Boys and Girls Together: A Novel

by William Goldman

  “The fire escape.”

  “Look,” Sid said. “See? The sheet music to ‘God Bless America.’ Very patriotic. Everyone will love him when he sings it. And look still, these books. They teach you dancing. A little tap, a little ballet. Not much, just enough so he’ll look cute. It’s perfect. Perfect! And when he’s ready, and the right man comes to town, we can start packing. God, Esther, it’s so exciting.”

  “It is. I think you’re right, Sid. It really is.”

  “Right! I’m right! I know. I can feel. Everything is right. Everything.” He leaped onto the bed and grabbed her, twisting her across his body, kissing her open mouth.

  “You’re crazy.” Esther giggled. “You’re a crazy man.”

  Sid stroked her.

  “Kiss me again.”

  “Later,” and he bounced from the bed, running to the open window, shouting, “Rudy, Rudy.”

  “What?”

  “Surprise!”

  “No!” the boy cried. “No!”

  “Rudy, I’m a patient man, but I’m getting tired of arguing with you. You’ll like it. I promise.”

  “Yes,” Esther said. “Really, Rudy. We’ll all have fun.”

  The boy twisted in the chair as they walked around him. “No. Please, no.”

  “Rudy,” Sid said, “I’ve explained a hundred times, there’s nothing wrong with being a movie star.”

  “We’ll teach you everything,” Esther said.

  “Have we ever led you wrong? Ever?”

  “Please.”

  “You’re being very stubborn, Rudy. Any other boy would be proud if his parents wanted to make him a movie star. Because it shows how much they love him.”

  “Yes, Rudy.”

  “All right now, this is the last time I’m going to ask—the last time, you understand that? The last time. Will you do it?”

  “Please,” the boy said.

  “Rudy,” Esther said, “for your mother—”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Esther, but enough is enough. Rudy, do you want to go back on the fire escape?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go.”

  The boy vaulted through the window.

  “But I’m locking the window, Rudy,” Sid said. “Stay out there. Fine. We don’t care. Just remember, you’re not coming back in here until you see we’re right. We’re your parents and we know what’s best. Stay a day, a week, stay a year. It’s all the same to us. Goodbye, Rudy!” And he slammed the window down and locked it.

  “Don’t get mad, Sid.”

  Sid turned, smiling. “Mad? I love it. The stubborner the better. Shows we’re right. All the big stars have it.”

  “Have what?”

  “Artistic temperament.”

  The next morning there was a soft rap at the window.

  “Even artists have to eat,” Sid said.

  So they started with the lessons, singing and dancing, an hour of one, an hour of the other, in the morning, in the afternoon, a third time at night. “God bless Americaaa,” the boy sang, “laaand that I love ...” He had a soft voice, but pleasing to the ear and always on pitch, and, at night as they listened, Sid and Esther nodded to each other. The dancing was no trouble; he picked up the Waltz Clog in one afternoon and before a week was out he could glide gracefully through the five ballet positions. “Again,” Sid would shout. “Again, it must be perfect,” and the tiny figure would repeat the movements as Esther hummed for rhythm. Pinkus of the Shoreland did the photography, for too much, but the results were worth it. By the middle of August Sid began reading all the papers, noting from the columns who was in town and where. Business at the store was terrible, but they managed to eat and pay the rent, so what else mattered? “God bless America” the boy sang, for the thousandth time, and he danced, moving his small body with easy grace, Esther humming, Sid nodding his head, morning and night, night and afternoon, until, at the end of September, Springer came to town.

  “Mr. Springer?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Miller. Sid Miller.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got to talk with you, Mr. Springer.” Sid glanced down the empty corridor, then back at the other man, who stood, barely visible, peeking out from behind the half-open hotel room door. Springer was short, shorter even than Sid. Sid smiled.

  “About what?”

  “It’s very important,” Sid said.

  “It is?”

  “Actually, I’m doing you a favor. You could look at it that way. You’ll benefit, I promise you.”

  Springer closed the door.

  Sid stopped it with a foot.

  “Move,” Springer said. “Your foot.”

  “Not until we’ve talked.”

  “I’ll call the house detective.”

  “After we’ve talked.”

