The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold

by William Goldman

  “Close your eyes, Sid.”

  “They are closed.” He wedged his face down into her neck. “I really want this to happen, Esther.”

  “It will happen.”

  “The boy could forget.”

  “The boy will remember.”

  “He could be a movie star. The biggest. If that lousy Springer has any sense, he’ll see.”

  “Are you crying, Sid?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you crying?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Sid pushed her away and moved to the window.

  Esther pursued him. “If you cry, I’ll get a headache, I can almost feel it.”

  “Don’t get a headache.”

  “Don’t cry.”

  “I’m fine,” Sid said. “Nerves.”

  “Don’t be nervous.”

  “All right, Tootsie. I won’t be.”

  “That’s a good boy.”

  “What does he see on the fire escape? What’s so wonderful out there?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I don’t know, going out on the fire escape.” He ducked under the open window.

  “Good, maybe you’ll get some sun. You’re very pale, Sid.”

  “Some sun, yes,” and he waved, walking slowly up to the fire-escape landing. Sid looked around but there was nothing to see. Below, an alley ending at the street, people walking by. Beyond the alley, other houses, other fire escapes. Beyond the houses, other alleys. Sid turned his face to the sun. It was warm and he could not remember having slept the night before; maybe a catnap, but that was all. Sid yawned and stretched, leaning back against the building, closing his eyes. The sun felt good. His body began slowly to drain. Esther was probably right. The boy would do well. The boy would not forget the words to “God Bless America.” No point in worrying about the boy. Worry about Springer. Maybe Springer didn’t like kid actors. A lot of people didn’t like Shirley Temple. What if Springer was one of them? No. You had to like the boy. You just had to. The old bags in the store, they proved that, the way they looked at him. Always looking at him, watching him as he moved. The kid had it with women; no question. In ten years, if his nose didn’t grow, the kid would have his pick of the world. Any broad. Princesses, society bitches, other movie stars; he’d have them all panting. I’ll pick up the pieces, Sid thought, and then he realized he had made a joke, so eyes still closed, he smiled. Any loose ends. Another joke. Sid leaned toward the sun. God, it felt good. I should do this every day, Sid thought. For as long as it’s warm. Good for what ails you. What ails you? Nerves, that was all. A case of nerves could kill you quicker than a case of Scotch. That’s what had ruined his pool game—nerves. From now on I’m gonna play it loose. That was the only way—

  “SID!”

  The moment he heard Esther shouting, he turned and started running down the rusty steps. Then he stopped. “Loose,” he said, and he sauntered the rest of the way, fighting the urge to run as Esther continued to shout.

  “SID! SID! SID! SID!”

  Sid crouched down outside the window, about to enter the apartment, but he stopped after a look at Esther. She was standing no more than a foot from him, inside by the window, staring out. As he crouched, he dropped directly into her line of vision, only she didn’t see him. Or if she did, he couldn’t tell, because she continued to stare blankly out, shouting his name, “Sid! Sid!” over and over. Sid looked past her into the center of the room where the boy was. The boy was totally bald, but other than that he appeared the same as when he left hours earlier, his blue suit still neatly pressed. Sid looked back at staring Esther, then at the bald boy. Then Sid snapped. He hurled his body through the window, tripping, falling inside, rolling to his feet, lunging arms out at the boy. During the next moments he said several things, all of them indistinctly. “This to me,” he said. And “Cut it all off. You had it all cut off.” And “You mocked me!—Mocked me—On my knees I went to that man—I begged that man—Mocked me—You mocked me—I begged like a beggar I begged, and you mocked me—my pride I gave up and you mocked me. I fell on my knees—I crawled—Me! Me you mocked—Me!—Me!—Me!—” When he wasn’t talking, he hit. He hit the boy’s face and the boy stood there, and then he slammed the boy in the stomach and as the boy doubled up Sid slammed him again, this time on the neck, and the boy fell. Sid plunged down on top of him, swinging his fists at the face. Sid tried grabbing the boy’s hair, but there was none, not a strand, so he had to content himself with the boy’s ears, slapping them, shaking them, bouncing the boy’s head against the floor. Esther fell on top of them, trying to pull Sid away, but Sid was in no mood for pulling. Esther was screaming his name still, but the meaning was different as she crawled on her husband’s back, shrieking, trying to stop his hands as they pulled at the boy’s ears. Sid continued to bounce the boy’s head against the floor. There was much blood now, and as Esther finally toppled Sid off, they all got smeared with red. The boy lay still, breathing but still, and Sid sat beside his body, panting like an animal. Esther was whimpering, and Sid watched her a moment before he wheeled to his feet and fled. Esther glanced after him, then returned her attentions to the boy, hurrying after a cloth, wiping the blood from his battered face. Then she lifted him and carried him to the sofa and took off his clothes. The boy was aware now, eyes half open, and Esther cried, smiling down at him because he wasn’t dead. She wept wordlessly as she stroked his face, kissed his eyes. The boy blinked. “Can you hear me?” The boy nodded. “Are you all right?” A nod. “Can I get you anything?” No nod. “Can you sleep?” A nod. “Try, then.” The boy turned his face to the wall. “I won’t be long,” Esther said, and she hurried across the room, down the stairs and outside, looking for Sid.

  Fifteen minutes later she found him, standing in a corner of the darkened delicatessen, his face to the wall. He did not turn when she entered. “He’s all right,” Esther said, “I think.” Sid said nothing. “To be sure we ought to maybe call a doctor but how can I call a doctor? What can I say? ‘My husband tried to kill my son’? Can I say that? Yes?”

  “I didn’t try to kill him.”

  “No?”

  “I was only teaching him a lesson.”

  “What lesson?”

  Sid said nothing.

  “What lesson?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t believe me either.”

