Boys and Girls Together: A Novel

by William Goldman

  “What about?” Charley said.

  “Last night. I shoulda come down with you. Or talked to you more. But you came in so suddenlike it scared me.”

  When the boy was gone, Charley swelled his chest. Better and better, he thought; it’s not every father who scares his son.

  “Gooooooood morning, Miss Devers,” he said later that morning. “You’re very chipper today, Mr. Fiske.” She shut the office door and leaned against it.

  “I’ve got this funny joke to tell you is why. I didn’t tell my wife about divorcing her last night because—and get this now—because she was sitting up with a sick friend.” Charley laughed and laughed.

  Jenny watched him.

  “You’re not laughing. Where’s your sense of humor gone to?”

  Jenny shrugged.

  “Wait till you tell me a joke; see if I laugh.”

  “Fine.”

  “You can’t be mad at me because my wife takes it into her head not to come home. Fair is fair.”

  “That’s right.” Jenny nodded. “What did you do?”

  “When?”

  “When you found out she wasn’t coming home.”

  “Had the sitter cook me a steak and then went to sleep.”

  “I couldn’t sleep. The last time I looked at the clock it was after three.”

  “You gotta stay loose, kid. Listen to old Charley, he knows. I tell you, there’s a plot on to keep me from telling.”

  “If you don’t tell her tonight, I’ll tell her tomorrow.”

  “Set it to music and we’ll dance to it.”

  “If only I were kidding,” Jenny said.

  Charley flapped his arms. “Loose as a goose.”

  When he got home that night Charley found his wife in bed sick.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, sitting down beside her.

  “Nothing. I’ll be up in a sec.”

  “Like hell you will. Robby said you were sick. What is it?”

  “I know better, I do, but I skipped lunch because I was making this little nightie for Paula and then, well, it was hot this afternoon, and I shouldn’t have tried painting the porch steps. I just got tired.”

  “Are you trying to hurt yourself?”

  “I said I knew better.”

  “You work too hard.”

  “My home and my family; what else have I got?”

  “What else has any of us?” Charley wanted to know.

  The next morning Jenny said, “Well?”

  “Close the door,” Charley told her. “I wanna talk.”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “Close the door and sit down.”

  “Did you tell—”

  “I said sill.”

  Jenny sat. “Answer my question.”

  “All in due time.”

  “Did you tell her or not?”

  “I’m a little sick of the way you’ve been acting,” Charley said.

  “You’re sick of the way I’ve—funny, funny.”

  “That’s your last bitch remark of the morning.”

  “Charley—”

  “My instructions to you are: shut the hell up.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I am fine.”

  “Sleep?”

  “Sleep is an overrated commodity. I slept wonderfully. I have been, for the last days, sleeping wonderfully. I want to talk about shirts.”

  “Shirts?”

  “Look.” Charley took off his cord topcoat. “See this?” He fingered his: shirt. “It is a white Oxford-cloth, button-down shirt and it comes from the Brothers Brooks. Eye it. Tell me what you see.”

  “It’s a shirt.”

  “Pay attention. It is not a shirt; it is a very particular shirt and what is particular about it is that Mr. Myles has done his job to perfection. If you were to look inside this collar you would see a message imprinted: ‘No starch.’ When I first moved to Princeton—that is years ago now—I found that what laundrymen delighted most of all in doing was ignoring messages on shirt collars. My shirts came back starched, and I would explain that to the laundryman—I’m very particular about my shirts—and he would say that it wouldn’t happen again and then a week later back they’d come, starched as hell. This went on and on and then finally, one day, I went to Mr. Myles’ laundry and the next week, when I picked them up, there was no starch whatsoever in the shirts!”

  “Did you tell her?” Jenny said. “That’s all I want to know.”

  “For a moment, as I fingered the soft collar, I felt absolutely triumphant. I had found my laundryman! The quest was over. But then—then—” Charley shook his head sadly—“I realized my job was not nearly over. The ironing was atrocious. So I set to work. Every Saturday morning, when I went uptown to get my shirts, I would have a little chat with Mr. Myles. One week we would talk about the sleeve board, another the steam iron. We talked and talked and he was a willing man. But it still took months. Then, one Saturday in November—beautiful day, perfect; there was a game in Palmer Stadium, I remember, I heard the cheers—I went in to pick up my shirts and Mr. Myles handed them to me and they were on a hanger, Jenny, and the sleeves had been ironed with a sleeve board and they hung so clean and straight you almost had to weep. And Mr. Myles handed them to me and they were on a hanger, Jenny, and on the way back I heard the cheers again—”

  “Did you tell her?”

  “And I started cheering too: Rah, rah, rah-rah-rah—”

  “Don’t shout, for God’s—”

  “Rah, rah, rah-rah-rah, rah-rah-rah-rah-ray, Myles. And from that day to this, as the storytellers say, I have gone in every Saturday and I pick up my shirts and he hands them to me, hanging straight and clean on hangers, and he says, ‘Well, Mr. Fiske?’ and I say ‘Perfect, Mr. Myles’; and it’s not so easy as you think, getting a divorce, because it’s not hurting your kids or the gossip or the alimony or moving in town to some crummy apartment or the lawyer’s bills or anything else. It’s leaving my laundry-man that’s going to break my heart.”