  “I’m a master of jiujitsu,” Springer said. “I’m small, but I’m not to be trifled with.”

  “I’m much smaller than you are, Mr. Springer. And weak as a kitten.”

  “I’ve always hated Chicago. Always.”

  “I’m not dangerous, I promise. Merely desperate.”

  “Please go away.” I can’t.

  “I’m not feeling my best today. Come back some other time.”

  “I said I was desperate. I spoke the truth.”

  “I feel like a fool holding your foot in the door.”

  “Then let me in.”

  “You’ve probably been sick.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I happen to be a hypochondriac. You’ve probably been sick.”

  “Not in three years, and then just the twenty-four-hour flu. I swear.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  Sid handed the large manila envelope through the opening. “Look inside.”

  “Why?”

  “Just look.”

  “Are they pictures?”

  “Yes. Open it. Please.”

  “Pictures of you?”

  “No. No. Of my son. The next Shirley Temple.”

  “You mean—” Springer began, and then he started to laugh. Sid saw his head shaking through the narrow opening and a moment later the door swung open as Springer leaned against the foyer wall, shaking with laughter. “Too much,” he managed. “It’s really too much.”

  Hat in hand, Sid waited.

  “You went through all this just so I would look at some pictures of your son?”

  “What better reason?”

  “You’ve made a ghastly mistake, Mr. ...”

  “Miller. Sid Miller.”

  “I’m not a talent scout. I didn’t discover Lana Turner.”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Springer. You’re a director. A great director.”

  “I am a lousy director. My father helped to found the company. I am a hack. But thank you.”

  “Now, will you look? Will you see my son?”

  “No.”

  “He sings like an angel. He dances like a dream. As an actor, he’s a natural. And I’m not biased, I swear.”

  “I’m a director, Mr. Miller. I can’t do anything for your son.”

  “If you liked him, you could. If you felt, as I feel, that he will be bigger than Shirley Temple, you could. You could put him in one of your movies. You could make him a star.”

  “It’s all highly unlikely.”

  “Look at the pictures, Mr. Springer. And then meet my son. Hear him sing. Watch him dance. I promise you, it’s an experience. What my son does with ‘God Bless America’ will bring tears to your eyes.”

  “Mr. Miller, when I repeat all this in Hollywood, you’ll be famous.”

  “You’ve got to meet my son.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Miller.”

  “I didn’t come here to fail, Mr. Springer.”

  “I’ll write a note to the studio, how’s that? You can enclose the pictures and I promise you someone will give your child every consideration.”

  “I didn’t come here to fail, Mr. Springer.”r />
  “It’s all I can do. Understand that.”

  “You can make my son a star.”

  “I can’t make my wife a star and she also sings like an angel and dances like a dream. Southern California is crammed with dreamy dancers, Mr. Miller.”

  “Not like my Rudy. You notice how I haven’t mentioned how he looks? That’s because there are no words. You have to see for yourself. See for yourself, Mr. Springer. Do us both a favor.”

  “I wish I had a recording of all this.”

  “You wouldn’t even have to change his name!”

  “Don’t get excited, Mr. Miller. Remember—jiujitsu.”

  “All his life he’s been groomed for this. From birth. His middle name is Valentino, Mr. Springer.”

  “Valentino?”

  “Rudolph Valentino Miller. Isn’t that something?”

  “Undeniably. However—”

  “We’re both Jews, Mr. Springer.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve got to help each other. Jews owe that to each other. Otherwise the Gentiles will kill us all. You’re a Jew, I’m a Jew, see my son!”

  “Calm yourself.”

  “Look,” Sid said, and he dropped to his knees. “I’m begging.”

  “Get up.”

  “On my knees. What more do you want?”

  “Get up, get up.”

  “See my son.”

  “For God’s sake, Mr. Miller—”

  “I’m a poor Jew on my knees before you. No pride. Nothing. A begging Jew with his life in your hands.”

  “Mr. Miller, please get up. I can’t take much more of this.”

  “Look at the pictures.”

  “I’m looking, I’m looking.” And he ripped the envelope open. “Now get up.”

  Sid stood. “Well?”

  Springer said nothing.

  “Pinkus of the Shoreland took them. Aren’t they beautiful?”

