Boys and Girls Together: A Novel

by William Goldman

  “It’s hard to be an actress, Jenny. Hard, and not particularly rewarding. Are you talented?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Not really. I’m—”

  “She’s very talented,” Tommy cut in. “She just shouldn’t waste her time here. She won’t be happy.”

  “I’ve got to find out,” Jenny said.

  “You’re always gassing about what a big deal you are,” Mr. Alden said to Stagpole.

  “You’re quite right. I happen to be an enormous deal.”

  “Then why not give the kid a break? Let her find out fast. Give her a part in that four-hundred-grand turkey of yours.”

  Stagpole nodded. “That’s not impossible.”

  Jenny held her breath.

  “Not a part, really,” Stagpole went on. “Just an understudy’s job. And, of course, I couldn’t give you the job myself; that’s the director’s function.

  But I suspect if I strongly urged it, he wouldn’t buck me. Chances are you’d never go on; the show’s not going to run much longer. But we do need an understudy just now, and I would be surprised if it couldn’t be maneuvered. She’s not altogether wrong for the part; to tell the truth, the part’s so dimly written nobody’s wrong for it. Well, Jenny, what do you say? Would you like a job?”

  “You’re all just fooling me; you planned it all before.”

  “Answer the question, Jenny,” Stagpole said.

  “If you did it, then this would be the happiest day of my life.”

  Stagpole turned to Mr. Alden. “Where do you suggest we dine?”

  “What’s wrong with here?”

  “Nothing. Why don’t you and Tom secure us a table? Now would be a good time.” He flicked his hand. “Away.”

  “Look out, he’s gonna play God again,” Mr. Alden said, rising. “Jenny, you got my sympathy. C’mon, Tom.”

  Stagpole watched them go. Then he took out a very long cigarette holder and inserted a very long cigarette. “One of my affectations,” he explained. “One of an infinite number.”

  Jenny smiled.

  “We are talking now of happiest days,” Stagpole said. “Do you know what they are?”

  “Yes,” Jenny said. “They’re—”

  “That was a rhetorical question, Jenny. Now, I have a theory about happiest days, and since you don’t know what they are, I thought I’d enlighten you.”

  Jenny giggled. “You’re funny.”

  Stagpole almost smiled. “The happiest day is that day in the past that you always run back to when the present proves unendurable. Let me give you an example. I was thirty-two. I had been famous for perhaps six months. The day was Sunday. The season, fall. I woke late, without the slightest trace of hangover—unusual; those were my drinking years. And I shaved and bathed and oiled my body and then I dressed. I chose my cashmere blazer. It was still new, but I had worn it at least twice before. And I strolled over to Madison Avenue and I had a late brunch. The food was excellent, wonderfully expensive. I had, I believe, four drinks. Then I walked. Hours of walking. And watching. Windows, faces. Then I made a telephone call. I had been, you see, to a party the night before, and I had met a blonde, a wild, wonderful blonde, and I called, and we made an assignation, and we met, and walked, and drank a bit, and then, then, Jenny, we made love. Not perfectly, not thunderously—no. Adequately only. Adequate was the word for our love-making. Am I embarrassing you?”

  “No,” Jenny said. “Yes. Go on.”

  “Very little more. We drank, dined together, separated; by this time it was late. I went home. I undressed. I went to bed. And almost immediately I knew I was going to sleep. Insomnia is one of my curses, but not that night. And as I drifted off I thought yes. I choose. I choose today. I have chosen. And then I slept.” He lit another cigarette.

  “Oh,” Jenny said. “Well, that’s certainly very interesting.”

  “You don’t think so at all.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “That’s the whole point. That’s why it’s so perfect. You see—and here you must pay attention—we all get to pick our day. But we only get one pick. One time to choose. And the worst thing in the world, Jenny, the saddest thing is to choose the wrong day. You’ve got to pick a day that won’t go bad on you; if you do, you’ll have no place to run.”

  “And that’s sad?”

  “Inexpressibly. That’s why you’ve got to pick an ordinary day. The great ones sour. Your love holds you for the first time in his arms and you think, How perfect, how splendid, but then, when your love isn’t your love anymore, you think only, I let him touch me, how horrid, how vile. This isn’t your day, Jenny. I promise you. You mustn’t take my offer. And if I weren’t quite so cruel, I’d never make it to you.”

