I always get down on one knee when I propose.”

  “Well then I must have been the one, except I don’t understand why I should have been proposing to you. You’re such a meatball.”

  “True.”

  “Scrawny and pint-sized.”

  “Five-eight. The national average.”

  “I can’t think of anything salvageable about you. Except you do terrific imitations.”

  Walt stopped.

  “And I’ve always wanted to marry a man who did terrific imitations.”

  Walt took her hand and started to run.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Someplace dark.” They raced across the street, Walt leading, and when they reached Peters Hall they dashed up the steps into the archway and Walt was about to embrace her when he heard another couple behind them, so he whirled and in his most menacing Sidney Greenstreet voice snarled, “You infants better get out of here unless you want trouble,” and, in the darkness, a girl gasped and suddenly the other couple was gone, running down the steps and away. “Freshmen,” Walt said, and then he groped for Blake in the darkness, found her, kissed her mouth. “Hey,” he whispered. “We’re engaged.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t say ‘yeah’ at a time like this. You’re verbal. Be verbal.”

  “Well, you’ll do for a first husband. How’s that?”

  Walt kissed her again, his hands fumbling with her raincoat, finally getting it unbuttoned. His fingers touched her cashmere sweater and he pressed down harder with his lips as his fingers crept under the sweater, starting the slow move up her firm body, something he had done only once before, in St. Louis, at Christmastime, and they were lying together on his bed, naked, touching each other, and if P.T. hadn’t suddenly called for him, sending them scampering wildly into their clothes, God knows what would have happened.

  “Remove your hands from my bosom,” Blake said.

  “Huh?”

  “Your hands. Remove them.” She stood very still, her arms at her sides.

  “We’re engaged. I’m entitled.”

  “I don’t want you discovering I wear falsies until after everything has been officially announced.”

  “I know you don’t wear falsies. I found out in St. Louis. Remember?”

  “I borrowed those breasts for the occasion.”

  “Blake—”

  “If you do not remove your hands from my bosom by the count of three, I shall scream ‘rape.’ ”

  “Willya please—”

  “One—”

  “Quit this now.”

  “Two—”

  “Blake, I’m your flan—”

  “RAPE!”

  Walt scurried down the steps, his hands in his pockets. After a moment he heard her following. Then she fell in step beside him.

  “Hi,” Blake said.

  “Nobody likes a smart-ass,” Walt told her. “Bear that in mind.”

  “Sometimes I’m so cute and unbelievably adorably attractive I just can’t stand myself.”

  “Yeah-yeah-yeah.”

  “Mrs. Egbert Kirkaby. Ye gods.”

  Walt kissed her. “Poetry.” He kissed her again. “Hey, you know what?”

  “What?”

  “Nobody mentioned love.”

  “Clichés,” Blake said. “To hell with ’em.”

  “Walt? You in there? It’s me.”

  Walt lay in bed reading. “Door’s open,” he called, looking up as Branch Scudder, balding and pudgy, hurried in.

  “Are you going to do it?” Branch asked. “Put on a revue?”

  “I hope so; I’m gonna try.”

  “Well ... uh ... what I wondered is could I help?”

  “Gee, Branch, we’re doing it the same week as Hamlet. You stage-manage the Dramat. How can you do two shows at once?”

  “Under certain conditions I would ... uh ... resign from the ... uh ... Dramat.”

  “What conditions?”

  “If you would let me ... uh ... puh ... produce your show.”

  “It’s just gonna be a little revue, Branch, It’s nice of you, but I don’t think there’s that much to be done. I thought I’d produce it.”

  “There are lots of little ... uh ... details and things.”

  “I really think I can handle it, Branch.”

  “Fine. Fine. Uh ... don’t tell anybody, please, I mentioned resigning from the Dramat, O.K.?”

  “My heart is crossed.”

  Branch took a step toward Walt and lowered his voice. “You should have played Hamlet,” he said. “That’s what I think anyway.” Then he was gone.

  ANNOUNCING

  DROP THE SOAP

  A NEW REVUE

  Written, Directed, Produced and Starring

  Modest Walt Kirkaby

  Since it is obvious that if you had talent you would not be at Oberlin, we are looking for YOU. We need no talents. We crave NO TALENTS. The success of our show depends 100% on

  NO TALENTS

  THEREFORE: If you are tone deaf, sing in the show.