  “Your son, he resembles these pictures?”

  “Does a snapshot of the ‘Mona Lisa’ resemble the ‘Mona Lisa’?”

  “Photographs can be deceiving.”

  “These are. He is a hundred times more beautiful.”

  “You must be very proud.”

  “I love him like my life.”

  “Send him down.”

  “Poise,” Sid said, tying the boy’s tie. “Poise is crucial.”

  “Poise is crucial,” the boy repeated.

  “Hurry,” Esther said.

  Sid turned on her. “The boy cannot have poise if you all the time ‘hurry’ him. The appointment is for three. It is not nearly that. There is lots of time.” He turned back to the boy. “Get your shoes on, Rudy. Hurry.”

  The boy ran to his closet and pulled out his shoes.

  “They’re shined?” Esther said.

  The boy nodded. “This morning.” He sat down in a chair, tugging at the laces.

  “Don’t sit so hard,” Sid said. “You’ll wrinkle the trousers.”

  The boy dropped into a kneeling position and continued putting on his shoes.

  “A winning smile is as crucial as poise. Remember that.”

  “Yes, Father. A winning smile.” Let me see.

  The boy smiled.

  “Very winning,” Sid said. “Excellent. All right, after we dance, what do we do?”

  “We sing ‘God Bless America’?”

  “And how do we sing ‘God Bless America’?”

  “With feeling. Not loud, but with great feeling.”

  “And what are our hands doing?”

  “During the first half, they are clasped on my chest, like in prayer. For the last half, the left dangles while the right salutes.”

  “Good. The salute is very crucial.”

  “Everything is very crucial.”

  “That’s right,” Sid said. “Everything.”

  “His tie,” Esther said, shaking her head.

  “What’s the matter with his tie?”

  “It’s wrong.”

  “I selected that tie. It’s perfect. What’s wrong with it?”

  “Stand up, Rudy.”

  The boy stood. He was wearing a brand-new navy-blue suit and white shirt and dark shoes and dark socks and a red tie.

  Esther studied him. “It clashes. That much is obvious.”

  “Clashes with what?”

  “Clashes with everything.”

  “The tie is perfect.”

  “The tie is not perfect. He is a blue boy, why a red tie?”

  “To give color. Contrast.”

  “The tie is wrong.”

  “The tie is right.”

  “The tie is wrong.”

  “Please,” the boy said.

  “See?” Sid said. “You’re upsetting Rudy.”

  “I’m not upsetting Rudy. You’re upsetting Rudy.”

  “Rudy, am I upsetting you?”

  “Please.”

  “The tie should be blue,” Esther said. “To match the suit.”

  “Blue?” Sid said. “Blue!”

  “Rudy, get your blue tie.”

  “The boy will not dress like some goddam undertaker!”

  Esther clutched her forehead.

  The boy ran to his closet. “Perhaps this tie,” he said, holding one up. “It has both red and blue. Do you think?”

  Esther said nothing.

  “Very good,” Sid said. “Come. I’ll put it on for you.” The boy approached his father and stood quietly. Esther watched a moment, then turned away. “Where are you going?”

  “To finish with my makeup.”

  “Your makeup? Why make up?”

  “So I can be seen on the streets.”

  “What streets?”

  “I’m going downtown with Rudy.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I tell you you’re not.”

  “At a time like this, a boy needs his mother.”

  “His father will be more than sufficient.”

  “He needs me. I’ll keep him calm.”

  “Joke.”

  “I’ll keep him calm!”

  “I’ll keep him calm!”

  “I’m going.”

  “You are not.”

  “I am too.”

  “Are not.”

  “Am too.”

  “Are—”

  “Stop!” the boy said. “Now!”

  “See?” Sid said. “See what you’ve done?”

  “I have done nothing. Nothing!”

  “Just relax, Rudy. I won’t let her upset you anymore.”

  “He’s the one upset you, Rudy. Tell him.”

  “Rudy, tell the truth, have I upset you?”

  “Yes, Rudy, tell him. Tell him it’s not me.”

  “You need me along, right, Rudy?”

  “No, me.”

  “Me.”

  “Neither!” the boy cried.

  “What?” Sid said.

  “Rudy,” Esther said.