  “Oh, you’re not either cruel.”

  “You don’t know about me, Jenny. But I know about you.”

  “What do you know? What did Tommy tell you?”

  “Nothing. But I know. You’re very sweet and not particularly bright and not particularly pretty either. But you’ve got a body that makes men gasp and you hide it, or try to, but you can’t, not really, and I’m embarrassing you again.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re probably a good enough actress, but you don’t want it all that much, and if you don’t accept the job you’ll probably never get another one, but if you do accept you’ll probably stay. Here. In this town where nobody really belongs. And this day, this happiest day, will go bad on you, and you’ll have no place to run. So I beg you, choose some other time. Choose tomorrow; choose next year. But the choice is yours. Make it.”

  “I choose today.”

  “Poor Jenny.”

  XII

  AT THE MIGRAINE’S MERCY, Esther writhed.

  She lay across her bed, her fingers jabbing at her temples, probing for entrance. Suddenly she doubled up like a tumbler, straightened just as fast, her head at the foot of the bed now, her feet kicking at the pillow. Her fingers crawled up her face, paused for a moment at the temple, then scuttled on, finally getting ready to jab again, straight for the eyes this time.

  The boy grabbed her hands.

  “Let go!” Esther cried.

  The boy held on.

  “Rudy!”

  The maid came in with an ice pack.

  Rudy took it, muttered, “Thank you, Mrs. Kenton,” then applied the pack to the base of his mother’s neck.

  At the first touch of cold, Esther cried out again, but soon she began to subside.

  Sid walked in, tying his tie. “You ready?” he said to the boy. “If you want a lift, move.”

  The boy took his mother’s left hand, clamped it against the ice pack. “I’ve got to go, Mother. You try and sleep; you’ll be fine.” He moved quickly to the doorway.

  Esther watched him. He was wearing white tennis shorts and shoes, tee shirt and socks. “Watch out for the girls,” Esther said.

  When he was alone with his wife, Sid said, “I’m late, Tootsie; so long.”

  Esther muttered, “Leave me.”

  “Why do you always come up with a migraine whenever I go anyplace? For the love of Christ, Esther, it’s just for two days.”

  “Who is she this time?” Esther asked.

  “Who is who?”

  “I’m dying and he gives me riddles!”

  Sid retreated a step, tentatively blew her a kiss.

  Esther wiped both sides of her face clean before commencing to moan.

  Sid stood still, waited, said “Esther ...” twice to no response. Then he turned, running down the stairs to the garage. The boy was waiting in the red Cadillac. Scowling, Sid slammed the car door, pushed a button, put the top up, pushed another button, turning on the air-conditioner. For a moment he looked around for more buttons to push, started for the radio with his index finger, changed his mind, dropped his hand. Who needed music? At what it cost, the sound of the air-conditioner was music enough for anybody’s ears.

  Sid hit during the war.

  Black-marketing, naturally,
but what was the matter with that? If he hadn’t done it, then somebody else would, and why should his family starve? Which they were doing, until the day his friend Mannie the druggist ran into the deli frantic with a load of hot nylons. The fact that the cops were on to the shipment fazed Sid less than little: he simply sold the deli, bought the nylons, sold the nylons, split his profits with the boys in blue and was on his way. For six months he dabbled in nylons, enriching both himself and Chicago’s Finest, and then he spread into rubber tires, which he sold at prices so high it was genuinely embarrassing to him, almost. When his tire supply dwindled, he quick-hopped back to his first love, and gladly, because not only were nylons nice and steady, but the broads didn’t flop as much for whitewalls, and one night, flush, he invaded the pool hall to find his touch had returned, and with just a speck of practice he was better than ever, so then he had a parlay going, stockings and a cue stick, and by 1943 he was able to buy his first custom-made suit and give five hundred dollars to the March of Dimes. ‘Forty-four was even better, and in July of that year he opened his own store near the Loop, a hole in the wall, true, but crammed with bitches buying stockings, and he would have made a trillion except the police cut was killing him, so he sold the whole enterprise at a spectacular profit, gave a farewell party at Barney’s for all his friends in the law-enforcement game and retired to his seat at Painter’s, the best pool hall in Chicago, to await the next lightning bolt that he was sure now would come. Of course he was right, for in January he won half interest in an automobile agency by pulling a typical Super Sid finish (Who’s this Gentile Garrison?), sinking thirty-four straight to close out the match, the thirty-fourth being a bank shot that would have given Hoppe trouble. The agency, once the war ended, was worth plenty, half of what Sid sold it for, at which point he moved his family out to the North Shore, Highland Park no less, and went into the business that must have been invented with him alone in mind.