  If you are clumsy, dance.

  COME ONE

  COME ALL

  AUDITION’S MONDAY 4 P.M.

  Walt stared off into space. “I don’t get it,” he mumbled. “I put those signs up myself. Noon today. Ten signs. All over campus. I just don’t get it.” Sadly he shook his head.

  “A Communist plot, do you think?” Blake said.

  Walt ignored her. “I really worked on those signs. I thought they were great. If you’d seen those signs, wouldn’t you have auditioned?” He moved to the doorway and stared out through the drizzle at Tappan Square. The building was an old one-story affair, once the property of the Geology Department but unused for many years. The Dean himself had given Walt the key, on Walt’s promising that no duplicates would be made and that no “skulduggery”—the Dean’s word—would take place when the lights were out. “Nuts,” Walt said.

  “It probably would have been a crummy revue,” Blake told him. “You can console yourself with that.”

  “Sometimes you thrill me less than other times.”

  Blake curtsied.

  “Nuts,” Walt muttered again as he stared out at the rain.

  “You could always put on a one-man show,” Blake said. “Sing, dance, do a few imitations—really sti
nk up the joint.”

  “Willya shut up, please. Boy, give you an occasion and you’ll sink to it.”

  “Crybaby cry,” Blake sang.

  “What is it with you? You think I like making an ass of myself? Boy, you are one helluva first-class castrator, you know that?”

  “I didn’t do it to you, buddy. The job was done long before I arrived on the scene.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means quit moaning ’cause your great big show fell on its face.”

  “Big? What big? It was just gonna be a crummy little revue, that’s all. I like horsing around the theater and in three months I graduate and then it’s the old man’s business and I just wanted something to remember, so what’s the crime? And if you want to take the afternoon off, I won’t be heartbroken.” He turned, concentrating again on the rain.

  Blake chucked him under the chin. “Wuzzy, wuzzy, wuzzy,” she said.

  Walt brushed her hand away.

  “Hey,” and she shook his shoulder. “Don’t faint, but here comes Jiggles.”

  “Branch?”

  “Who else carries an umbrella?”

  Walt pushed his glasses up snug over the bridge of his nose with his left thumb and squinted. “Hey, Branch,” he shouted. “Over here.”

  Branch scurried in through the doorway.

  “What’s up?” Walt said.

  “Uh ... I just wondered if you might change your mind about letting me produce the show.”

  “Ain’t gonna be no show.”

  “Why?”

  “Nobody wants it. Nobody came to audition.”

  “Uh ... I spoke to any number of people who were interested.”

  “Yeah? Then why didn’t they audition?”

  “I ... uh ... I think the ... uh ... sign had something to do with it.”

  “Now hold the phone,” Walt said. “I wrote that sign. I spent all last night figuring out just what to say. I think it’s a terrific sign.”

  “Lovely work. Yes, yes. Except it didn’t quite mention where the auditions were. That would be my only criticism. Otherwise it was perfect.”

  “Nuts,” Walt said.

  Blake started laughing.

  “You see ... uh ... a producer tends to little things like that. Trivia. Well, do I get the job?”

  “I’ll think about it,” Walt said.

  BRANCH SCUDDER

  announces audition for

  WALT KIRKABY’S original revue

  WEDNESDAY 4PM

  Walt and Branch stood whispering in a back corner of the geology lab while, up at the front, the eight leotard-clad girls did their best to move in unison. “Ladies, please,” Walt said, and Blake, seated at the old upright piano in the middle of the room, stopped playing. “We’ve got to try and keep together, ladies. Everybody start on the beat with the left foot. All of you, show me your left foot.” The girls showed him. “Good work. All right, again, and give it all you’ve got.” He turned back to Branch as Blake began playing. Walt shook his head. “In the movies, chorus girls always look like Virginia Mayo. Why don’t ours?”

  “We’ll light them dimly,” Branch said. “That’s bound to help.”