  Jenny picked up the phone and said, “Princeton, New Jersey, please.”

  “Don’t do it,” Charley said.

  “The number is Walnut 4-3878.”

  “I’m telling you. Just don’t. Hang up the goddam—”

  “Yes, it’s a business call.

  “Jenny—”

  “It’s too late.”

  “You won’t do it. You’re bluff—”

  “Don’t you know me at all?”

  “Give me the damn phone.” He reached out for it.

  She grabbed it with both hands. “Hello, Mrs. Fiske? This is Jenny at the office.”

  “Give me the goddam—”

  “There something I have to tell you about Charley.”

  Charley wrenched the phone away. “I’ll tell her!”

  “He’ll tell you!” Jenny shouted.

  “It’s nothing, honey—just that I feel a little rocky—”

  “He’ll be right home,” Jenny shouted. “To tell you!”

  “Jenny’s such a worrier. I’ll be right home. Yes. Goodbye, honey.”

  Jenny started him toward the door. “Love, here is your hat,” she said.

  * * *

  At half past three the call came. Jenny picked up her phone and said “Yes?”

  “The bloody deed is done.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Hideously.”

  “Charley?” Jenny said. But he was gone.

  She sat at her desk for a long time before getting up and clutching her purse and hurrying to the elevators. She went down to the lobby and got a lot of change and went into a telephone booth. Then she called him back. He did not sound pleased to hear her. “How could you have called?”

  “I had to talk to you,” Jenny said.

  “There’s no limit to what you have to do, is there? Isn’t it enough she knows? What if she’d answered the phone? Did you have to gloat that much?”

  “Charley—”

  “I don’
t want to talk to you.”

  “I’m sorry about this.”

  “Like hell you’re sorry! You’re so glad you had to call to gloat—”

  “I’m not, I’m not. Please—”

  “I told you I wanted to wait till the time was ripe. But no. No, sir. Old Jenny, she wants blood—”

  “Charley, please listen. It had to happen sometime, remember that. No matter when you’d told her it would have been hard for her, but I love you, I do, please, I love you so much, I’ll make you happy, don’t take this tone with me, please don’t talk to me this—”

  “You’re a great actress, you know that?”

  “All I want is for you to love me.”

  “What you want is for everybody to lose. You got what you want now. Goodbye, Jenny.”

  “Charley?” Jenny said.

  But he was gone again.

  The next morning Archie Wesker said, “Hey, lemme see, lemme see.” Jenny flushed.

  Archie took her hand, led her to her feet. “Turn around. Turn around. That’s got to be a new dress.” Jenny nodded. “What the occasion?”

  “I just felt like it.”

  “Wait’ll Charley sees you. I wish you were my secretary.” Jenny sat back down.

  “Just wait till old Charley catches a glimpse.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “Sure thing, baby,” Archie said. And then he smiled at her.

  “I’ve got a lot to do, Archie.”

  “Sure, baby.” Archie kept on smiling.

  “I mean it, Archie.”

  “Busy little bee,” Archie said. Then he turned and walked away.

  When Charley phoned in she said, “Guess what,” the finish of which would have been “I’m wearing,” because it was a new dress, as Archie had surmised, a very expensive new dress, pale-blue silk, bought the previous afternoon from Lord & Taylor for much too much money.

  But Charley wouldn’t let her end it. “I won’t be in today.”

  “Why not?”

  “Think why not. I can’t leave her today, not in her condition, that’s why not, goodbye, why not.”

  Jenny put her head in her hands. “Hotcha,” she said.

  Charley paced around the blue walls. “What she wants is time.”

  “Time?” Jenny watched him move.

  Charley nodded.

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “She loves me. More than I cared to think. And at first, when I told her, all she did was shake her head. Then she started making sounds.” He slammed a fist into a palm. “I don’t have to explain all the details, do I?”

  “No. No.”

  “Anyway, she didn’t think she could make it. She thought she’d crack.”

  “She’ll be fine.”

  “I told her that. It was a helluva job, convincing her, but I think I’ve got her set along those lines now. She’s just afraid she’ll come apart. I don’t blame her. She just wants some time before anything definite is done.”

  “She’ll give you the divorce, though.”

  “She’ll give me anything I want. She loves me. She just wants to cut things gradually. She doesn’t want anything to change for a while.”

  “Meaning you’ll live together still?”

  “We’ll share the same house, yes. She thought she might start spending more time out with her mother. Gradually, you understand. She thinks things will work out better. But you’re the one that’s pushing this. If you want a split now, say so. If she cracks—God, you should have heard the way she said that word—‘Crack! Crack!’ ”

  “What did she say about me?”

  “About you?” Charley paced a little more. “Nothing much.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It wasn’t nasty.”

  “What did she say?”

  “I told her I was in love with somebody else. She said ‘Jenny?’ Right off. Just like that.”

  “She knew?”