  “Neither,” the boy said. “I need neither. You fight. I cannot have poise when you fight. I cannot smile. I will forget the salute.”

  “Rudy—” Sid said.

  “No,” the boy said. “I will go by myself. And I will smile. And I will have poise.”

  “You can’t go by yourself.”

  “Do you want this to happen?” the boy asked.

  “Yes,” Sid said.

  “You’re very sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I will face Mr. Springer alone.”

  “Will you quit with the ‘don’t be nervous’? If you say ‘don’t be nervous’ one more time, Esther, I don’t guarantee what I’ll do. Because I am nervous. So shut up.”

  “Well, at least stop pacing.”

  “I could stop breathing just as easy. You want I should do that?”

  “Now, Sid. Now, honey.”

  “It was a goddam fool idea, letting him go alone.”

  “He’s a big boy.”

  “It’s still a goddam
fool idea. If you hadn’t stuck your fat nose in—”

  “We’ve been through that already enough, so why go through it again?”

  “Because I’m scared,” Sid said. “If you wanna know the truth, I’m scared.”

  “The boy will do wonderfully.”

  “What if he forgets the words to ‘God Bless America’? He could. It’s possible. So what if he does? What then? Who’s gonna help him remember? Answer me that.”

  “You’ll kill yourself with a heart attack. At the very least, ulcers.”

  “He’s a kid. Kids get nervous. Goddammit, it’s way after three. Why haven’t we heard?”

  “No news is good news.”

  “If you say that one more time—”

  “Hit me!” She jumped in front of him, blocking his path. “Get it over with. Hit me and shut up. Go on.”

  Sid pulled her close, holding her very tight. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but it’s very important, Esther. You gotta understand that. It’s gotta work. I can’t take the store anymore. I need something, a change, or I’ll die. I’m not kidding. I will. I’ll die, Esther.”

  “Close your eyes, Sid.”

  “They are closed.” He wedged his face down into her neck. “I really want this to happen, Esther.”

  “It will happen.”

  “The boy could forget.”

  “The boy will remember.”

  “He could be a movie star. The biggest. If that lousy Springer has any sense, he’ll see.”

  “Are you crying, Sid?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you crying?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Sid pushed her away and moved to the window.

  Esther pursued him. “If you cry, I’ll get a headache, I can almost feel it.”

  “Don’t get a headache.”

  “Don’t cry.”

  “I’m fine,” Sid said. “Nerves.”

  “Don’t be nervous.”

  “All right, Tootsie. I won’t be.”

  “That’s a good boy.”

  “What does he see on the fire escape? What’s so wonderful out there?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I don’t know, going out on the fire escape.” He ducked under the open window.

  “Good, maybe you’ll get some sun. You’re very pale, Sid.”

  “Some sun, yes,” and he waved, walking slowly up to the fire-escape landing. Sid looked around but there was nothing to see. Below, an alley ending at the street, people walking by. Beyond the alley, other houses, other fire escapes. Beyond the houses, other alleys. Sid turned his face to the sun. It was warm and he could not remember having slept the night before; maybe a catnap, but that was all. Sid yawned and stretched, leaning back against the building, closing his eyes. The sun felt good. His body began slowly to drain. Esther was probably right. The boy would do well. The boy would not forget the words to “God Bless America.” No point in worrying about the boy. Worry about Springer. Maybe Springer didn’t like kid actors. A lot of people didn’t like Shirley Temple. What if Springer was one of them? No. You had to like the boy. You just had to. The old bags in the store, they proved that, the way they looked at him. Always looking at him, watching him as he moved. The kid had it with women; no question. In ten years, if his nose didn’t grow, the kid would have his pick of the world. Any broad. Princesses, society bitches, other movie stars; he’d have them all panting. I’ll pick up the pieces, Sid thought, and then he realized he had made a joke, so eyes still closed, he smiled. Any loose ends. Another joke. Sid leaned toward the sun. God, it felt good. I should do this every day, Sid thought. For as long as it’s warm. Good for what ails you. What ails you? Nerves, that was all. A case of nerves could kill you quicker than a case of Scotch. That’s what had ruined his pool game—nerves. From now on I’m gonna play it loose. That was the only way—