Robert Crews (13 page)

He had got used to the feeling in the years since, though only sporadically, in company, and usually on beer, the taste of which he genuinely came to like in those days, as opposed to that of most wines. The feeling he could take or leave. With such moderate examples of it, he was well aware that the heightened powers furnished thereby were illusory. One could not do more push-ups when drunk than when sober, nor better understand texts in philosophy or French. You might seem wittier when drunk, but perhaps only to those themselves full of alcohol—judging from the drunks encountered when you yourself were sober.

It was at the Hole that he first drank so much as to alter his behavior in a basic way. He had thought he was sincere in assuring Spurgeon of his indifference in the matter regarding Nina, but he had lied to himself, as he discovered with enough vodka in him, which he had switched to because the amount of beer needed would have made him bilious. Though there could be no sane reason to resent her having failed to notice him while running burgers to a clamorous roomful of people, when his table was not even among those she served, she could not be forgiven for her interest in Spurgeon, which would have been inexplicable to Crews even if he had never previously laid eyes on her, unless of course she was simply a prostitute.

It would not have been so bad if Spurgeon had just gone for tail. But no, he always had to be in love with whomever he went out with at the moment. Crews despised that kind of falsity, that vulgarity, but then his roommate (for the second year) was just a cheap little bastard (though physically larger than Crews): what else was new? It could also be said that Spurgeon's basic trashiness was what made him a more respectable roommate than a finer sort of person would have been, if one even knew what a finer sort would consist of.

On the evening in question, Spurgeon having been called home for what well might be his father's last few days of life following a massive heart attack, Crews stayed at the Hole, drinking, until Nina finished her shift at nine, when the kitchen closed. Once again she had not noticed him, and again reasonably enough, for he sat at the remotest end of the bar, on a stool that tried to trip him up when he finally left it, hurriedly, so as to get outside and pretend to be strolling by the rear door at the moment she made her exit.

The first embarrassment was when the bartender yelled at his back, in loud and brutal tones. He had not paid his tab. By the time he had done so and returned outside, Nina's neat figure was halfway down the block on the side street, walking with a rapid, staunch stride that was not easy to overtake on legs such as his. Not to mention that when not directly under a streetlamp, she was invisible to him and also unheard, on soundless shoes. The whole thing seemed like a dream. He had never been so drunk before.

“I didn't mean to scare you,” he said when he at last caught up, in one of the circles of light, which embraced a street corner, the curb, and below it the grating of a storm drain.

“You didn't,” said she, with a quizzical forehead: he could see that through his personal mist.

“Guess we're going the same way.” In case his pronunciation showed the effects of his drinking, he said, “I had a few. But I'm okay.”

Nina peered at him. “Should we go somewhere for coffee?”

What was important here was her offering to associate herself with him. She could simply have suggested he get the coffee by himself. He had had no such expectation. He was touched and became somewhat soberer. “I'll sleep it off,” he said. “Coffee would just keep me awake.” They started to walk. He tried to keep from lurching against her.

He mumbled something about Spurgeon's father, though whether clearly enough for her to understand was questionable. He had shaken the man's hand once during the two years he and Dick had been roommates. Spurgeon had never met Crews's own father. Nor did the roommates entertain each other at their respective homes on vacations. Undoubtedly Spurgeon believed his own was too humble.

Despite the care he was taking, Crews's equilibrium slipped away for a moment and, seeking it, he bumped against the side of Nina's body. She was very firm, and the slight collision did not seem to affect her, so he checked his impulse to apologize and thus call attention to an inadequacy. Instead he thought of something to say.

“Dick intends to do better than his father, a lot better.”

“That's nice,” said Nina in a tone that told Crews that because he had bumped her she believed he was drunk and would henceforth address him only disingenuously. Nevertheless, he went on. “It's my ambition to do worse than mine.”

“That's dumb,” she said, but genially.

He lied, “I'm just kidding.” They were already at another corner, and he had to take care that he was ready for the step down from the curb. He was too deliberate about it and once again only called her attention to his state.

“Do you really know where you're headed?” Nina asked. “If it's home, you can't get there in this direction.”

“Where are you going?”

“I live right up there.” She pointed along the street. This was a murky block of big old houses, most of which were now dark. He had never been in the area before and was totally disoriented now, with no sense whatever of its relation to where he lived.

“You're not in a dorm?”

“I get a better deal here,” Nina said. “It's just the room rent. I eat free at Cutter's: that's a big part of the pay.”

“You get paid in food?” He felt so sorry for her that he could have wept, or so it seemed.

“Wait a minute,” said she. “Plus minimum. That's not bad, considering what the lousy dorm food costs per year. Then there are tips. Not all the kids understand that and don't leave much, if any, but others do.”

Crews felt guilty. Such places seemed quite different from bars and restaurants that did not cater to college students, and he himself was probably not as generous with tips as he would be elsewhere. Furthermore, he had never before understood that a student waitress might seriously need the money and not be working as a kind of hobby. Crews had a checking account into which ample funds were regularly deposited by his father's secretary. Beginning this year, he and Spurgeon shared a two-bedroom apartment in town, to the rent of which Dick contributed only what he would have paid in a university dormitory, and Crews picked up the remainder.

“Listen,” Nina said, touching his arm at the crook of the elbow, “why don't I walk
you
home? You probably have to cross Broad Street. They really race along there.”

She was concerned for his welfare! They had stopped before a large gloomy old house with a veranda. “Is this where you live?” He was aware that he had not responded to her offer, and he did so now. “I'll be all right, thanks.” He pointed at the veranda. “Maybe if I sit down for a minute.”