  Insurance.

  Since salesmanship and charm were the twin requirements for success, was it any wonder he proved an instant sensation? Mostly he sold to the rich-bitch suburban ladies, but he also opened up a little territory in Benton Harbor, because there was money there and because it gave him a chance for a day or two away from Esther every so often, not to mention the opportunity of plugging at his leisure some Michigan lovely or other.

  His kid adjusted quickly to all the changes, taking to suburban life, doing well at school, athletics too, tennis especially, at which he was, like at everything else, a natural. Sid would maybe have liked a little more noise from the kid, a little more of the old be-zazz, but even as things were, Sid wasn’t complaining; he understood—it takes all kinds and the kid was just that kind, the quiet kind, except maybe for once (it was cloudy in Sid’s memory), once maybe right after the kid had got the news about the hearing loss and hadn’t adjusted to it yet and he’d yelled at Sid, yelled something, Sid couldn’t really remember, and besides it didn’t matter, because the kid had practically as much as apologized for it later and Sid, big like always, accepted on the spot.

  Esther, however, submerged during Sid’s ascension. Her goddam headaches drove him loony a lot of the time, so he hired a maid who doubled as nurse, a Mrs. Kenton, whom he hated, because she was old and ugly. He had always daydreamed of having someone like Theda Bara or Jean Harlow (lately he would have settled for Rita Hayworth; no one could call him a fussy man) serve him supper, because the thought of sneaking up the back stairs and whipping off a piece appealed to his senses of pleasure and thrift, except sometimes lately, when he daydreamed the excursion, he was thwarted to find his son thrilling the maid on his arrival. The kid was tiny, true, but otherwise great-looking, and it pained Sid to watch the way women watched him. Of course he, Super Sid, had had his share of looks too, when he was young, but now not so many: he was edging into middle age, a painful journey. But aging and Esther were as nothing compared to his third pain, the pain that was assuredly killing him.

  Greentree Country Club.

  The snotty sons of bitches, they turned down his application for membership. He applied again the next year, working overtime, charming the hell out of any members he happened to meet socially. Sid fought like crazy but he knew his chances were less than tepid, so at nights he prayed for a miracle. And when Rudy was offered a summer job working as ball boy at the Greentree Country Club courts, Sid sensed bingo!—at last the omens were all on his side, which was just and fair and good and well deserved, only that, no more.

  “I’m freezing,” Sid said as he drove swiftly toward Greentree Country Club. He jammed his finger against the air-conditioner button, turning it off. “Lousy crooks. I ask for a unit to cool the car, they give me one to cool the Loop. Everybody’s money hungry, kid; you remember that.”

  The boy nodded.

  “Those headaches! God damn those headaches of hers. Let me tell you something about your mother, kid.”

  “Did you say something, Father?” The boy touched his hearing aid. “It went off. I’m sorry.”

  “It always goes off whenever I say something you don’t want to hear, ever notice that?”

  “No; that would be a remarkable coincidence. I’m sure it couldn’t—”

  “She thinks I’m playing around in Benton Harbor. I look, yes. Everybody looks. But I never touch. I swear. She’s trying to kill me with her accusing and her headaches whenever I set foot out the door and—”

  “I’m sorry, Father. It went off again. What were you saying?”

  “Those headaches are just to torture me, Rudy.”

  “She suffers.”

  “Are you saying I don’t? She tells you that while I’m gone, doesn’t she? While I’m gone trying to make enough somehow to pay her goddamn quack-doctor bills she fills you up with poison against me. You think I don’t suffer? I’m a Jew. I bleed.”

