Boys & Girls Together (7 page)

“Pardon?”

“He’s alive!” Why so loud? “My father. He’s retired now but he’s alive. He played the organ. He was a musician. A fine musician. O.K.?” She was looking at him and he didn’t much like it, so he shoved the peanuts at her and said, “Have some more lobster,” and, happily, she laughed.

That night, after he had pulled his Packard to a halt in her driveway but before she had a chance to push at the door-handle, he kissed her. She was surprised and at first made token resistance, but as his strong arms held her in their circle, she honestly faced her own desire and kissed him back. When that was done, P.T. walked her up the stone steps to the great front door. Awkwardly, he kissed her hand (Fairbanks did it better) and probably it was funny, but she did not laugh.

Later, P.T. stood outside Randy’s, frozen. He was unable to think why he was unable to move, so he simply stood still, waiting. Eventually a gang of children began hooting at him from across the street and their derision freed him. P.T. reached into his pocket, scattered a handful of change into the street, roared as the children scrambled for the silver. Turning abruptly, he returned to his Packard and drove back to the Park Plaza Hotel, singing.

They were married in merciless heat and honeymooned for three months in Europe. P.T. spent a fortune—“You’re only
nouveau riche
once”—and on their return their house in the suburbs was finished, so they all moved in, P.T. and Emily and Emily’s Negro maid and P.T.’s father and an English couple named Saunders, who were to be the first in an endless stream of servants. In their second year of marriage Emily gave birth to their first son and three years later Walt came along, but between the two the crash came, hitting P.T. hard for a while. Three stores had to be closed and two more were on the verge, though he managed to avoid the shattering losses that claimed most of his competitors. Emily gave a lot of parties in between her seemingly constant social work, and the marriage looked exemplary for several years. It wasn’t, of course, but the initial decay went unnoticed. It was not until their seventh-anniversary party, at which P.T. arrived late, drunk and with several female companions, that his whoring became very common knowledge. Once it surfaced, however, he no longer took pains to hide it—Emily’s public humiliations were almost ritual now—and people took to shaking their heads in silent commiseration whenever Emily walked by.

Once—it was the day after a swimming party at the Kirkaby pool at which P.T. had struck Emily (it was the first time he had ever done that, in public)—Emily’s best friend, Adele Hosquith, asked her point-blank why she put up with it all. Emily—who was probably the person at the party least surprised by P.T.’s action since he was always at his crudest right after he had “been bad” (her word for it)—was embarrassed by the question and tried not to answer. But when Adele pursued, Emily simply stated what she understood to be true: that although he was undeniably at times somewhat less kind than she would wish, still, her admiration of him and for him was more than sufficient to cover any occasional imperfections. But underneath the explanation lay sadness, for the first time he had been bad (they had not been married a year) he had come to her and told her, painfully, explicitly. He told her and stood before her, waiting, a gigantic moppet, impatient, almost, for his whipping. And she should have whipped him, she knew that now. She should have doled him his expected portion of scorn. But she piled his plate high with forgiveness, and that night, when he wept in her arms, she joyously mistook his hatred for penitential tears.

When Emily first noticed the small lump on the underside of her left breast she immediately decided not to think about it. She was vaguely aware of the possibility of the lump being a harbinger of a certain disease (the clean image of a crab flashed across her mind, but she would not think the word) but she doubted it. No one in her family had ever had the disease (dirty thing) and, besides, she was still under forty and it was an old people’s sickness. There was no question about it: the lump would go away. To make absolutely certain that it would, she vowed never to look at her left breast again.

P.T. discovered it, months later. They were (for some reason) in her bed and his hands moved slowly across her body. Suddenly the hands stopped.

“Hey,” P.T. said.

She pulled away from him.

“Hold still.”

She tried getting up.

“I said ‘still.’ ” Forcing her back, he flicked on the bedlight. “What the hell.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Please.”

In answer, he took her gently in his arms. “Hey, honey?”

“What?” she said, though she knew what he wanted. A checkup. Just a little checkup, huh? Take a little trip to Chicago and let them have a look at you. Emily resisted, but he had no intention of losing, so eventually she succumbed. She took the train to Chicago, where P.T. had arranged for a suite at the Ambassador East, and she toured the Art Institute and bought some clothes on Michigan Avenue and went to the theater twice and after a week the doctors were done testing. A sweet Jew named Berger was in charge, and when he called her into his office they lied to each other for a while.

