Again a couple of giant trucks stood outside the diner and half a dozen cars besides. A man in a windbreaker and light-colored trousers, who didn’t look like a trucker, was drunk and making a fuss because a waitress was refusing to serve him a beer.
“You’re gonna get thrown out if you don’t get out!” yelled one of the waitresses behind the counter.
And there was Irene with her phony blond hair under her silver cap, grinning at the altercation between the drunk and her colleague.
“That’s the one,” Arthur said to Francey, and nodded his head toward Irene, who hadn’t noticed his group.
There was no room for all of them together at the counter, so Arthur sat with Francey on two stools, and Gus with Veronica farther down. All the booths were taken. The jukebox played “Tuxedo Junction.” Arthur yelled an order for four coffees.
“Really is a tough place,” Francey said to Arthur.
“Slice of life, as they say,” Arthur replied with a languid air.
Arthur and Francey got their coffees, served by the middle waitress. Irene still hadn’t noticed Arthur, and in fact her eyes looked unfocused, despite her big smile. Maybe the lights of the place damaged people’s eyesight after a while.
A trucker, trying to clown but plainly enjoying his superior muscle power, ejected the drunk who fell down the couple of steps outside the door.
“Who’s driving that guy home?” a woman yelled.
“Let him walk!” Laughter.
Gus came over to Arthur, smiling a little, his hands stuffed in the slash pockets of his jacket. “Hey, Art,” he said in Arthur’s ear. “Veronica thinks your blond friend’s pregnant.”
“No kidding!” said Arthur, amused. “Pretty likely, I s’pose.” If so, his father’s counsel had been in vain.
Gus went back to Veronica, but after a minute, he and Veronica were able to take stools next to Arthur and Francey. Meanwhile Arthur had been looking at Irene. Was her waistline bigger? Possibly. But it wouldn’t have caught Arthur’s eye. Did pregnant women start getting heavier at the waistline or below it?
“Oh, hello, Arthur,” a voice said near him, just as he had turned to Francey.
Irene leaned toward him, and Arthur glanced at her hands which were so near his coffee, red nails and a fake gold ring, and somebody’s check between two fingers.
“You all right? Being a good boy?” she asked.
“Oh, sure.” Arthur saw for an instant that crazy mixture of intense concern and mental fuzziness in her eyes that so disturbed him. “And you? I hope—”
Irene was summoned by a loud male voice at the food window.
“Amazing, no?” Arthur said to Francey. “She goes to church—every Sunday.”
Francey put her head back and laughed, hardly making a sound, and lit a cigarette before Arthur could pull out his lighter. Arthur liked the way she laughed, as if she enjoyed it.
Arthur was to drive Francey home. The couples said good night outside the Silver Arrow.
“Great evening, Art. Thanks a lot,” Gus said. “See you soon. Come by my house anytime.”
“Come by my joint anytime,” Arthur said, “but I can’t promise any privacy.”
In the car, Francey said, “I’d like to see your joint. Can we go there?”
Arthur wasn’t surprised. He had been about to propose the same thing. “Sure. My roommate’s not even in tonight—or even tomorrow night. He’s in Wisconsin.” Arthur was suddenly reminded of an overheard remark at Ruthie’s party last year, when Maggie had been out of town for the first abortion: “. . . roommate’s out and won’t be back till four,” a fellow from C.U. had said, trying to persuade a high school girl to go off with him.
“This place isn’t too bad,” Francey said when she entered 214.
The Residence Assistant had not been at his desk downstairs when Arthur had sneaked Francey in. In fact, sneaking girls in was considered no problem, Arthur had learned. The problem was the other way round, if a girl wanted to have a fellow in her room after 11 p.m.
“To tell you the truth, I straightened it up a little. Doesn’t always look this neat.”
But Francey remarked that he had a view out the window instead of looking on a wall and that he had only one roommate, whereas some people had a second who slept on another jammed-in bed. So Arthur felt better suddenly about his living arrangements. When he turned from the fridge, whence he had been taking two beers, Francey opened her arms. Arthur put the beers down. He held her tightly. And now it didn’t matter if he became excited. They kissed. Then Arthur stepped back.
