The Collected Stories of Richard Yates (42 page)

“No.”

She took his hand and held it in both of her own. “You miss me?”

“I sure did.”

“The hell you did.” And she flung down his hand as if it were something vile. “I went around to your place the other night, to surprise you, and I saw you going in there with a girl.”

“No you didn't,” he told her. “Come on, Christine, you know you didn't do that at all. Why do you always want to tell me these—”

Her eyes narrowed in menace and her lips went flat. “You calling me a liar?”

“Oh, Jesus,” he said, “don't be like that. Why do you want to be like that? Let's just drop it, okay?”

She seemed to be thinking it over. “Okay,” she said. “Look: It was dark and I was across the street; I could've had the wrong house; it could've been somebody else I saw with the girl, so okay, we'll drop it. But I want to tell you something: don't ever call me a liar, Warren. I'm warning you. Because I swear to God”—and she pointed emphatically toward her bedroom—“I swear on that baby's life I'm not a liar.”

“Ah, look at the lovebirds,” Grace Arnold called, appearing in the doorway with her arm around her husband. “Well, you're not making
me
jealous. Me and Alfred are lovebirds too, aren't we, love? Married all these years and still lovebirds.”

There was supper then, much of it consisting of partly burned beans, and Grace held forth at length on the unforgettable night when she and Alfred had first met. There'd been a party; Alfred had come alone, all shy and strange and still wearing his army uniform, and from the moment Grace spotted him across the room she'd thought, Oh, him. Oh, yes, he's the one. They had danced for a while to some phonograph records, though Alfred wasn't much of a dancer; then they'd gone outside and sat together on a low stone wall and talked. Just talked.

“What'd we talk about, Alfred?” she asked, as if trying in vain to remember.

“Oh, I don't know, love,” he said, pink with pleasure and embarrassment as he pushed his fork around in his beans. “Don't suppose it could've been much.”

And Grace turned back to address her other listeners in a lowered, intimate voice. “We talked about—well, about everything and nothing,” she said. “You know how that can be? It was like we both knew—you know?—like we both knew we were made for each other.” This last statement seemed a little sentimental even for Grace's taste, and she broke off with a laugh. “Oh, and the funny part,” she said, laughing, “the funny part was, these friends of mine left the party a little after we did because they were going to the pictures? So they went up to the pictures and stayed for the whole show, then they went round to the pub afterwards and stayed there till closing time, and it was practically morning when they came back down that same road and found me and Alfred still sitting on the wall, still talking. Ah, God, they still tease me about that, my friends do when I see them, even now. They say ‘Whatever were you two
talking
about, Grace?' And I just laugh. I say, ‘Oh, never mind. We were talking, that's all.'”

A respectful hush fell around the table.

“Isn't that wonderful?” Christine asked quietly. “Isn't it wonderful when two people can just—find each other that way?”

And Warren said it certainly was.

Later that night, when he and Christine sat naked on the edge of her bed to drink, she said, “Well, I'll tell you one thing, anyway: I wouldn't half mind having Grace's life. The part of it that came
after
she met Alfred, I mean; not the part before.” And after a pause she said, said, “I don't suppose you'd ever guess it, from the way she acts now—I don't suppose you'd ever guess she was a Piccadilly girl herself.”

“Was she?”

“Ha, ‘was she.' You better bet she was. For years, back during the war. Got into it because she didn't know any better, like all the rest of us; then she had Jane and didn't know how to get out.” And Christine gave him a little glancing smile with a wink in it. “Nobody knows where Jane came from.”

“Oh.” And if Jane was nine years old today it meant she had been conceived and born in a time when tens of thousands of American Negro soldiers were quartered in England and said to be having their way with English girls, provoking white troops into fights and riots that ended only when everything went under in the vast upheaval of the Normandy Invasion. Alfred Arnold would still have been a prisoner in Burma then, with well over a year to wait for his release.

