Boys and Girls Together: A Novel

by William Goldman

  “None.”

  “You had to butt in?”

  “Yes.”

  “You had no business! People should be left the hell alone. Since when are you Jesus?”

  Rudy said nothing.

  “I want to know why you did it! You shouldn’t have, you shouldn’t have; you’ve bitched it all up now!”

  Rudy stared out. “That doesn’t surprise me. I don’t think I’ve ever in my whole life done anything right. I mean that factually, Charles. I think it’s true. Come out? We’ll talk. It’s good to see you.”

  Charley grabbed him through the window. “I came here to hurt you.”

  “And you are.”

  “We were happy.”

  “I know that, Charles. That’s why she took the part to get away.”

  Charley dropped his arms.

  “It’s really very cool out here,” Rudy said.

  Charley shook his head. “It was silly to come. I ought to catch a train.”

  “Goodbye, then.”

  “It’s just we’ve been together for so long, Jenny and me. And today I got the feeling, for the first time I got it, that we were done.”

  “Would that be so terrible?”

  Charley gestured to the fire escape. “I’d get my suit dirty.”

  “Yes.”

  “No, of course not. We should have stopped it years ago. We just somehow never got around to it.”

  “That happens, Charles.”

  “Can you see the sunset?”

  “It’s over.”

  “But if it wasn’t, could you see it?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll bet maybe you could if you tried,” Charley said. He pushed his big frame through the window and stood on the fire escape, looking around. “I’m really upset, Rudy. I don’t know what to do.” He sat down on the step below Rudy. Their heads were level.

  “I’m sorry, Charles.”

  “Look at this suit,” Charley said, fingering the khaki material. “Filthy already.” He shook his head.

  “It seems to me I’ve spent most of my life on one fire escape or another. I can’t remember any of them being clean.”

  “It’s probably for the best,” Charley muttered. “I never would have married her. Maybe I would, I don’t know.”

  “They’re very cool, though, aren’t they?”

  “Very,” Charley said. “What are we doing, any of us?”

  Rudy closed his eyes. “I’m an actor; you’re ending an affair.”

  “You’re a writer.”

  “No. I wrote a book; that doesn’t make me a writer. I loved my grandfather; I put it down; that’s all.”

  “Father, he was.”

  Rudy smiled. “My father’s back in Chicago someplace, my mother too; I haven’t seen them in what must be ten years, so here we are, Charles—dear friends—and we know nothing. I cannot remember ever having been this tired.” He closed his eyes.

  Branch knocked on the window. “Are you all right?” Yes.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I do anything for you?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m talking to an old friend. Everything is fine. Thank you.”

  Branch looked at Charley. Then he went away.

  “What’s with him?” Charley asked.

  “He loves me. It’s very sad. And hates you, most likely, for being out here with me.”

  “What are you mixed up in?”

  “Nothing I can handle.”

  “Get out of it, then.”

  “I am afraid to go to sleep!” He reached out and grabbed the rusted rails and clung to them with both hands. “I am afraid!”

  “What is it?”

  “Not in my dreams. I can ignore them. And my thoughts I can control. It’s in between. That waiting period when the mind starts to go. You are lulled and warm and walking along some path and suddenly, Charles, things speak to me. Stones, waves, blades of grass. And they all say the same words. ‘Have you had enough? Are you ready now?’ Things. And when they speak I wake and I pace and think and wait until I can drop like a rock through that in-between place. And then too soon it’s morning. ‘Have you had enough? Are you ready now? Have you had enough? Are you ready now?’ I used to answer No! so loudly. Now the reply is rather on the quiet side.”

  “You’re talking about dying, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want to die for?”

  “I don’t want to, Charles. It’s just that I’ve lost some of my enthusiasm for the alternative.”

  A sudden thrust of air enveloped them. Rudy turned his face to the wind. Charley watched him. “Do you know what’s going to happen?”

  Rudy shook his head. “My guess: catastrophe.”

  “Get out of it. Before it gets awful, get out.”

  “Did you with Jenny?”

  “That’s different.”

  “No. Oh, you’re more stable than I, Charles, but otherwise it’s all the same. I am afflicted, Charles. I have the great disease. I’m a damaged man.”

