Boys and Girls Together: A Novel

by William Goldman

  “One of us is.”

  “I’m really happy, Charley.”

  “Good.”

  “This is really fun.”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t you glad I talked you into it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then quit looking around.”

  “I wasn’t looking around.”

  “Your head was turning and your eyes were open. I call that looking around.”

  “I’m sorry. I keep trying to think of this like you told me to—an acting exercise—but—”

  “You’ll get better with practice. And stop being silly about this. I mean, what are the odds against your running into someone you know? Enormous. At least.”

  “What are we doing, Jenny? Have you any idea?”

  “You mean now?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “I shouldn’t have let you talk me into this.”

  “What are you getting angry about?”

  “Nothing. Nothing.” Charley took a deep breath. “I’m sorry—for the eight hundred and forty-fifth time.”

  “I’m big on forgiveness.”

  “I care for you, Jenny.” He paused. Then he added, “God damn it.”

  “Miss Devers is touched, she thinks.”

  The lights got lower; the movie began.

  “Dark enough for you?”

  “Where’s the cartoon?”

  “This is an East Side art house; are you mad?”

  “In Princeton we get a cartoon.”

  “Very academic town, Princeton.”

  A couple sat down across the aisle from them.

  Charley froze.

  “What—” Jenny began.

  “I know them,” Charley whispered.

  “You can’t.”

  “They’re the Hagners. He teaches at the university; she’s a friend of Betty Jane’s. They live down the road, so—”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You want me to go over and introduce—”

  “I just want you to be absolutely—”

  “Now you lower your voice,” Charley snapped.

  “I was whispering.”

  “What were those odds you were talking about? How high were they?”

  “I’m sorry.” Jenny got up and moved back two rows. “God forbid you should be seen with someone like me.”

  Charley sat very still.

  The couple across the aisle stood, looked at him, moved two rows closer front.

  Charley watched them go.

  Jenny stared at the silver screen.

  Charley turned toward her. “Jenny?”

  She looked at him.

  “It wasn’t who I thought.”

  She nodded.

  “I thought it was but it wasn’t.”

  She nodded.

  “Shut up,” a nasal voice from behind them said.

  Charley faced front.

  Jenny’s head began to shake.

  “Come back?” Charley asked, turning to face her.

  Jenny’s head continued to shake from side to side.

  “Are you still mad?”

  Jenny shook her head.

  “What is it, then? How do you feel?”

  “Negroid,” Jenny said.

  “I’m gonna call the usher,” the nasal voice said.

  Charley faced front.

  When he looked back again, Jenny was gone.

  “I’m packing now,” Charley said. “I no sooner started than you called.” He tucked the receiver between his chin and shoulder and continued folding a shirt.

  Betty Jane said, “What did you see last night?”

  “Some Alec Guinness picture.” He sat down on the bed, gazed out the window at the setting sun.

  “Any good?”

  “I can’t remember it today, so I guess it wasn’t.”

  “Remember now: bring your swimming trunks and your tennis shorts. You’re always forgetting one or the other.”

  “Nag.”

  “We’re all so excited you’re coming.”

  “I’ll leave straight from work tomorrow. I’ll catch the four-o’clock. Meet it?”

  “If you’ll blow me a kiss.”

  “Ye gods—”

  “Well, it’s not as if I asked you in public. You are alone, aren’t you, Charley?”

  “Aye.” He blew her a kiss.

  “You should hear my heart,” Betty Jane said. “This has been very good, this separation. I feel I’ll be better able to endure you now.”

  “Well, aren’t you feeling frisky.”

  “I ought to. My husband’s coming tomorrow. On the four-o’clock train. Goodbye, husband.”

  Charley hung up. He stood, folded his shirt, then tossed it into his suitcase and left the bedroom, walking downstairs to the screen porch. He sat stiffly down, staring out at the sloping lawn and, beyond it, Carnegie Lake. At the bottom of the lawn was a man-made waterfall. Charley listened to it rumble. He closed his eyes. The rumble grew. He touched his fingertips to his closed eyes and rubbed and rubbed. When the phone rang again he sighed and stood and went inside and answered, saying “Where have you been?” as soon as he heard Jenny’s “Hello.”

  “Here and there. Around and about. Hither and yon.”

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of you since last night.”

  She made her voice very English. “I stayed with an acquaintance—a fellow thespian.”

  “You could have at least called in at work today; let me know you were all right.”

  “Who said I was all right? We’ve got to talk, Charley.”

  “When? You know I’ve got to go to Long Island tomorrow.”

  “How about now? I could come out to Princeton.”

  “Gee; that’s a swell idea.”

  “We might be seen; is that it?”

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “Same old song. Goodbye, Charley.”

  He hung up, shook his head, smiled, stepped to a small mirror and put his fist through it. A moment later there was blood on his big hand. He stared at it, licked the cuts, then held his hand high over his head until the blood dried. He went to the kitchen, got a broom, swept up the splintered mess. His hand was swelling slightly. He made a loose fist, tightened it until he winced. Then he went upstairs to the bathroom and soaked his hand in cool water. After that, he came back downstairs to the porch and was in the act of sitting when Jenny said, “What happened to your hand?”