“D-do you—This beer—”
“Have you got a short whisky?”
He had, a hardly touched half-bottle of Ballantine’s which he had bought because it reminded him of Betty Brewster’s well-equipped household. Arthur fetched it from his suitcase in the closet. They each had two neat ones, and then Arthur escorted Francey down the hall to a shower room. One fellow saw them in the hall and whistled. The shower room was empty, and Arthur waited holding Francey’s clothes, while she stepped under the water. He had brought his bathrobe for her. By now it was nearly 2 a.m. He took Francey back to his room; then he went and had a shower. When he came back, Francey was in his bed.
“Bring the whisky,” she said.
He brought it and their two glasses.
Then they were in bed, with the door locked, the lights out, the whisky on the night table forgotten. Arthur was gentle, but reached a climax so soon, it was embarrassing. There was of course a next time. The second and third times he did much better. And the girl was perfect. To Arthur, she was no longer Francey, but a girl, or the girl. She was also not in a hurry. The dawn was showing at the window, when Arthur was aware of a pleasant drowsiness. He raised up on one elbow. The girl was looking at him with half-open eyes.
“Who would have thought,” she said, “you’d be so nice in bed? Well, I would.—I did.—Can you reach a cigarette?”
Arthur had to get out of bed for them, but he could see well enough not to turn the light on. In those couple of seconds, as he reached for the red and white pack on his writing table, he realized that he was cured, suddenly, as if from a disease. He was cured of his depression over Maggie. Was that the same as being cured of Maggie, the same as his love for her ending? Just erased, dead, gone? He wasn’t sure as yet. He simply realized that he was one hundred percent happier. And in those few seconds, he realized that this had nothing to do with hanging on to Francey, or being in love with her, or even trying to start an affair with her.
He lit a cigarette and handed it to her. Then he pulled on his pajama pants. “Shouldn’t we get some sleep? Have you got things to do today?”
“What’s today?” she asked sleepily.
“Saturday!” Arthur laughed.
She went off to the showers, by herself, and Arthur made cups of instant coffee, strong and black without sugar, as he had noticed Francey had taken her coffee in the Silver Arrow. The world was changed, as if he had been reborn, and thinking of the born-again Christians, Arthur laughed out loud. Great, if he stood up in church and shouted, “I am a born-again, because I slept with a nice girl—and out of wedlock, too! I experienced a miracle!” They’d thrown him out by the back of his neck and the seat of his pants!
Francey returned and got back into bed. “What’re you smiling at?”
Arthur brought the coffees. “The born-again Christians! My father goes to a born-again church here and that blond in the diner last night goes to the same church. And last night Gus and Veronica thought she looked pregnant. I happen to know she’s not married.”
“Hm-m. Pregnant.” Francey gave a short laugh. “Must say she looks like a floozie.”
“Doesn’t she?” Arthur laughed. “I had a fight with my dad about the whole thing. Well, not about her but about something—simi
lar. Holier-than-thou bastards! Irene was asking last night if I was being a good boy!—They’re all sick!”
“Yeah, and what they’re doing politically is not so funny. They’re trying to run the government and they’ve got a good start. They’ve got a shit-list for liberals. Making sure they don’t get elected, you know? They’ve even started book-banning. The hell with all of them. It’s only the individual who matters—finally.”
“Yes.—And how can I thank you, thank you—for last night and this morning?” Arthur made a bow.
“Arthur, you’re still a little drunk! Drink your coffee; come back to bed and sleep a while.”
“After a shower.”
Arthur took a shower. Then they slept till nearly noon.
24
Saturday afternoon around 1, Arthur drove Francey McCullough to a house in Varney Street, in town, where she had a date with a girl student to do some work for a dramatics class.