  “You mean deaf?” Charley said.

  “I mean damaged. Like you. Like me. Like our director, a lovely boy, divorced painfully, but with a new love now, a new love just like the old, so Branch informs me. Or look at Branch. Or Aaron, who you don’t know. Or poor sweet Betty Jane, who let you lie to her all these years without ever letting on she knew you lied. What makes us different is the knowledge of our damages. We’re like little children suffering our first wounds. Before that cut we never thought ourselves capable of bleeding. Afterwards, we’ll accept it as a fact. But you and I, Charles—all of us—we are living at the instant of incision—to us the world seems to be nothing but blood—so we wallow ...”

  FROM the New York Times, JUNE 30, PAGE 23

  INITIAL VENTURE

  A new play goes into rehearsal today at the Greenwich Street Theatre. It is “Madonna With Child,” by Aaron Fire. Sponsor Branch Scudder describes the drama as “a different kind of play about family life.” E. Walters Kirkaby will direct and the featured roles of a brother and sister will be played by Rudy Miller and Jenny Devers. “Madonna With Child” is a maiden effort for all concerned. Previews will begin the first of August, with the formal opening set for the twelfth.

  XXIV

  “JENNY DEVERS,” JENNY SAID, lying flat in bed, reading from the New York Times. It was morning of the first day of rehearsal. “The part of the sister will be played by Jenny Devers. The crucial and terribly difficult part of the sister will be played by that brilliant new star of stage, screen and radio, Jenny—”

  The telephone rang.

  Jenny jumped.

  She had been expecting the call, was indeed braced for it, still, when it rang, she jumped and gasped, reacting in general like a dumb heroine in a silent film. Jenny gazed at the blue walls and quickly closed her eyes. Charley had promised not to call her, never to call her; she had made him swear it but even as he swore she doubted his strength. Now, as the phone rang again and again, his weakness was proven and Jenny sighed because it was all so cheap and false. He was better than this and so was she; they were both of them better than this and, aware of her own weakness, she got out of bed and wearily answered the phone, saying “What do you want?” in a voice that was not warm.

  “It’s only me, Moose.”

  “Oh God, Tommy—”

  “Continuing their lifelong talent for just missing each other, Miss Devers and Mr. Alden spoke briefly on the phone. ‘What do you want?’ she said, thinking him to be not who he was but someone else entirely.”

  “Are you in town?”

  “I’m in Boston, oaf—I’m being funny on my own money and you don’t even smile. You’re not smiling, I can tell.”

  “How are you?”

  “You’re a fantastic conversationalist, y’know that?”

  Jenny smiled.

  Tommy said, “I just called to say that I see
n ya name inna papuhs and I think it’s terrif.”

  “Thank you,” Jenny said.

  “Aren’t you over that guy yet? Jesus, Jenny—”

  “We’re getting there. That’s a promise.”

  “You know what I wish?”

  “What do you wish?”

  “You remember back home when we were kids and I tried raping you?

  “I really miss you, Tommy.”

  “Shut up. What I wish is that you hadn’t been stronger than me. What I wish is that I’d raped you and gotten you pregnant and we’d had to get married. I think in the long run we both would have been one helluva lot happier. Goddammit!”

  “What’s the matter, Tommy?”

  “Nothing, nothing.”

  “Yes, there is. I know you, now—”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tommy—”

  “Nothing is the matter. I just called to say congratulations and wish you luck and all the rest of the crap.”

  “Thank you, Tommy.”

  “Big old moose, anyway.” He hung up.

  Jenny held the phone for a moment, then quietly thrust it back into its cradle because if Charley called it wouldn’t do for the line to be busy. She took a step away, whirled back and grabbed the receiver then, drop ping it to the floor, because if Charley called the line would have to be busy because if it wasn’t they would start up again, and where would that get them? Jenny undressed and sat on the edge of the sofa bed, looking at her name. She heard a sound, a steady irritating sound, and in a moment realized it was the telephone demanding to be put back. Jenny hesitated only a moment. Then she got up and put it back. Because it didn’t matter if he called. Because there was no strength left, not for Charley. She was tired, too tired for any more of that.

