“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.”
<
br /> “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.
“Oh boy,” Walt said. “Oh boy.” Maudie turned and left the room. Walt picked up his spoon.
“Wait!” Arnold said.
Walt looked over at him, spoon poised.
“Don’t touch that. There’s something wrong with it.”
“Oh, you don’t fool me, Arnold. Not this time, you don’t.”
“I’m not trying to fool you.”
“You just want my pudding, I know. Well, you can’t have it.”
“I don’t want your pudding, Berty. I don’t even want mine.” He pushed his plate a few inches away.
“Why don’t you?”
“Because there’s something wrong with it.” He sniffed his pudding. “It’s spoiled or something. Smell it yourself if you don’t believe me.”
Walt stuck his nose close to the pudding and that was when Arnold pushed his face down, right into the bowl. The pudding splattered all over and Walt’s glasses were caked with chocolate so he could hardly see.
“All right now, what’s the fuss?” Maudie, big and black, stood by the table.
“Walt had an accident,” Arnold hollered. “He thought the pudding smelled funny and then he had an accident.”
“I do believe you’re right,” Maudie said, picking up Walt’s bowl, sniffing it. “I must have used spoiled cream. It sure does smell funny.”
“It does?” Arnold said, and he sniffed at his bowl of pudding until the great black hand slammed down, shoving his face into the chocolate. Arnold kicked but the hand held firm, forcing his nose flat against the bottom of the plate. Arnold flailed his arms but the great black hand did not move. It pushed and pushed and only when Arnold began coughing convulsively did it raise up.
Arnold ran sobbing from the room, crying, “P.T., P.T.” over and over.
“He’s going to tell them,” Walt murmured. “He’s running right to them.”
Then Maudie had him, shaking him hard. “You! You are so gullible I want to cry. You know what that means? Gullible? It means sucker and you stop being one!”
Then Arnold was back in the kitchen, screaming, “You’re gonna get it now, you’re gonna get it now!” and then P.T. strode in, followed by Emily.
P.T. pointed to his eldest son. “You do that, Maudie?”
“Bet yo’ass!”
P.T. hesitated, staring at the folded black arms. “Oh,” he said finally. “Well, you probably had a good reason.”
“That’s my feeling.”
“Just checking,” P.T. said, and he returned to his guests.
Emily approached Maudie. “Maudie,” she whispered, “you must try to watch your language in front of the children.”
“You’re absolutely right, Emily. I gotta do that.”
“Yes,” Emily said, and she followed her husband. Arnold just stood there, staring around.
Walt looked at him. “Chicken!” he said. “Yellow chicken!” Arnold began to shake. Then he (1) stamped his foot in anger; (2) burst into tears; (3) fled.
“He’s yellow,” Walt said. “I never told them. Never even once.”
“Shut up and eat your pudding,” Maudie said. Walt ate his pudding. And didn’t it taste good!
Gino Caruso was the only marble player in school as brilliant as Walt. Gino never fudged or spit during an opponent’s turn. He simply knelt by the perimeter of the big pot circle, his chin resting on his knees, his dark eyes bright. Then, when his turn came, he would knuckle down fairly and begin to shoot, his deadly fingers cleaning out the pot with startling speed. He and Walt would usually battle around the big pot circle late in the afternoons, after they had beaten all other comers soundly. Then, their pockets crammed with spoils, they would engage each other in epic struggles that sometimes lasted till dark. Gino won some, others Walt won; always the caliber of play was outstanding. But Gino was more than just a marble player; he was quick, brighter than most, and easily the most graceful on the jungle gym or at tag or pom-pom-pullaway.
“Hey, Gino,” Walt said. It was autumn and they were standing together on the playground during recess.
“Hey, Walt.”
“Hey, Gino,” Walt said again, feinting with his right, sending a straight left that grazed Gino’s arm.
“Pow,” Gino said, moving his lithe body this way, then that, getting Walt off balance, delicately landing a light right to the chin.
“Watcha doon?” They continued to spar.
“Watcha mean, watcha doon? When?”
“After.”
“School?”
“Yeah.” Walt drove in with a right and left to the body, but Gino was much too fast, so both punches missed.
“Some stuff for my old lady.”
“That take long?” Walt tried a roundhouse right, but it wasn’t a good idea; Gino gave him three fast ones in the ribs and was gone from range before the right arrived.
“Half hour if I hurry.”
“You wanna do something after that maybe?”
“Sure. What?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
“Fine with me. Where? Here?”
“How ’bout my house? We got trees.”
“Where’s your house?”
“End of Linden Lane.”
“I’ll find it.” The recess bell rang. They started back to school, still fighting. “Zonk.” A right to the breadbasket. “See you, Walt.”
“Whap.” A final errant left. “See you, Gino.”
As soon as school was over he hurried home. His mother was back by the pool with Mrs. Hosquith. She waved to him, gesturing toward the water, but he shook his head, shouting, “Gino’s coming to play” before turning, starting for the kitchen. He let the screen door slam shut with a bang because that always got Maudie good.
“You let that door slam one more time and you are d-e-a-d.”
“Hey, Maudie.” He entered her domain.
“Don’t you ‘Hey Maudie’ me, whoever you are. I don’t associate with people so stupid they let the door slam.”
“Hey, Maudie.”
“Hey Maudie what?”
“What we got to eat?”
“Food, stupid. That’s what we generally eat, ain’t it?”
“We got any cookies or cake or anything?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Gino’s coming to play and maybe he’ll be hungry.”
“The famous marble shooter you told me about?”
Walt nodded.
“Is he as stupid as you are?”
Walt shook his head.
“Then
don’t you worry. I’ll feed him.”
Walt dashed out the back, letting the screen door slam again, waiting till he heard “d-e-a-d” loud and clear. Then he ran around to the front and started inspecting trees. He decided that the old maple would be best to climb, and, the decision made, he tore into the house again and up to his room. He got out his collection of baseball cards and tossed them casually across his dresser top. Then he brought his game of Photo Electric Football from his closet and stood it in a corner of the room. Ready at last, he mussed his hair, made sure his hands were dirty and walked to the window seat on the landing. From the window he had a clear view of the long driveway along which Gino would have to travel. Walt waited. After a moment or two he began to sing. “I’m called little Buttercup, sweet little Buttercup, though I shall never tell whyyyyyy; but still I’m called Buttercup, dear little Buttercup, sweet little Buttercup I-I-I-I-I-I-I.” No Gino. He dashed downstairs and looked at the grandfather’s clock that dominated one corner of the foyer. It had been half an hour. Gino was due. He took the stairs two at a time and slid safely onto the window seat. It was a beautiful day, warm, with the leaves still striving for green. A light wind blew across the great lawn. Walt slid down the banister and examined the grandfather’s clock. Forty minutes now. He climbed back to the window seat. The maple tree was begging to be conquered; its low arms reached out toward him, bowing before the mounting wind. “You’re mad, Kirkaby. No one has ever climbed Everest. Much less at night. Much less in a blizzard like this one. Great Scott, man, you won’t have a chance.” The Whizzer’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got to listen to me, Kirkaby. It’s two hundred below on the slopes tonight. And that wind! Just listen.” The Whizzer listened. Then he donned his ear muffs. “Kirkaby, come back. Kirkaby, don’t. Kirkaby ... Fifty-five minutes. Walt drew back his foot to kick the clock, then thought the better of it.
“Ain’t your friend here yet?”
“He’ll come!”
The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold Page 6