“I’m going to be absolutely honest with you,” Dr. Berger said. Lie number one.

“I want you to be.” Number two.

“Well, it could be a lot worse.” Number three.

“I believe you.” Four.

They went through seventeen lies without once mentioning
that
name (Emily stopped counting after seventeen), and when they were all done they both smiled and shook hands and as she waved goodbye and started for the elevator she knew she was a dead woman. Back at the hotel, she was tempted to call P.T. but she did not. Instead she packed, paid her bill and took a taxi to the railroad station. She arrived in St. Louis at a few minutes before seven and took another taxi to her home. P.T. was out, but the boys were glad to see her and she talked and played with them until they tired. Then she put them both to bed. After that she unpacked, carefully folding her clothes into their proper drawers. She showered, dried herself thoroughly, ran a comb through her hair. Finally, naked (no sense in hiding it anymore), she lay down in the dark to wait. She waited from ten till eleven till one till two, motionless, staring at the ceiling, feeling it build all the while inside her. She would gladly have waited a month or a year because the look on his face was going to be worth it. When P.T. came home at three she made no sound of welcome. She listened, rather, to the sounds of his undressing. When he entered their room and turned on the overhead light, she still did not move. He did, though. He saw her and his mouth dropped and he stumbled with surprise.

“I’m going to be unfaithful to you, P.T.” The tone in her voice thrilled her. She had never thought herself capable of such honest open loathing, but now her body throbbed with it. He flattened against the far wall, watching her, and the look on his face
was
worth it. After all these years she had loosed her flood of venom and she loved it. Arms outstretched, naked and dying, she advanced on her husband. “The ultimate infidelity is mine!”

Through and around all this, Walt grew up.

When he was not yet four, he spent the entirety of Easter afternoon staring at a piece of pastry. It was an exquisite piece of pastry, a delicate chocolate with a pink Easter bunny etched on top in confectioners’ sugar. The bunny had little pink eyes and big pink ears and Walt thought it prettier than any picture. But he was hungry. He was incredibly hungry. So he stared at the bunny, aware of its beauty, aware, also, of the rumbling of his stomach. Walt walked out of the big living room. He roamed around the house (careful to avoid Arnold) and then went back to the living room. There was the bunny, still beautiful. But his stomach would not stay quiet. Walt made a circuit of the house again. Oh, what a beautiful bunny. He licked his lips. Gently lifting the bunny, he brought it close to his face. (Not to eat it, just to look at it better.) The bunny grazed his lips. He restored it to its position on the table and left the room again, hurrying this time, making another tour of the house. Arnold was outside now playing catch with his father and he thought of joining them, except Arnold would probably kill him later if he tried, so he watched them through a window until it was time to go look at the bunny again. Oh, he was hungry. His stomach thundered. Walt ran from the room. Arnold was still playing catch but he might stop any minute and come in and eat the bunny, so Walt ran back into the living room and, more gently than before, lifted the bunny and moved on tiptoe up the stairs to his bedroom. He placed the bunny in the very center of his pillow and climbed up on the bed to stare at the little pink eyes and the sugary ears. Oh, my. It looked even more beautiful than before now, lying graceful and chocolaty in the very center of the white pillow. Walt stuck his nose close to the bunny and stared at it cross-eyed. My, my. He got up from the bed and went to his closet and put on his gun belt (low on the hip) and, creeping to the window, fired a few hundred silver bullets into Arnold. This done, he took off his gun belt and climbed on his bed again. He was weak from hunger now, so he closed his eyes, holding his breath until his lips burst apart and he lay still, gasping. Then he grabbed for the bunny and gobbled it down. The rich taste of chocolate still lingered in his mouth as he started to cry. Burying his head in the very center of the pillow, Walt wept.

It was more or less the story of his life.

His life, or at least the early years of it, should have been pleasant. Deprivations were few, mothers were warm, fathers omnipotent but
in absentia
more than not. Yet his early years were filled with an almost perennial fear.

Arnold.

