Tony found it very hard to pay attention.
When their taxi reached her building, she thanked Branch and hurried inside, waiting impatiently for the elevator, jabbing her thumb at the call button again and again. She rode up to her apartment in silence, unlocked the door, went to the bedroom, fell on the bed. She undressed lying flat, kicking her clothes to all sides. Then she went into the bathroom, turned on the tub, poured in a double portion of bubble bath. She went, to the kitchen, poured a double portion of Grand Marnier, went back to the bathroom, got in the tub. “Damn,” she said, scrambling out, running wet and naked to the magazine rack in the living room, grabbing The Reporter, putting it back, taking Vogue instead, dashing back into the tub, lying down, saying “Ahhhhh” half a dozen times unconvincingly. She snapped her fingers then, said “Ronnie Lewin” and dashed out of the tub again, clutching a towel around her, running to her bed phone, picking up the address book. “Lewin, Lewin, Lewin,” she said, turning pages. “Yes,” she said, spreading the book before her, starting to dial. “No!” she said when the number began to ring. She slammed the phone down. “It doesn’t matter!” Her voice was very loud in the quiet apartment. She looked down at the puddle on the floor, dropped the towel, dried the puddle by moving the towel with her feet, then picked it up between her toes, grabbed it, and carried it back into the bathroom. She sat down in the tub for the third time, opened Vogue, stared at a few of the models. “You’re not fooling me—you’re all boys in drag,” Tony said, and she pitched the magazine onto the floor.
Humming, she bathed and shaved her legs and played catch with the handfuls of bubbles, and then she undid the stopper with her toes and stood up, looked around and said “Moron,” because she had used the only towel to dry the puddle and that meant she had to run out naked again, this time to the linen closet, grabbing a fresh towel, commencing to rub her body. When she was dry, she walked to the telephone again, picked it up, checked Ronnie Lewin’s number just to make sure she had it right, said it out loud, “Yukon 8-5737” and hung up the phone. Tony trekked back to the bathroom singing, “Here she is, Miss America, here she is, your ideal ...” She put on a perfumed body lotion, covered it with talcum. Then she spread cleansing cream all over her face, took it off with a tissue, put on an astringent with a cotton ball, covered that with a night cream because her skin was getting dry, and set to work on her hair. She fumbled with curler after curler, finally getting them as right as she ever would, grabbed her fluffy blue night cap, spread it over the works and flicked out the bathroom light. She dialed for the correct time, got it, moved her alarm clock ahead two minutes, set the alarm for half past seven so she could reset it again for eight when half past seven came, pulled off her bedspread, folded it neatly, dropped it on the floor and fell into bed. She fluffed the pillow, put the cooler side up, lay gently down into it, adjusted the sheet over her and closed her eyes. She yawned and stretched and yawned again. Then she said “Who are you kidding?” and called Ronnie Lewin on the phone. “Ronnie ... ? Hi, it’s me. ... Me, silly—Tony Last. Hi. Here’s the thing, Ron. ... No, I couldn’t wait until tomorrow at the office, and I’ll tell you why if you just h-u-s-h—because I’m in an absolute frenzy of rage ... You’re from St. Louis, aren’t you? ... I sort of remembered that. ... So listen, Ron ... Ron, you may not have my body—lissssss-on. I was out with some old bag couple from St. Louis tonight. ... Their names don’t really matter, Ron. ... Herman or Franklin something—I can’t remember hers at all—but what they did was what every hick from out of town does, they knock New York. ... Ron, if I could remember their names I wouldn’t tell you—what if you knew them or something, huh? ... So anyway, I got in this argument with this old-bag lady, who said everything about New York was stinko. ... I don’t know why I did it, Ron, I just did it, and she started with the stores—you know, I mean, New York’s world famous for its stores—and this fink lady from St. Louis kept saying Bergdorf’s stunk and ... of course I hate Macy’s, Ron—how everyone who’s ever shopped at Macy’s hates it—the point is I couldn’t back down and let this harpie think she was right. ... Ron, their names are of absolutely no importance will you just listen I told you I was in a frenzy ... You needn’t apologize, Ron, just fermez the old bouche and we’ll get along fine. ... The reason I’m pausing is because I’m embarrassed, Ron, because we finally got into an argument, this harridan and yours truly, a real screamer, and I’m embarrassed to tell you what we argued about. Ready? Don’t laugh now. Discount houses. ... I mean it, we argued about discount houses—me defending Korvette’s, can you picture it? ... But she really got to me, gassing on about some store in St. Louis, Kirkahead’s, and ... What, Ron? ... Kirkaby’s? Well, same difference, who cares, the point is, she swore it was not only better than Korvette’s, but bigger too, and I said she was out of her trick head and I thought you being from St. Louis ... I mean, I just had to be proved right or I knew I’d never sleep tonight. ... It is a big chain? ... Really big, Ron? Well, what do you know; not as big as Korvette’s, though, right? In other words, Ron, what you’re saying is that there is a big chain of stores in St. Louis named Kirkaby’s but that it doesn’t compare in size to Korvette’s, so that in actuality this woman was full of it just like I thought. ... Thanks, Ron, it’s always nice to be proved right. ... I tell you, I feel like a real nut, calling you this way. ... You’re a good brownie, Ron, night-night.”