  Charley shook his head. “Maybe subconsciously. Then after she said your name she said, ‘I can’t even hate her.’ She admires you, it turns out.”

  “I’ve only met her a couple of times.”

  “I can’t help that.”

  “What about the children?”

  “She’ll be fair as long as I am.”

  “Meaning don’t push her?”

  “I guess so. Do you blame her?”

  “No,” Jenny said. She gave Charley a kiss. “How can I blame someone for loving you?”

  “I’m a real catch,” Charley said.

  Jenny smiled.

  “Anyway, I told her.”

  “That’s the important thing. She can have her time. I don’t care, not anymore. I can wait a little now.”

  That was on the thirtieth of June.

  On the eleventh of July, Jenny said, “How long is a little?”

  Charley, not listening, said “Huh?”

  Jenny decided not to repeat her question.

  On the twentieth of July she changed her mind. “How long is a little?”

  “I wish I knew,” Charley answered.

  Then one or the other of them changed the subject.

  “Are you sure you trust her?” Jenny asked on the twenty-seventh of July.

  “Betty Jane? Why?”

  “Well, how do we know she’s not trying to win you back or something?”

  “She’s doing a lousy job if she is.”

  “Are you sure, though?”

  “Last night she said she wasn’t sure she loved me anymore.” Jenny nodded. “But are you sure you trust her? was the question.”

  “Charley?” Jenny began on the first of August.

  “She’s much better,” Charley replied. “We talked about it without emotion. She’s thinking of the future. I tell you, I couldn’t be more pleased. She may take the family back to Long Island to live. Great for the kids out there. Not that close to town, either. She wouldn’t be calling in every other day. I tell you, it’s only a matter of time.”

  “That’s all it’s ever been,” Jenny said.

  On the eighteenth of August Jenny said, “I hate to bring up an unpleasant sub—”

  “You think I’m enjoying myself? Do ya? You think it’s funny walking around that house with a woman that’s your wife but isn’t anymore? You think it’s fun looking at the kids and thinking what they don’t know? You think I enjoy all the lousy sneaking around we have to do? Goddammit—”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “All right. Forget it.”

  “It can’t be this hard for everybody to get married,” Jenny said.

  On the twenty-second of August Jenny looked across the room to Charley, who was sitting on her bed beside the blue walls.

  Before her mouth was open he cried, “Quit nagging!”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You had that look—you were going to.”

  Quick tears came to Jenny’s eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “I was.” She ran across to him and gave him her body.

  He was altogether merciless in his acceptance.

  On the fifth of September Jenny said, “I just don’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “How much endurance remains.”

  “It’s so close now,” Charley said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Didn’t I just say so?”

  “Don’t you just say a lot of things?”

  “Why do you want to fight?”

  “I don’t want to fight.”

  “Then why are we fighting?”

  “Maybe it’s because we’re good at it,” Jenny said.

  On the tenth of September Charley said, “I think she’s going to threaten me with the children.”

  “What?”

  “This morning she said, ‘After we’re divorced, I think it might be best if you stayed away from the children.’ ”

  “Do you think she means it?”

  “I don’t know her all that well anymore.”

  “I told you
months ago not to trust her.”

  Charley nodded.

  “She’s desperate. When you’re desperate you’ll do anything.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Charley said.

  “She wants to go to a psychiatrist?” Jenny said on the twenty-fifth of September. “Oh, come on.” She kicked at the blue walls.

  “That’s what she says. She’s already made an appointment.”

  “I thought she was getting so strong and everything.”

  “So did I. Now she says she wants help.”

  “That takes years.”

  “I’m well aware—”

  “I cannot stand this another goddam minute!”

  “You’re shouting.”

  “Don’t say one word to me, buster. I was on to her from the word go. I had her number, yes, I did, you bet I did, but you said, ‘Oh, no, she’s coming along fine, just fine’; and now—”

  “I was wrong. I admit it.”

  “A fat goddam lot of good that does.”

  “I love it when you swear.”

  “Charley, we’ve got to do something.”

  “I’m going to.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll go to see her psychiatrist and find out.”

  “Find out what?”

  “If she’s lying or not. He’ll tell me that much, when I explain the situation to him. If he thinks she’s genuinely unstable, that’s one thing, but if he thinks she might be faking or be strong enough to take it, I’ll move out the next day.”

  “I know she’s faking and so do you.”

  “And so will the psychiatrist.”

  “Then why not move out now?”

  “You know she makes me feel guilty—she’s good at that. Well, what if that one chance in a thousand were true? What if she really would crack? You’d be racked about it and so would I. Actually it’s a break, her making an appointment to see a psychiatrist. At least now we’ll know.”

  “That bitch—she’s liable to turn out crazy just for spite.”

  “Don’t even think that,” Charley said.

  At lunch hour, on the twenty-seventh of September, as she was hurrying to have lifts put on her heels, it crossed Jenny’s mind that Charley was nothing but a liar, that he had never mentioned to his wife the subject of divorce, that the entire psychiatrist business was simply the latest shovelful in a great pile of bilge, and that she, Jenny, was not one of History’s brighter creatures.