  She felt, suddenly, old.

  Silly, she told herself, you’re not. But on the way to the shower she stopped and looked at her face in the mirror. That is not an old face, she decided. But neither was it young. And suddenly she thought of the face that had listened so carefully to the old lady on the bus. Luke, Paul, Matthew, Luke, Paul, Matthew—Jenny retreated and stared at her body. If anything, it was better now than then. The legs were just as long and hard, the shoulders as broad, the breasts as large and firm. The waist, astonishingly small then, was even smaller now, baby fat gone, and the hips were as full, as rounded as before.

  It was a remarkable body.

  Jenny hated it, of course, now more than ever. But still, it was a remarkable body ...

  Aaron raced Mrs. Santiago for first use of the communal bathroom on their floor of their tenement on West 84th Street. My God, Aaron thought. At least three hundred pounds and she’s carrying her baby and she’s beating me.

  The lavatory door slammed in his face.

  Aaron pounded on it. From inside, Mrs. Santiago’s baby giggled. Aaron groaned. He stood there, a towel over his thin shoulders, razor and instant-lather can in his hands, and he shouted, “Mrs. Santiago, you’ve got to let me in.”

  “Quien es?” Mrs. Santiago asked.

  “You know damn well who it is, Mrs. Santiago. You just raced me for the bathroom—it’s me.”

  “Quien es?” Mrs. Santiago said again.

  “El Americano, for crissakes,” Aaron shouted. “I’ve got my first rehearsal today and I’m late, Mrs. Santiago. You’ve got to let me shave.”

  “Momentito,” Mrs. Santiago sang over the splash of running water.

  “I’ve got to shave, Mrs. Santiago, so easy on el hot water!”

  “Momentito.”

  “I swear I’ll be out in two minutes, Mrs. Santiago. One minute. Please,” Aaron said, though it was fruitless and he knew it because she spoke no English. He had long since left the Y, moving back to West 84th Street (and hello to you, Dr. Gunther) into a building in which no one spoke more than a few words of the language—they were all Puerto Rican—and though being the sole Caucasian in the dump was not his vision of Heaven, it had certain advantages which he happily used in moments of particular wrath. “You’re a lousy slut, Mrs. Santiago,” Aaron said, sweetly singsong.

  “Momentito.”

  “Your husband is deceiving you, Mrs. Santiago, did you know that? He spends afternoons with Mrs. Rodriguez.” It was true; Aaron could hear them rolling on the bed in the room above his, chattering passion.

  “Momentito.”

  Aaron scowled and kicked the door, then turned, stalking back to his room. “Puerto Rico is not free,” he muttered, kicking the door shut behind him. He fell on his filthy bed and glared at the filthy rotting ceiling and then at his watch and he was late. There was just no time, so, taking a deep breath, he squirted some instant lather onto his fingertips and spread it across his skin. Then he took his razor, moved to his tiny mirror and brought the razor to his face. “Ouch,” Aaron said as the razor scraped down. “Ow. Ow. Ooooooo. Ow. Ow ...”

  Tony lodged the phone against her neck.

  “What’s wrong?” she heard Walt say.

  “Just trying to light this dopey cigarette,” she replied. Striking another match, she got the cigarette lit and inhaled, coughing as the smoke hit her throat.

  “Sounds good,” Walt said. “So listen, tonight being special—I mean, I don’t go into rehearsal every day—what I figured was if you’d wait for me at your place I would go on record as promising to pick you up and take you someplace so jazzy you can’t stand it.”

  “Walt ...” Tony said, waiting for him to interrupt her.

  “What’s wrong? What’s wrong? You’ve got that tone—”

  “Well ...” she said, using the tone again.

  “Dammit, Tony, say it.”

  “Would you be terribly upset if—”

  “If what? If what? You’re killing me.”

  “If I brought someone along tonight?”

  “Tonight? A man? You’re kidding.”

  “Yes, a man; no, I’m not kidding.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh ...” She sipped some instant coffee, noting that directly to the right of the announcement about the play was an advertisement that the Thalia Theater was having a Vittorio De Sica double bill, The Bicycle Thief and Miracle in Milan. “Nobody special,” Tony concluded.