Tony went into the bathroom for her Grand Marnier glass, emptied it, went to the kitchen and filled it again. She carried it to bed and sipped it, staring at the darkness. In time, the glass was empty. Tony felt languid. She set the glass down and fluffed her pillow. She lay very still. With what energy remained to her she said, “It means nothing!” again, louder than before.
That night she dreamt of diamonds.
Walt neither dreamt nor slept.
By one in the morning he had the play read and, stopping only to heat a cup of consommé he started all over again, Act One, Scene One, taking notes this time, jotting down things in the margin. This was a slower reading, and it was almost five o’clock before he finally put the manuscript down. He turned off the lights and lay quiet for a moment before switching the lights back on. Sleep was out of the question, because maybe it wasn’t a brilliant play; maybe it wasn’t even good.
But, goddammit, I can make it work!
I can, I think. I think I can I think lean I thinkIcan IthinkIcanI thinkIcan.
“I got a play!” Walt shouted.
Madonna with Child, directed by Walt Kirkaby. Directed by E. Walters Kirkaby. Directed by Egbert Walters Kirkaby. Directed by Egbert Goddam Walters Kirkaby. Directed by Me.
“Me-me-me-me-me,” Walt sang. “Do-re-me-fah-me-me-me-me-me-me!” He looked at his watch. Five-ten. What were the odds on old Branchereeno being up at ten past five? About the same as anybody being up at ten past five. Crummy. Walt pushed his glasses up snug against the bridge of his nose with his left thumb. Then he whirled from bed, threw on some clothes and took off out the door. He had gone half a block before he began to sneeze, and that made him remember his cold, so he dashed back to his apartment and grabbed a scarf and tied it around his neck. Then he took off for outside again, sneezing as soon as he hit the street, but now his conscience was clear.
Hands in pockets, Walt skipped his way through Greenwich Village.
Good morning, all you failures and faggots and fugitives from Bennington and Haverford and Swarthmore and Smith and Harvard and for crissakes Rutgers, this is Kirkaby giving you the word. And the word for today is goodbye. I’m leaving, I’m paying my dues, I’m kissing you one and all a big fat so long, because I got a play. I ain’t like you no more. I ain’t gonna sit around and piss and moan, not no more, on account of I’m going to work. I got a play. I am joining the ranks of the ex-unemployed. I am about to earn the right to fail. Or succeed. Or any little old spot along the way.
“I got a play!” Walt shouted.
He began to shiver. It was really stupid, coming out in the p
ractically freezing dawn when you’re already dying with a common cold, but it wasn’t every day somebody trusted you. Took a chance that maybe, just possibly, don’t quote me, boys, but it is within the realm of possibility that you might have: t?-a?-l?-e?-n?-t? Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Walt thought. After all these years of crapping around wouldn’t it be just the most fantastic thing?