“Okay,” said Nina. “But only a minute, please. I've still got reading to do and an early class tomorrow. And please keep your voice down. I don't want to wake anybody up.” She leaned close to him to say this quietly, and her breath was warm and sweet. No artifice had gone into her making. Her hair was long and sleek and parted in the middle; she tied it behind when waiting on tables, but now it hung free. Her face was round, almost broad, yet fine in its particulars, with soft eyebrows and lacy lashes.

They sat down on a white wicker couch, the cushions of which were covered in flowered vinyl. Visibility was good, owing to the presence of a streetlamp at the curb. He understood that Nina was speaking in an undertone because she did not want to disturb the people in the house, not because she had an intimate interest in him. He understood that, but the alcohol gave him the power to alter reality and transform situations and persons into what he wanted them to be. He stayed where he was, in the corner of the wicker couch, and spoke in a whisper, forcing her to lean toward him.

“You should know this,” he said. “I was the one who noticed you first at Cutter's, not Dick. He looked you up only because I mentioned you. He wanted to score some points off me.”

What he could see of her expression was inscrutable. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I'm crazy about you,” he said, with an exaggeration that did not seem such in his state, for his voice was dispassionate insofar as he could judge. She remained inscrutable. He added, “I think about you all the time. It's not right.”

“What's not right?”

“It's not right that you don't, didn't, know about it.” He altered his position so that his shoulder was not as close to hers.

“I just wish I knew what it meant, though,” she said solemnly, as if to herself. “You mean you want to go to bed with me? Is that it?”

He was both offended and eroticized by this question. Aroused for obvious reasons, but offended because he had no better idea of what he meant than she. Actually, until now he had never thought of her in a physical way. Pawing her breasts, getting her underwear off, and the rest: the subject was embarrassing. Such sex as Crews had had thus far in life had been just for pleasure, with prostitutes or fun-loving amateurs, not tainted by emotion. However, he was now on an exalted plane of existence. He could do as he wished without restraint. He was willing to participate in some sex, if that's what she was suggesting, and afterward consider what effect it had, if any, on his attachment to her.

“Look,” he said. “It would be all right with me, if that's what you are saying.”

“No, I wasn't saying that. I was just trying to figure out what you mean, because it just seems crazy. You drink too much, then run into me, and we don't even know each other, and yet you're all of a sudden crazy about me? Does that make any sense at all?”

It was not that you didn't know what you were doing when drunk: you did, and never more than when acting as you would not have done if sober. The difference was that when drunk you expected either to triumph or not be held accountable for failure.

“You probably aren't aware,” he said now, “that I could do a lot more for you than Dick can. You wouldn't have to work at that damned job. Money's no problem.”

Nina stared at him for a long moment, but not in apparent hostility, for she seemed to be smiling, though her face was at an angle to the light from the streetlamp and the resulting shadow of nose and elongation of nose might have misrepresented the expression. In the early years of drinking, Crews could sometimes be an overprecise observer of minutiae that yielded little on analysis, as here. It mattered not at all whether she displayed amiability. She despised him.

“You want to
buy
me?”

Perhaps he should have denied the implication vociferously, but instead he defended the offer. “Why should you run your legs off serving beer? My father makes all kinds of money representing mobsters. Why not give some of it to a good cause?”

Nina said gently, “Excuse me, I don't know your name.”

“Bob Crews. I'm Dick's roommate.”

“Dick who?”

Crews was indignant. “Dick Spurgeon, of course. Your boyfriend.”

“I don't know anybody of that name.”

“I saw you two together in the library.”

Nina was shaking her head. “Maybe it was somebody who asked me some directions.”

Crews was in no condition to react swiftly. Instead, he said reasonably, “I guess that's where I saw you two.”

Nina said, “I've
seen
you once or twice at Cutter's, haven't I? So many people come in there.” She stood up and smiled down at him, assuming much the same attitude that she displayed as waitress. “So you were trying to cut out your friend? Was it some kind of bet or something?”

Crews realized that to make his point he too should leave the couch, but the fact was that his legs refused to move on command. “The hell with that,” he cried, abandoning the undertone. “None of that stuff matters. You belong to me!”

“Now you're getting out of order,” she said, extending her hand. “And shut up before you wake somebody.” She was very strong. When he clasped her fingers, she pulled him to his feet without evident effort. “Go home and sober up.”

Crews took his hand back when he had found his balance, and supported himself by a knee against the wicker armrest of the couch. “I apologize,” he said. “It was not my intention to insult you.”

Perhaps his tone was more plaintive than he knew. She touched his arm. “No harm done. You're not the world's worst.”

He was dizzy, but he rallied. “I won't bother you any more: you can count on that.” He tried to leave but was so wobbly he paused before undertaking the steep wooden steps.

She was there, restraining him at the elbow. “You can't go home like that.” She took him to the door, unlocked it with a key that hung from the chain she took from around her neck, and guided him into the darkened house. The door of her room was at the end of a hall of which he was only dimly aware, but she moved confidently along it, as if it were brightly lighted. In the room, she switched on a lamp, the sudden radiance of which he found too much, and he averted his head. She sat him down on the bed.

“You can sleep there if you take off your shoes.” She looked at him for a moment and added, “I don't want it wet, either. The bathroom's right across the hall. I'll leave my door open so you can see the way there.”

In the bathroom, having no faith in his ability to shoot straight from that far away, Crews sat down on the toilet to pee, facing the raised seat. Back in Nina's room, he saw she had replaced her clothing with a long robe of white terry cloth.

“I'll curl up in this chair,” said she, patting its shabby upholstery, and told him again to remove his shoes.

“I should take the chair.”

“Don't worry about it,” she told him. “I'm turning the light off now. Good night.”

Next day he woke up and saw by the black-faced alarm clock on the bedside table that the time was within five minutes of noon. When he bent over to put on his shoes he found a note in one of them.