  “Nothing will help. Look at those calf muscles bulge. Where were they this fall when the football team needed them? How—ladies, ladies—hold it, Blake,” and he hurried up to the front of the room, smiling at them, speaking with what he hoped was quiet enthusiasm. “Now I know this is only our second day of rehearsal and nobody expects miracles, but please, ladies, first the left foot, then the right. Stop hopping. O.K., Blake,” and he stood in front of the girls, smiling and clapping in rhythm as they began to move. “You’re getting it. Much better. Much. You’re doing great, so keep it up,” and he turned and started back to Branch, except Branch was talking with Imogene Felker.

  Walt stopped walking.

  Branch gestured to him. Walt glanced at Blake. Branch gestured again. Walt approached and Branch said, “Surprise for you. You know Imogene, don’t you? She’s going to be in the show.”

  “I’ve never acted,” Imogene said. “I don’t really know what I’m doing here, except Branch made it seem like my patriotic duty.”

  “I thought she’d be a perfect ... uh ... straight man for you. In ... some of your skits.”

  “If you don’t want me, I’ll understand. I mean that. I probably wouldn’t be any good. I’ll try, though, just as hard as I can, but that’s all I can promise.”

  “Of course he wants you,” Branch said. “Good heavens, it’s settled. Well, shall we begin?”

  Through it all Walt never said a word.

  An informal survey Walt had conducted during exam week of his junior year at Oberlin found that Imogene Felker possessed not only one of the two best bodies among female undergraduates, but one of the two prettiest faces as well. Taking both items together, she left all competition behind, since Fran McEvoy, the other head, was flat-chested and hippy, while Janine Frankel, the opposing shape, had a face like a foot. Imogene’s appeal, however, was not based solely on appearances; what set her most clearly apart from her fellows was the possession of an attribute all but unique to northern Ohio.

  Imogene Felker had glamour.

  Just why this was so, Walt could never ascertain. There was one period, early freshman year, immediately following their first and- only eight-word conversation, when he thrashed at night, trying to isolate the reason. Toward the end of that period he read Saint Joan, noting with some insight that the best Shaw could come up with on the Maid was that “There was something about her.” Well, there was something about Imogene Felker too, and if Shaw could be vague, why not E. Walters Kirkaby, then all of eighteen? Imogene Felker arrived unknown at Oberlin, a quiet child, timid and sweet, a non-giggler who hurried alone from Talcott Dorm to the library, eyes always down, books always pressed across her priceless bosom.

  In less than a month she was legend.

  There was no question in Walt’s mind that she would have achieved that stature eventually, but there was also no question that Donny Reilly helped speed the elevation along. Donny Reilly was something of a legend himself, a dazzling Irish giant who, because he was the only football player in school blessed with better than average coordination, found himself a gridiron celebrity in spite of the fact that he was not particularly accurate as a passer or fast as a runner and was given to fumbling on those rare instances when Oberlin found itself in the shadow of its opponent’s goal. He was also something of a sexual whiz, having successfully seduced, by his own account, forty-three coeds, at least that many townies and, crown in his cap, Miss Dunhill, the only attractive associate professor in the history of the school. That Donny and Imogene should cross was hardly chance, since he made it a practice to begin each academic year by eying and then destroying the half dozen or so most alluring freshmen before moving, unscathed, to their more mature sisters. Late in September they went out for the first time, big Donny, quiet Imogene. They came to the Pool Hall, Oberlin’s most sinful 3.2 beer dispensary, sitting together in the very front booth, sitting close, and while Donny joked with whatever table-hopping inferiors happened by, Imogene stayed silent, from time to time managing a sip from her glass of beer. Discreetly, Walt watched them, not only that night but in the nights that followed, and there was no doubt in his mind that he saw things in her face (Walt was always a great one for seeing things in faces). The child was lonely, the child was sad. You can’t want him, Walt thought. You can do better than him, I promise you. Somewhere there’s somebody better. But as they left each evening, Donny’s big arm thrown possessively across her shoulders, Walt could only drown his doubts in unnatural amounts of watery brew. And each evening, after taking Imogene home, Donny would return, louder than ever, and he would gather other seniors around him at the bar and there hold forth on various subjects: the formation of Imogene’s body, the smoothness of her skin, the texture of her pale red hair.