“Goodbye,” he said then, waving at the Village buildings. “I can’t visit witcha no longer.” Because that was what you did to the Village: you visited it, for the sole and only purpose of staying like a youngster. One year of kindergarten not enough for ya? Dissatisfied with eight years of grammar school and four years of high school and four years of college? Tell ya what I’m gonna do. I’ll let you live in Greenwich town, and if you’re lucky you can stay a student seventy, maybe eighty years. Never grow up, never age, just stay as sweet as you are, sucking from the book of life.
“How’s that for an image, ya bastards?” Walt shouted down the street. Then he looked at his watch, saw it was almost six and cut left at the next corner, heading for Angie’s. Angie ran the stationery store nearest Walt’s apartment. He was a fat Italian, probably old and he made the best egg creams, if he liked you, south of 23rd Street. Walt picked up a News and a Times and walked inside the store, fishing in his pocket for change. “Morning, Ange,” Walt said.
Angie was looking at a girlie magazine. He held up a large picture for Walt to see. “Willya looka them boobs?” Angie said.
“Jesus, Ange, how can you look at boobs at this hour of the morning?”
Angie appeared genuinely puzzled. “Whatsa time gotta do with lookinat boobs?”
“Times and News” Walt said.
Angie went back to the magazine. “Putter onna counter.”
Walt nodded, put his change down. “So it looks like I’m gonna direct a play,” he said.
Angie glanced up. “Yeah?”
Walt shrugged.
“Goodfuckin’luck, buddy,” Angie said.
“Thanks, Ange,” Walt said, and he tucked the Times under his arm and opened the News. Some people could read the Times on their feet, but he had never been able to master the art. “I only read the Times while sedentary,” says E. Walters Kirkaby, famed director.
Walt started sneezing again, so he broke into a run back down the block to his place, and when he got there he took two aspirins and set a pan of water to boiling on the stove. Then he lay down in bed, turned quick to the Times theater section, read it and flipped to James Reston. By the time he was finished, not only was he infinitely wiser but the. water was boiling, so he poured it into a cup, heaped in too much instant, blew on it as he took it back to bed with him. He read the entire entertainment section, skimmed the sports, dented as much of the front page as he could, interspersing it all with trips to the kitchen for more of whatever you called what he was drinking. After his fourth cup he looked at his watch. Eight minutes of seven. For a moment he hesitated. His father had always been an early riser, but just to be on the safe side, wait till seven on the nose. Walt reopened the Times, closed it and went to the kitchen and turned on some more water, came back, glanced through the News, went back to the kitchen because he just couldn’t stomach any more of that stuff he was drinking, wondered what was on the television, decided nothing probably any good, lay down, stretched out, relaxed, whistled a little, tossed his pillow to the ceiling and at 6:56 put in a call to St. Louis.
“Hey, Dad,” he said when he heard P.T.’s voice.
“Arnold?”
“It’s me, Dad. Walt.”
“Walt?”
“I got good news, Dad. I’ve got this play.”
“That you, Walt?”
“Dad, didja hear?”
“You’re in New York, right?”
“That’s right. Dad—”
“Walt, it’s five-fifty-nine here. What the hell’s going on?”
“Nuts,” Walt said. “I woke you, huh?”
“Just gimme a sec.”
“Dad, I forgot about the lousy time change. I’m sorry.”
“I’m gonna go put some cold water on my face, O.K.?”
“O.K., Dad.” He tucked the phone under his chin. “ ‘I only forget the time change while sedentary,’ says E. Walters Kirkaby, internationally renowned—”
“What is it, kid?”
“I got a play, Dad. To direct. How about that?”
“A real play?”
“A real play.”
“Well, God damn,” P.T. said. “Wouldn’t your mother be proud.”
“I bet you never thought I’d get one, didja? I don’t blame you, I guess. I bet you thought I was just wasting all my time here, huh?”
“I’m really glad, Walt.”
“Just thought I’d let you know.”
“Don’t run off.”
“I got a lot to do,” Walt said.
“Course you do. Walt?”
“Huh?”
“Call me sometime?”
“Sure.”
“Call me?”
Walt blinked.
“A real play,” P.T. said. “How about that?”