“Oh, she's never tried to deny it,” Christine said. “She's never lied about it; give her credit for that. Alfred knew what he was getting, right from the start. She probably even told him that first night they met, because she would've known she couldn't hide it—or maybe he knew already because maybe that whole
party
was Piccadilly girls; I don't know. But I know he knew. He took her off the street and he married her, and he adopted her child. You don't find very many men like that. And I mean Grace is my best friend and she's done a lot for me, but sometimes she acts like she doesn't even know how lucky she is. Sometimes—oh, not tonight; she was showing off for you tonight—but sometimes she treats Alfred like dirt. Can you imagine that? A man like Alfred? That really pisses me off.”

She reached down to fill their glasses, and by the time she'd settled back to sip he knew what his own next move would have to be.

“Well, so I guess you're sort of looking for a husband too, aren't you, baby,” he said. “That's certainly understandable, and I'd like you to know I wish I could—you know—ask you to marry me, but the fact is I can't. Just can't.”

“Sure,” she said quietly, looking down at an unlighted cigarette in her fingers. “That's okay; forget it.”

And he was pleased with the way this last exchange had turned out—even with the whopping lie of the “wish” in his part of it. His bewildering, hazardous advance into this strange girl's life was over, and now he could prepare for an orderly withdrawal. “I know you'll find the right guy, Christine,” he told her, warm in the kindness of his own voice, “and it's bound to happen soon because you're such a nice girl. In the meantime, I want you to know that I'll always—”

“Look, I said
forget
it, okay? Jesus Christ, do you think
I
care? You think I give a shit about you? Listen.” She was on her feet, naked and strong in the dim light, wagging one stiff forefinger an inch away from his wincing face. “Listen, skinny. I can get anybody I want, any time, and you better get that straight. You're only here because I felt sorry for you, and you better get that straight too.”

“Felt sorry for me?”

“Well,
sure
, with all that sorrowful shit about your wife taking off, and your little girl. I felt sorry for you and I thought, Well, why not? That's my trouble; I never learn. Sooner or later I always think, Why not? and then I'm shit outa luck. Listen: Do you have any idea how much money I could've made all this time? Huh? No, you never even thought about that part of it, didja. Oh, no, you were all hearts and flowers and sweet-talk and bullshit, weren'tcha. Well, you know what I think you are? I think you're a ponce.”

“What's a ‘ponce'?”

“I don't know what it is where you come from,” she said, “but in this country it's a man who lives off the earnings of a—ah, never mind. The hell with it. Fuck it. I'm tired. Move over, okay? Because I mean if all we're gonna do is sleep, let's sleep.”

But instead of moving over he got up in the silent, trembling dignity of an insulted man and began to put his clothes on. She seemed either not to notice or not to care what he was doing as she went heavily back to bed, but before very long, when he was buttoning his shirt, he could tell she was watching him and ready to apologize.

“Warren?” she said in a small, fearful voice. “Don't go. I'm sorry I called you that, and I'll never say it again. Just please come back and stay with me, okay?”

That was enough to make his fingers pause in the fastening of shirt buttons; then, soon, it was enough to make him begin unfastening them again. Leaving now, with nothing settled, might easily be worse than staying. Besides, there was an undeniable advantage in being seen as a man big enough to be capable of forgiveness.

“. . . Oh,” she said when he was back in bed. “Oh, this is better. This is better. Oh, come closer and let me—there. There. Oh. Oh, I don't think anybody in the whole world ever wants to be alone at night. Do you?”

It was a fragile, pleasant truce that lasted well into the morning, when he made an agreeable if nervous departure.

But all the way home on the Underground he regretted having made no final statement to her. He went over the openings of several final statements in his mind as he rode—“Look, Christine, I don't think this is working out at all. . . .” or “Baby, if you're going to think of me as a ponce, and stuff like that, I think it's about time we . . .”— until he realized, from the uneasy, quickly averted glances of other passengers on the train, that he was moving his lips and making small, reasonable gestures with his hands.