“See you again maybe. Thanks for the lift,” Francey said as she got out of his car. She had just given him her telephone number at a women’s dorm on campus.
Amazing, Arthur thought. Fantastic. Francey was so casual with her good-bye wave—just as he preferred her to be at that moment—and she had wrought a transformation in him overnight!
He drove back to his dorm room, and spent half an hour dreamily tidying up everything. What did last night mean?
What did Francey mean, with her few words to him? And last night? Did it mean that Maggie was really cut off, that he didn’t love her anymore, just like that? Arthur couldn’t believe that. But the pain Maggie had caused him was gone. That was why the word “cured” had occurred to him at dawn. Very strange, because he couldn’t with any honesty say he was in love with Francey or even much attracted to her. Maybe he’d spend another night with her, and maybe not. Maybe she wanted to see him again, and maybe she wouldn’t, when he telephoned her. She’d talked about her present boyfriend. “A kind of a quarrel, but maybe we’ll get back together, I don’t know.” Arthur had forgotten the boyfriend’s name, but he was a senior at C.U.
Arthur treated himself to the most pleasant of his assignments, reading a couple of stories from Joyce’s The Dubliners, followed by some bio; then the telephone rang around 4, when he was snoozing on his bed. Nobody answered in the next room, so Arthur got up and swiveled the telephone toward him.
“Hello, Franky!” said an excited voice, male.
“No. Frank’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“Home, he said. Wisconsin.”
The caller groaned. “If he comes in, can you tell him there’s a party tonight in Cranleigh, room number—one sixty-one. Any time after eight. Tell him John called.”
Arthur wrote this message and put it on Frank’s bed.
Then he had a happy inspiration to see his mother this evening. He dialed his house number, and Robbie answered. “How’re you, Robbie?”
“Okay.”
“Is Mom there?”
“Yep.” Robbie let the telephone drop hard on the table.
“Hello, Arthur!” said his mother.
“I was wondering can I come over tonight? If you’re home?”
His mother was delighted. Of course he could come over and have dinner with them, and did he need anything like sweaters or shirts so she could get them ready?
Just before his family’s dinner hour, Arthur drove to the house on West Maple. Norma Keer was trimming her hedges. Arthur put his car in the driveway and waved hello to Norma. “You getting very far with that little thing?” Arthur asked, because Norma was using secateurs instead of hedge-clippers.
“Getting the dead branches out!” she called out. “Better visit me soon or I’ll forget all about you!”
Arthur knocked on his front door and heard his mother’s steps, fairly running.
“Door’s open! Hello, Arthur!” She kissed his cheek. “You’re looking—pretty well. How long’s it been? A month?”
“No, Mom! Two weeks,” Arthur said, smiling. “Hi, Robbie.”
Robbie leaned against the living room doorjamb, eyes on the TV. “Hi,” he said over his shoulder.
Arthur hung his jacket in the hall and saw from a glance into the living room that his father was in his study, whose door was half open.
“Nothing special to eat tonight, just pork chops,” said his mother. “You’re thinner, Arthur. Are you getting enough to eat at that—dorm?”
“The food is not as good as yours. And I had a cold about a week ago.”
They chatted. The kitchen was as usual more pleasant than the living room for Arthur. His mother asked when he had last written to his grandmother, and Arthur replied truthfully two weeks ago.
“She phones me sometimes, you know, always asks about you. I told her about Maggie. Hope you don’t mind, Arthur.”
“No-o. Well—these things happen—they say.—I don’t look as if I’m collapsing, do I?”
Lois shook her head and smiled. She grabbed his sweatered left arm for a moment and pressed it. “Can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here tonight!”
Robbie had gone farther into the living room, nearer the TV with its voices and sounds of gunfire and explosions. Then Richard emerged from his study.
“Hello, Arthur,” said his father.
“Hi, Dad.”
His father said nothing more and entered the kitchen with the air of wondering how soon dinner would be ready.