  “Son of a bitch,” Charley said.

  Jenny hurried on. “Pretty here—view of the waterfall. There’s a gas station a little ways back. That’s where I called from. What happened to your hand?”

  “I cut it.” He sat very still, eyes closed.

  “Oh. That accounts for the blood.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Don’t say what?”

  “ ‘How could you come?’ ‘What are you doing here?’ Any of those. The point is, I came.”

  “That’s the point, all right.”

  “Rest easy: no one saw me. I took the bus to New Brunswick and taxied from there. I got off two houses down. Clever?”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Son of a bitch,” Jenny said.

  “Excuse me,” Charley said. He got up and moved to the front door. “Who is it?”

  “Me, Charley. Mac Clendennon.”

  Charley opened the door. “Hi, Mac.”

  Clendennon gestured across the street to his house. “Milady said you was taking off. Want me to look after anything?”

  “I’m just going the weekend.”

  Clendennon shook his head and gestured again. “Milady got things a little screwy. She thought you was gonna be gone a while.”

  “No—just the weekend.”

  Clendennon shook his head again. “My wife has this thing about being neighborly. Sorry, Charley.”

  “ ’S all right. Thanks, Mac.” See ya.

&nb
sp; Charley watched the other man walk across the street. Then he closed the door, locked it and returned to the porch.

  “I think I was just explaining how clever I was,” Jenny said.

  He made no reply.

  She went right on. “This chat. My reasons for having it. Some things have happened. For example, I’m changing roles. From Whore—”

  “Dammit, Jenny—”

  “Whore to Other Woman. See, we’re changing pastimes. Fun in Bed is over. From now on, Divorce is the name of the game.”

  Charley nodded.

  “What does that nod mean?”

  “That I heard you.”

  “Well, hear this: Last night, after fleeing the cinema, I decided to stretch my giant brain. I tried figuring, since I’m an actress, how I’d play me. And what I found was I couldn’t, not really well, because I’m inconsistent. Look at it this way. Here I am, in love with you and wanting to marry you, except all I do is lie there flat on my back in bed and get used. Now I know that there are a lot of things a girl can get by lying flat on her back in bed, but a husband isn’t one of them. So if I want you for a husband, why am I acting in the best possible way not to get you? Answer? There isn’t one. I’m inconsistent. That’s when I decided to change roles.”

  “I liked you the way you were.”

  “Enough to marry me? Don’t answer; let me. Because you’d answer ‘No,’ but you’d be wrong. The correct reply is ‘Not yet.’ I’m gambling you’ll switch. In time. And in order to hurry that time I am going to summon up all the little bitchy wiles of the Other Woman, but subtly. My life is dedicated to making you choose me, so look out!” She started into the living room.

  “Where are you going?” He hesitated a moment, then followed her.

  “Do you remember once telling me about your father? About how he didn’t have any favorite things. Is she like that?”

  “Make sense.”

  “Well, this nice green chair, for instance. Does she always take it?” Jenny sat down. “How does it look with me in it?”

  “Like a chair.”

  “Don’t you know why I came here? To her home grounds? I had to check the competition, Charley; you know—take in the talent in the room.” She stood and hurried upstairs, turning into the nearest bedroom. “Robby’s?”

  Charley nodded. “Quit this.”

  “It bothers you? Me in your son’s room?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Liar.” She hurried out and down the hall into the master bedroom. “Packing?”

  “That’s right.”

  Jenny opened a closet door, grabbed a dress, held it against her body. “Tiny,” she said. “On me, anyway. But then, I’m such a horse.” She gestured to a picture of Betty Jane on Charley’s bureau. “God, she’s pretty. Pretty and petite. I could kill her.”

  Charley said nothing.

  Jenny started to laugh.

  “The joke?”

  “The joke is that I can’t remember a time when we’ve disliked each other more than we do now. And what’s the subject under discussion? Why, divorce, naturally. That’s funny, Charley. Think about it. I’m furious with you for last night; you’re furious with me for coming here. Well, I’m sick of me for coming here and I’ll bet you’re a little angry at yourself for last night. We make a pretty cold quartet, you and I.” She dabbed some of Betty Jane’s perfume behind her ears and stood next to Charley. “Like it?”

  “Let’s go downstairs, shall we?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  Jenny gestured toward the bed. “It’s sleepytime down south.” She lifted the suitcase, set it on a chair. “Who gets to undress who?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning no.”

  “I told you, I’ve got to take in the talent in the room. Betty Jane’s welcome to my sofa bed. Anytime.”

  “And I told you no.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t think either of us would enjoy it.”

  “Who said anything about enjoying it?” She switched out the light, undressed, walked straight into his arms, slammed her body up against his. He grabbed her, kneaded her body with his great hands. She guided them toward the bed. They tumbled down on top, rolling around, his hands raiding her flesh until she screamed “You’re hurting me!”

  “Good.”

  “I could hurt you—bite you—”

  “Do it.”

  “No, you’d like that, because then she’d see—she’d make the choice, not you. I’ll never mark you till you’re mine. So hurt me now—I don’t care—hurt me all you want to.”