  “Tony, ever since I got involved with this play your life has been bugged with guys, all of them ‘nobody special,’ and I wish they’d leave you the hell alone. Now who’s this one, I demand to know?”

  “Oh, this Italian I met at the agency. He’s just in town for a little and—”

  “Tony, you knew today was the first day I’ve ever had a play in rehearsal in the city of New York. Did it never cross your small square mind that I might possibly wish to celebrate said event? Now use your head. Would I be upset? Think.”

  “You’re right, dopey. I’m sorry. I’ll call him back and break it. I’m such a cretin sometimes. Forgive me, Egbert?”

  “What is with you—asking would I be a trifle miffed if you brought along some lousy greaseball—”

  “Vittorio is not a greaseball! Actually, he’s almost blond.”

  “Oh, those albino Italians,” Walt said. “Ask him if he’s got a sister and we’ll double.”

  “He hasn’t got a sister. He’s an only child, terribly handsome and the heir to a considerable fortune.”

  “Will you quit talking about him please before I come up there and throttle you? See you tonight?”

  “He forgives me,” Tony said. She made the sound of a kiss. “I’ll be waiting Vittorioless.” She kissed him again.

  “Go to hell,” Walt mumbled.

  Tony hung up, smiling. Then she laughed. Vittorio. Vittorio! Such a funny name ...

  “Misquoted,” Branch said, pointing to the article in the paper. “And by the New York Times. I never said anything like that.”

  Rudy stared out at the Hudson.

  Branch came up behind him. “Should I do something? Do you think it matters?”

  “No. Nothing matters.”

  Branch turned him
around. “You mean everything matters.”

  “Yes,” Rudy nodded. “That too.”

  “Well, here we are,” Walt said.

  He stood on the bare stage of the Greenwich Street Theatre and looked out at the people, at Branch standing in the rear, a smile frozen on; at Aaron, already pacing, a cigarette jammed in the far corner of his mouth; at Jenny and Rudy, sitting together off to one side; at Jim Masters, who played the animal and insisted on combing his hair like Marlon Brando; at Ed Ritchie, who played the timid wealthy student and was to become known, inevitably, as Ritchie the richie; at Carmella Spain, who played the mother and almost drank too much and who, once, many painful years before, had been Walter Huston’s leading lady in a shortlived play uptown.

  “You’re probably wondering why I’ve gathered you together,” Walt said, pausing for the laugh. “What we’re gonna do,” he went on when it had ended, “is read the play and then break for lunch and then come back and block as much of the first act as we have time for.” He wiped his forehead. “It’s gonna stay hot like this, so get used to it, relax, and while you’re doing that I thought I might gas a little about what the play’s about. Now, our producer—” he pointed back to Branch—“or I should say ‘sponsor,’ although he claims he was misquoted, says it’s ‘a different kind of play about family life.’ I don’t think it is and I don’t think it’s a play about incest either.” Walt grabbed a chair and sat down. “Consider,” he said. “There’s this girl, Loretta, and she gets with child, and the guy who did it says ‘tough,’ and she tries to rope this other guy into playing papa, and it almost works. Almost. But then her brother does this incredible thing. He louses up the works, tells the richie it’s not his baby, and then, when the mother pitches the daughter out into the cold, the brother goes along, ’cause he loves her. And then she does this incredible thing: she lets him. She knows he loves her and she knows he’s her brother and she still lets him. Two people, two incredible things. Too much? I don’t think so. Not one bit.

  “We all do incredible things.” Walt paused.

  “The reason for that pause,” he said when he went on, “is because I think that’s important. We all do incredible things. Now, the word ‘incredible’; here’s what I say it means: beyond belief. Not ‘unbelievable.” Unbelievable’ means ‘that which I do not believe.’ ‘Incredible’ means ‘that which I did not know I believed.’ A girl comes to town and she thinks, I may not be much but I’m pure, and pretty soon she’s having an affair with a married man. Happens all the time, solid? Incredible? A guy comes from a good decent family, he comes to town and in two shakes of a dead lamb’s tail, he’s shacked up with some other guy, who’s probably also from a good decent family. Happens all the time, solid? Incredible?