“Hey, Ugly.” (They were four and seven and Walt had just eaten his first meal without spilling, an event that caused parental disbelief, then joy. Walt lay in his dark bedroom, ready for sleep.) “Hey, funny-looking, I’m talking to you.”

“What is it, Arnold?”

“You’re gonna cry, Ugly. You know that? Every day till you’re dead.” I am not.

“Y’are too.” Arnold’s fingers began pinching him.

“Stop it, Arnold.”

“Make me.”

The fingers dug at the flesh on his ribs. He tried to struggle but Arnold was strong. “Stop it, Arnold.”

“Shut up. If you ever tell them, I’ll make you cry twice as bad.”

“Arnold, you’re hurting.”

“Cry.”

Walt bit his lip but it hurt. It really hurt. Disobeying his orders, the tears came. But Arnold continued to pinch. That was the thing about Arnold: he enjoyed it.

“Hey, funny-looking.” (A summer noon and he had his first real suit, fresh from the store all the way in St. Louis.)

“What?”

“C’mere and help me a sec.”

“Why?” Already wary.

“Just c’mere and hold the hose. I gotta spray the garden.”

“You gonna get me wet?”

“How can I get you wet? The water’s not turned on.”

That was true. Walt took the hose from his brother. “Now what?”

“Just hold it. Whatsa matter, doncha trust me?”

“No.”

“Well, just hold it.” Arnold walked toward the house. “That’s a nice suit, Walt. I really like that suit.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. You really look good in it. No kidding.”

“It comes all the way from St. Louis.”

“It does?”

“Mama helped me buy it. She drove me in the car.”

“No kidding?”

“You really like it?”

“I’ll say I do. I wish I had a suit like that. Hey, Walt, is there something stuck in the end of the hose?”

“I don’t see—” The water gushed from the nozzle, drenching his body, turning the blue suit a darker blue.

Walt fled toward the house but Arnold grabbed him. “Don’t you tell them or you’ll really get it.”

Walt broke free and continued his run, Arnold’s laughter keeping him company.

“Hey, Goofy.” (It was Walt’s birthday, and he was in his room, getting ready for a boat ride on the Mississippi with his mother.)

“What’d you close the door for?”

Arnold leaned against the door. “No special reason.”

“What do you have behind your back?”

“Nothing.”

“Then let me see your hands.”

“Sure.” Arnold brought one hand out, opened it, put it behind his back, then brought out the other hand. “See? Nothing.”

“Both at the same time, I meant.”

Arnold crossed to the bed, keeping his hands behind his back. “That boat ride sure oughta be fun.”

Walt continued getting dressed, keeping an eye on his brother.

“Ice cream and cake. All you can eat. That’s what I heard Mother tell P.T.”

“You did?”

“That’s right. All the chocolate cake you can eat. Hey, Walt. Guess what I found today?”

“I give up.”

“Oh, go on, guess.”

“I’m late, Arnold.”

“Guess.”

“What have you got behind your back, Arnold?”

“Jar.”

“What’s in it?”

“Guess.”

“Cut it out, Arnold.”

“You know what I got.”

“Don’t.”

“Donchaknow?”

“
Spider!
” Walt said and he bolted for the door but Arnold blocked him. Walt retreated.

Arnold waved the jar at him. “Baby. It can’t hurt you. Not while it’s in the jar. I wonder what would happen if it got out?” He twisted the cap and then the spider was crawling crazily on the rug.

“Arnold—”

“If they hear you, you’re dead, you know that.”

“Please, Arnold.”

“Eat the spider.”

“No.”

“Yes. Eat the spider.”

“Please.”

Arnold scooped it up and ran for Walt, grabbing him, forcing him down, pushing the twisted black mass toward Walt’s face. Walt screamed and got sick on the rug.

“Hey, four eyes.” (It was suppertime and Maudie was feeding them at the kitchen table while she and the other servants served cocktails to company in the living room far away.)

Walt silently finished his mashed potatoes.

“You better answer me, Egbert. You know what’ll happen if you don’t.”

Maudie came in, big and black, and took their plates, depositing them in the sink. She crossed to the icebox door and brought out two large bowls of chocolate pudding. “Surprise,” she said as she set the bowls in front of them.