  “This instrument.” The boy shook it. “I really must have it looked at someday.”

  Sid sighed.

  “It’s going to be a wonderful day for tennis,” the boy said.

  When he reached Greentree Country Club, Sid took a right, then the first left, following the road down toward the tennis area, stopping at the far end of the bank of courts.

  Rudy said “Thank you” and started to get out.

  Sid grabbed him. He was staring through the fence, pointing at the man and woman hitting on the first court. “Who’re they?”

  “Mr. Winters, the pro, and Mrs. Marks. She takes a lesson almost every morning.”

  “Dolly Marks?”

  Rudy nodded.

  Sid continued to stare. “How’d you like to stick that?” he said.

  “It’s always nice to end on a religious note,” the boy said, and he skipped from the car. Sid stared a moment longer, then turned the car. He drove out of the club, pausing just a moment to look at the “Greentree” sign, until there was a loud honk from behind him. “Screw,” Sid said then, jamming down on the gas, shooting the car onto the highway, narrowly missing a Chevrolet. The Chevy was dirty and several years old, and such was the scorn with which Sid eyed it that, had it feelings, it would have piled itself into the nearest embankment, killing itself on the spot, from sheer chagrin.

  “You two play,” Dolly Marks said, watching as the ball boy walked onto the court. In the distance, an enormous red Cadillac roared away.

  “Had enough?” Mr. Winters asked.

  Dolly nodded. “I’ve got a game in a few minutes.”

  “O.K.,” Mr. Winters said. “Let’s hit a little, Rudy. Before the heat gets me.”

  Dolly said, “You beat him, Rudy.”

  The boy smiled. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Marks.”

  Dolly moved off the court, lowering herself into a lounge chair, crossing her long legs. She was in all ways a splendid-looking creature, supple and sleek, tall, permanently tanned, with legitimately black hair and a stomach as flat now as it had been when she was twenty, twenty years before.

  “Sorry if I’m late, dollbaby,” Fr
an Green said.

  Dolly glanced up. “De nada, widow Green.”

  Fran Green pulled up another lounge chair and stretched out. For a while the two women lay quietly, watching the men play tennis. Then Fran flicked her sunglasses up into her gray-blond hair. “My, what an interesting-looking ball boy.”

  “Don’t harass me today,” Dolly said.

  “Harass? All I did was comment on the appearance of the ball boy. I don’t see how that could be considered—”

  “I mean it, Fran.”

  Fran Green nodded and was silent. Reaching up, she took her sunglasses, twirled them a moment, then rested them on the tip of her nose. “No,” she said finally, “I don’t see it.”

  “Don’t see what?”

  “Oh, nothing—just that my daughter reports that all the girls in high school are very big on this ball boy.”

  “You just never stop, do you?”

  “Rudy Miller, I think she was talking about. That one. There.” She pointed and laughed.

  Dolly Marks said nothing.

  “They’re maaaaaad for him, so I’m told.”

  Dolly Marks examined her fingernails.

  “Have you?” Fran asked.

  “Have I what?”

  “Initiated proceedings with the subject under discussion.”

  Dolly sighed.

  “I know, dollbaby; you’re gonna start something, I know all the signs, but I’m warning you, you wait much longer I might just take the play away from you. What do you think my chances might be with the ball boy?”

  “You’re too fat to be a cradle robber.”

  “Merci.”

  “Ask a question, get an answer. Gimme a cigarette.”

  “Why do you smoke? You don’t inhale.”

  “Same reason I cheat on my husband: gives me something to do with my hands.” Dolly grabbed the cigarette from Fran. “I hate hearing old women mooning over infants. How old is he? Eighteen? Seventeen? Well, you’re forty and so’m I. I’m forty and my husband’s fifty-five and there’s no law against that, but when we’re alone he acts like he’s a tired seventy, and that’s all right too, except whenever we’re in public he goes around playing like a Yale freshman and he married me because I was pretty and I married him because he had loot and in this world you get what you pay for and forget what I’m saying, I must have gotten up out of the wrong bed this morning; let’s play tennis.”