  Charley did as he was told.

  At four the next morning he drove her to New Brunswick. She insisted on lying on the floor of the back seat. All the time he drove she giggled. When they reached the outskirts of New Brunswick, he started laughing too. He let her off and waved goodbye and went back home, making excellent time, considering how long he wasted parking by the side of the road when he was weeping too hard to see to drive.

  Charley and Rudy Miller walked through the hot ghetto, skirting swirls of Puerto Ricans, eddies of Jews. Down Rivington Street they went, the late-afternoon sun still visible over the old tenements. Close ahead of them lay the babble of Orchard Street. They turned into the sound. “Yes, I’m happy,” Charley said. “Believe me, it’s the truth. Listen: there’s a reason people have affairs. And the reason is because it’s not unenjoyable. Jenny’s a great girl. She loves me. I’m really happy. I know what I’m doing and I’m fine.”

  “Bullshit,” Rudy said.

  Charley made no reply.

  “I’m fresh out!”

  “Out of what?”

  Rudy raised his arms high and wide and shouted “Instant Pity!” into the air. Then he stopped in front of a pickle stand and held up two fingers.

  “Have a whole jar,” the pickle lady said. “Special today. Forty cents.”

  “Two pickles and no lip or I take my business to Levy three stands down.”

  “It’s not good for Jews to be tightwads,” the pickle lady said. “Gives the religion a bad name.”

  “Levy wins me,” Rudy said, and he waved a brisk goodbye. “Oh, Charles, if I could manufacture enough Instant Pity I could likely save the world, but it’s hard to come by and I had this little bit left only, and as I was walking to the subway stop to meet you this ancient, wretched, leprous cripple hobbled up to me and said, ‘Help me, help me, my wife has cancer, my daughter leukemia, my son just ran off with a shiksa, my mother heard the news and went insane and the shock of that killed my father on the spot and on top of everything else my piles are acting up.’ Could there be a sadder story, Charles? I doubt it, but I didn’t weep. I just whipped out my last smidgen of Instant Pity and I gave it to him and said, ‘Take this, just add air,’ and he downed it, and do you know that inside five seconds not only was he chipper but his piles were gone.”

  Charley smiled. “Remarkable.”

  “If only I’d known I would have saved it. If I had it to give you, you’d love me. ‘That Rudy,’ you’d think. ‘Such heart. Such infinite understanding.’ But alas, I fail you, Charles. You’ll have to bleed alone. What are you having an affair for, fool?”

  “I love her.”

  “Of course you do, you have to. But have you told her?”

  “No.”

  “That would mean subsequent action, yes? You love her, you get divorced. So you can’t tell her. Oh, Charles, I have had, believe thee me, affairs, and I know. Hello, Levy.”

  The pickle man nodded.

  “This is my friend Charles Fiske, the famous Gentile. He wants a Levy pickle. I have told him that Levy is the king of cucumbers. Don’t disappoint him.”

  “I saw you,” Levy said. “Talking with my competition. You held up two fingers.”

  “Meaning two centuries,” Rudy explained. “I told her that’s how long it would take her to match your product. Two hundred years to be your equ
al, so give my friend a garlic pickle, crisp and sharp. And one for me, while you’re at it.”

  Levy ducked his old hands into the nearest barrel.

  “Thief!” Rudy cried. “Those are your soft pickles. Your old, soft, wrinkled, inferior—”

  Levy sighed and reached into a different barrel.

  Rudy took the pickles, paid for them and handed one to Charley. “Bite.”

  Charley bit. Then he nodded and made a smile.

  “Hardly an ecstatic response,” Rudy said to Levy. “But what can you expect from a Gentile?” They started walking again, down the loud street. “What we’re not supposed to talk about today is what we’re feeling; am I correct, Charles?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Rudy nodded. “When you suggested a walk down Orchard Street and then told me of your high jinks—Orchard Street is hardly the place to bare the soul. What do you want from me, Charles?”

  “Cover.”

  “Explain.”

  “If you hear from Betty Jane, and she happens to ask did you happen to see me at some particular time, if she wonders were we together—”

  “The answer is always yes?”

  “The answer is always yes.”

  “I like her. Why should I lie?”

  “No reason.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “I’ve tried not to do much thinking lately.”

  “Well, when you were thinking, why did you marry her?”

  “Why?”

  Rudy stopped in front of a clothing cart and fingered a shirt. “Stein,” he said.

  Stein nodded.

  “You have the finest taste on Orchard Street, you know that? Stein, if I had a million in solid gold I would still buy my clothes from you.”

  “You’d be a fool,” Stein said.

  “But a fool with impeccable taste,” Rudy said, dropping the shirt, walking again.

  “There’s a look,” Charley said. “A look—I don’t mean just a face; I mean a whole kind of look—if you’re who I am—”

  “Who you were—”

  “Right. Who I was. If you’re who I was—what the hell, Betty Jane looked like my wife. When I first saw her, I can still remember sort of nodding, almost in recognition.”

  “Some Enchanted Evening,” Rudy said.

  Charley ignored him, hurrying on. “I had just turned down many millions and my prospects weren’t all that limitless and I saw this girl ...”