  Somewhere along toward the middle of Octobe
r, Imogene broke his heart.

  Just how this happened, no one ever knew, for Imogene would never have told and Donny, for once in his life, shut up. But it happened, and Walt was in the Pool Hall drinking his fifth glass of 3.2 beer at the moment Donny’s statue tumbled down. He entered the bar quietly, Donny did, and that was already strange, and he ordered a pitcher of beer, grabbed a stein, and had them both in his big hands, the pitcher and the stein, when someone shouted, “Hey, where’s Imogene?” Walt was staring at the Celt and as the question echoed there came across Donny’s face an expression so naked—he was eventually to lose it from his skin, never from behind his eyes—so full of totally deflated ego, that Walt almost felt guilty at his sudden smile. (But the lying bastard, he’d never laid a glove on her, so who could help smiling?) And that night as Donny drank himself into a silent stupor, alone in the farthest corner of the bar, Walt watched him and, while others around him evinced astonishment, Walt was not one whit surprised. For though Walt had spoken to Imogene but once (eight words), been close to her that one time only, it was enough. He knew. There was something about her. Something. An air, an aura, a way. She was a mystery. Open and sweet, yet a mystery. Not mysterious, therefore mysterious, therefore glamorous, for mystery without glamour is like love without like: false; much trumpeted, but false; much avowed, yet false; pledged, sworn, promised, still and always false; false, nothing more.

  Following the breakup, Imogene went out with basketball dribblers and scholars, and in her sophomore year several slender members of the swimming team tried for the brass ring. Then, in her junior year, there began to be rumors of a non-Oberlinian, a Philadelphia lawyer, more precisely, who, according to talk, was quiet and kind and a one-time editor of the Yale Law Review. The rumors received substantiation as her senior year began, for Imogene returned to school officially engaged, and at Thanksgiving time her conqueror appeared, neither particularly tall nor strong nor beautiful, but, if Imogene’s eyes were to be believed, kind. As they walked hand in hand across campus they were watched, studied, appraised, and by none closer than E. Walters Kirkaby. But that wasn’t unusual; he had always managed to keep tabs on Imogene.

  The first thing he ever noted about her was her hair. It was pale red, and it tumbled down around her shoulders as she walked ahead of him through Tappan Square, on the way to town. This was their freshman year, second day of school, and Walt was excited because he had heard of a pinball machine called Blue Skies and he wanted to test its mettle. At the sight of the red-haired girl, he doubled his speed, closing the gap between them, anxious to see her face. Suddenly he stopped, because it was really a dumb thing to do, following girls; whenever you followed a girl she always turned out to be a dog. Those were Walt’s findings, anyway, so what was the point of navigating after this one, particularly since she was a redhead? Redheads were invariably at their best when viewed from behind. The thing about redheads was that when you looked at them from the front, what you saw was freckles, and what you didn’t see was eyebrows. So what was the point? Walt shrugged and slowed. This hair was pale red, though, so maybe that was something. He moved a little faster. But what the hell, she had a raincoat on, so how could you tell anything about the body? He moved a little slower. I’ll bet she’s a dog, Walt thought. But her legs were nice. The ankles appeared thin and thank God the calf muscles didn’t bulge, so probably she wasn’t a field-hockey star and he began moving faster again, until he was only twenty steps behind. At that distance he noted that her pale red hair glistened in the gray afternoon, so he halved the gap, studying her with professional care. It really was a problem, because from his vantage point she looked great, and a decision would have to be made soon because they were three-quarters through the square and the chances were that she was not on her way to play pinball. To hell with her, Walt thought, and he started to slow when the girl took off her raincoat. Walt picked up the step. She was wearing a fuzzy white sweater and a straight black skirt. “Hmmm,” Walt said, and he squinted at her over the upper rim of his glasses. The odds were still on an eyebrowless dog, but the fuzzy sweater looked nice, the skirt too, and she certainly wasn’t fat and he could not fault her walking motion. They were nearing the end of the square, town just ahead, so it was now or never. Now! Walt thought and, pausing just a moment to attain the proper swagger, he thrust his hands into his pockets at a brilliantly casual angle and hurried alongside.