The dinner period was no less sticky, with his father and Robbie silent, he and his mother being the life of the party, if the party could be said to have any life. His mother asked him to remind her that she had clean shirts ready for him in the hall closet and had he brought any dirty shirts? Arthur had forgotten to.
“By the way, Dad, how’s Irene?” Arthur asked in a silence. “Is she still going to church?”
“Sure she is.—As far as I know.”
“I was at the Silver Arrow last night. One of my friends thought she looked pregnant. I hope it’s not true.”
“Who told you that?” asked his mother.
“Nobody told me. It’s just that Veronica—Gus’s girlfriend— thought she looked pregnant.” Arthur was aware of Robbie’s gray eyes lifting from his food to his father. “I don’t suppose it matters. You said she used to—well—”
“She is pregnant, yes,” said his father, twiddling with his napkin at one side of his empty plate. “Funny, it—Well, long enough, I suppose, for somebody to notice.”
Robbie looked like a soldier on the alert. His torso and head didn’t move, but his eyes shot from his father to his mother, bounced off Arthur, then returned to his father.
Irene had fallen, and abortion was out of the question. If his father was still counseling Irene, he would counsel against it. What a mess! And poor Irene had half a brain, to be generous about it. “And who’s the father?” Arthur asked. “One of those truckers?”
“Arthur!—Don’t joke about a thing like that.” But his mother was smiling slightly.
“Didn’t mean to be joking,” Arthur said.
“We don’t know. Not the point.” His father got up, removing his own plate and Lois’s, too.
Wasn’t it some kind of point, Arthur thought, a matter of some interest, anyway? Was she plying her trade again, Arthur wanted to ask, but instead he said, “She’s got a boyfriend? Must have.” Had she initiated Robbie? And wouldn’t that be a funny twist? Arthur set his teeth to keep from smiling.
“Well—” said his mother, rising to remove Arthur’s plate. “Nobody knows. It’s sad.”
“So what’s she going to do?” Arthur addressed this question to both his parents.
Richard was returning to the table with four dessert plates. “What do you mean? She’ll have the baby, of course.”
Arthur lit a Marlboro. He was aware of a small pleasure, perhaps nasty of him, in seeing his father in a bind: His protégée Irene had kicked the traces and got herself pregnant. Ah, the pleasures of the body!
“. . . hard sauce to go with this fruit cake, Arthur. I hope you’ll like it,” said his mother, trying to fill in the silence.
His father had reseated himself.
“Who’s going to take care of the child?” Arthur asked.
“Why, she will,” his father replied. “Who else? She’s got her sister there at home to help.”
His father’s matter-of-factness surprised Arthur. Wasn’t this a catastrophe, Irene pregnant? At the same time, the situation seemed funny: that gross sister, sitting around eating candy, giving the baby its bottles, while Irene went back to work at the Silver Arrow. Funny and bizarre, just as bizarre as Robbie’s steely earnestness on his left. Robbie maintained his forward-leaning attitude, attentive to every word. “You mean,” Arthur said, spooning hard sauce onto his cake, “Irene won’t tell you who the father is? Or does she even know?”
“Arthur—can’t we change the subject?” said his mother.
Arthur glanced at his mother. “Just that the father could help in the situation. They haven’t much money, Irene and her sister, from what I’ve heard.”
His mother sighed. “Well, Irene’s not quite right in the head, poor girl.”
“She’s insane,” Robbie said, looking at Arthur. “I told you that the day she turned up here—last summer.”
Robbie’s grimness amazed Arthur. It was the ugly side of virtue, he supposed, feeling superior to dimwit sinners like Irene. “Girls do sometimes get pregnant, Robbie,” Arthur said gently, “and don’t forget it takes a fellow to make them pregnant. You must forgive. Isn’t that right?”
“Ar—thur—” said his mother.
Robbie said nothing.
After dinner, Arthur and his mother took their coffee into Arthur’s room, while Richard and Robbie stayed in the living room in front of the television. Arthur wanted a couple of things from his room.
“Do you think Maggie will stay with this new boy?” his mother asked.
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