“Warren?” said Judith's old, melodious voice on the telephone that afternoon, calling from Sussex. “I thought I might run up to town on Tuesday and stay for a week or two. Would that be a terrible nuisance for you?”

He told her not to be silly and said he'd be looking forward to it, but he'd scarcely hung up the phone before it rang again and Christine said, “Hi, honey.”

“Oh, hi. How are you?”

“Well, okay, except I wasn't very nice to you last night. I get that way sometimes. I know it's awful, but I do. Can I make it up to you, though? Can you come over Tuesday night?”

“Well, I don't know, Christine, I've been thinking. Maybe we'd better sort of—”

Her voice changed. “You coming or not?”

He let her wait through a second or two of silence before he agreed to go—and he agreed then only because he knew it would be better to make his final statement in person than on the phone.

He wouldn't spend the night. He would stay only as long as it took to make himself clear to her; if the house was crowded he would take her around to the pub, where they could talk privately. And he resolved not to rehearse any more speeches: he would find the right words when the time came, and the right tone.

But apart from its having to be final, the most important thing about his statement—the dizzyingly difficult thing—was that it would have to be nice. If it wasn't, if it left her resentful, there might be any amount of trouble later on the phone—a risk that could no longer be taken, with Judith home—and there might be worse events even than that. He could picture Christine and himself as Judith's guests at afternoon tea in her sitting room (“Do bring your young friend along, Warren”), just as Carol and he had often been in the past. He could see Christine waiting for a conversational lull, then setting down her cup and saucer firmly, for emphasis, and saying, “Listen, lady. I got news for you. You know what this big sweet nephew of yours is? Huh? Well, I'll tell you. He's a ponce.”

He had planned to arrive well after supper, but they must have gotten a late start tonight because they were all still at the table, and Grace Arnold offered him a plate.

“No thanks,” he said, but he sat down beside Christine anyway, with a drink, because it would have seemed rude not to.

“Christine?” he said. “When you've finished eating, want to come around to the pub with me for a while?”

“What for?” she asked with her mouth full.

“Because I want to talk to you.”

“We can talk here.”

“No we can't.”

“So what's the big deal? We'll talk later, then.”

And Warren felt his plans begin to slide away like sand.

Amy seemed to be in a wonderful mood that night. She laughed generously at everything Alfred and Warren said; she sang a chorus of “Unforgettable” with at least as much feeling as Christine had brought to it; she backed away into the middle of the room, stepped out of her shoes, and favored her audience with a neat, slow little hip-switching dance to the theme music of the movie
Moulin Rouge
.

“How come you're not going out tonight, Amy?” Christine inquired.

“Oh, I don't know; I don't feel like it. Sometimes all I want to do is stay home and be quiet.”

“Alfred?” Grace called. “See if there's any lime juice, because if there's lime juice we can have gin and lime.”

They found dance music on the radio and Grace melted into Alfred's arms for an old-fashioned waltz. “I love a waltz,” she explained. “I've always loved a waltz”—but it stopped abruptly when they waltzed into the ironing board and knocked it over, which struck everyone as the funniest thing they had ever seen.

Christine wanted to prove she could jitterbug, perhaps in rivalry with Amy's dance, but Warren made a clumsy partner for her: he hopped and shuffled and worked up a sweat and didn't really know how to send her whirling out to their arms' length and bring her whirling back, the way it was supposed to be done, so their performance too dissolved into awkwardness and laughter.

“. . . Oh, isn't it nice that we're all such good friends,” Grace Arnold said, earnestly breaking the seal on a new bottle of gin. “We can just be here and enjoy ourselves tonight and nothing else matters in the world as long as we're together, right?”

Right. Sometime later, Alfred and Warren sat together on the sofa discussing points of difference and similarity in the British and American armies, a couple of old soldiers at peace; then Alfred excused himself to get another drink, and Amy sank smiling into the place he had left, lightly touching Warren's thigh with her fingertips to establish the opening of a new conversation.