After they’d hung up, Walt began to shiver from the cold, so he slipped under his quilt and stared at his bullfight poster. He began to sneeze again, and when the seizure was over he ran to the kitchen and took two more aspirins. Then he hopped back into bed and dialed Branch. “Jiggles?”
“Walt?”
“I am genuinely enthusiastic. Now go back to sleep.” He hung up.
A moment later the phone rang. “That was you? Branch said. “ ’Twas.”
“And you’re—”
“I am.”
“Lovely,” Branch said. “Let’s both go back to sleep.”
Walt hung up, shook his head, dialed. “Hey, I’m sorry to bother you and this is my last phone call, but let’s get together sometime like soon.”
“This afternoon?”
“I’ll be here sneezing.” Walt hung up, dialed again. “Branch?” he said.
“Yes, Walt.”
“This is really the last time, but I thought you might set up a meeting between me and the author in the not so distant future.”
“It will be done.”
“Good. S’long.” Walt hung up and pulled the quilt under his chin. He was shivering again and he touched the back of his hand to his forehead, but he had never been able to tell his temperature that way, so he picked up the phone and dialed Branch again. “Whenever I’m really excited I act like a horse’s ass,” he said.
“Yes, Walt.”
“I just wanted to tell you that I understand this play. I mean that. I can make it work. I just know I can.”
“I just know it too.”
“S’long, Branch.”
“Bye, Walt.”
“Isn’t this just something,” Walt said, and he hung up. His head was aching now, and he decided to take his temperature, but then he remembered that he didn’t have a thermometer because before it didn’t matter if he was sick or not but now it did, now it mattered like hell, so he threw on some clothes again and ran outside and around the corner but it was not quite seven-thirty and the drugstore didn’t open till eight and he was disgusted with himself until he remembered that Tony always set her alarm for seven-thirty and that if he ran like crazy he could call her before she was back asleep.
Walt ran like crazy.
When he heard Tony’s voice on the other end of the phone he said, “I’m waking up everybody this morning, so you’re nothing special to me.”
“You didn’t wake me. I was dreaming and then the alarm went off. I was just resetting it when you called. I miss you.”
“I gotta catch your act in the morning more often,” Walt said. “Tell me that again.”
“I miss you,” Tony said. “I thought about you all last night, lying there sniffling.”
Walt sneezed.
“Did you sleep well?” Tony said.
“Not a wink,” Walt whispered. “
Tony, Tony, it’s happened.”
“What?”
“It’s happened, it’s happened, I’m gonna direct a play.” He waited. “Well?”
“Just getting a cigarette, dopey.”
“I read it, and then I read it again, and I’ve talked with Branch, and the thing is I’ve got a play, Tony, isn’t that—you’re not interrupting me.”
“Why should I do that?”
“No reason—just that you usually interrupt me a lot. Not criticizing, you understand—I mean, I interrupt you too a lot—say something.”
“Don’t get excited.”
“I am excited. Don’t tell me not to get excited, just say something—”
“I did, honey. ‘Don’t get excited.’ That was a specific statement, not a general overall comment.”
“I don’t get you,” Walt said.
“All I mean, Walt, is that if you don’t get so excited now, you may not be so disappointed later.”
“Later? Later? Why would I be disappointed? I’m not saying it’s Salesman or Streetcar. All I’m saying is that if we cast it halfway decent and if I’m worth a damn, we might just have something.”
“What about money?”
“The money’s all raised, don’t you understand? This is a cinch thing. It’s going to happen.”
“I just don’t want you to be disappointed in case—”
“Goddammit, there’s nothing that can disappoint me.”
“Walt, I’m sorry, it’s just too fishy. I mean, why would this package just drop boom in your lap? There are other directors and it just doesn’t sound right and I don’t want you getting disappointed—”
“I know there are other directors—don’t you think I’m aware of—what the hell’s the matter with you anyway?”
“Nothing’s the matter with me.”
“Why are you all the time so damn destructive?”
“I just don’t want you getting hurt, that’s all.”
“I was so excited when I called you and—”
“Calm down.”
“Every time I ever get excited about anything you have to come along and knock the props out—”
Boys and Girls Together: A Novel Page 84