  “Apologize to the boy.”

  “Why did he have his hair cut? It was for him we did everything. Why did he cut his hair?”

  “Ask him. Talk to him. Apologize.”

  Sid stayed standing in the corner.

  Esther jerked him away.

  “Don’t,” Sid whispered.

  Esther pulled him along.

  “I worship him,” Sid whispered. “With all my heart. He is my son.”

  When they stood on the landing outside the apartment Esther said, Go on.

  Sid pushed at the door. “Loving means caring, isn’t that right? If I didn’t care, would I have touched him? Doesn’t that prove I love him?”

  Esther stayed on the landing, and, when she was alone, she pressed her fingers against her temple, trying to stop the pain.

  “He’s not here,” Sid said, reappearing a few minutes later.

  “Not on the sofa? Not in the bedroom?”

  “Not here.”

  “Not on the fire escape?”

  “Gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Gone.”

  The boy was on fire. His head would not stop burning. He moved quickly across the crowded beach toward Lake Michigan. Stripping down to his bathing suit, he slipped into the water and, when it was deep enough, fell head down into a dead man’s float. The waves washed over him, cooling his body, but his head was still on fire. He held his breath and sank under water. When his breath was gone, he surfaced and floated on his back for a while, staring up at the totally blue sky. Then he ducked his body and sank under water again, his hands gently rubbing the top of his bald
head. Surfacing, he stroked until he could touch bottom, and then he hurried up the beach to his clothes. Gathering them, he turned around in a circle several times before running north, north where it was cool. He ran for half an hour, cutting in and around, avoiding the others, and then he stopped, dropping his clothes, swimming out, floating, ducking, surfacing, then back, running again. The beach emptied with the falling of the sun and he walked north, throwing on his shirt, donning his pants and shoes, and when he was dressed he started to run again, running along the edge of the lake, running easily, running, running north. He swam twice more before he slept, falling instantly asleep in the warm night, his body curled between two rocks, safe from the wind. At dawn he was off, walking quickly, staring at the sun as it inched up over the horizon of the lake. The day was hot, and before the morning ended he began having hunger pangs, his stomach sounding fiercely, but he did not give in to them and by late afternoon they were gone. The second night he went to sleep shortly after sundown, again curling between warm rocks, and he slept deeply until the rain started, and then he rose and moved north through it, head down, hands in his pockets, eyes half closed. The rain stopped by midmorning and by noon the sun was strong, and he was beyond Chicago now, running up the North Shore running past Evanston, entering Wilmette, leaving it, starting into Winnetka. He swam more often than before, and for longer periods of time, trying to get cool, since his head was more on fire now than it had ever been. His forehead felt hot when he touched it, and his eyes hurt him. As he swam, he stared up over the bluff that paralleled the lake, looking at the giant houses. He stared until his eyes required closing, and then he would close them and sink under the water, rubbing them with the tips of his fingers. That afternoon he commenced to shiver, even though the sun was strong, and he was unable to run fast or far. The sun had not yet disappeared when he crept a few feet up the bluff and made a place for himself beneath some bushes and closed his eyes. But he could not sleep. He was very tired and his eyes felt as if they were swelling but the shivering was more distinct than ever, so he lay there, body foetal, awake. The moon came, accompanied by the early stars. Suddenly it was very cool and he was perspiring, the shaking almost painful, the swelling of his eyes most severe. The boy took off his shirt and pants, keeping them off until the chills began, and then he put them back on and scurried down to the beach, frantically digging a hole in the warm sand, crawling into the depression, covering his cold body. The effort exhausted him and his head dropped back at an uncomfortable angle but he was too dizzy to right it. When the perspiring returned, he managed to roll clear of the depression. He lay quietly, stretched out beside it, and as the chills began, he rolled back into the tiny hole, scraping a few handfuls of sand over him. His head was swelling now and his ears heard strange sounds, sharp whistles, muted cries. The boy put his hands over his ears and writhed. The chills increased and he could no longer stop his teeth from chattering, so he lunged away from the hole and pushed himself to his feet, starting a jagged run along the sand, running until he was on fire again, and then he ripped at his shirt, dropping to his knees, cradling his head in his elbows. At the next sign of freezing he was up, trying to run, panting, slapping his arms across his body. As his body began heating, he made for the lake, submerging in the cool water until the chill returned, worse now than before. He continued on like that, running when cold, bathing when hot, for as long as he could. But eventually he lacked the strength to reach the lake, so he slipped noiselessly onto the sand and, after a time of quiet breathing, slept.

  The next day he began falling down.

  The morning was perfect, warm and blue, and although the fever was stronger, he was used to it, knew its limits, was able to cope. He jogged north, stopping from time to time to gaze up at the great houses dotting the bluff rim. At noon the sun was hot, so the chilling times were easier to bear, although the periods of perspiring were probably less comfortable than ever. He swam a good deal during those periods, and it was after a particularly long swim, as he reached for his clothes, that he first fell. His face reflected surprise, but that left, and then he had his clothes in his arms and was running again until he fell. This time he paused on the sand, shaking his head weakly. His stomach rumbled and his eyes burned and the crazy sounds were back in his ears, so he lay still until he could rise. Then he walked north until he fell again. This time he stretched out full on his back, his hands shielding his hot eyes. After a while he rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself into a kneeling position. From there he made it to his feet and began walking. He tried moving straight ahead but he kept veering off, first one way, then the other. Dropping his clothes, he lunged for the lake, falling into the water, resting there. He sat in the water, the waves washing him rhythmically, the sounds in his ears growing louder. He tried to rise but slipped back into the water. Again he tried but he could not make it to his feet, so he stopped trying and lay in the water, waiting for his strength. When it came he got to his feet and broke into a wild run up the beach. There was nothing around him, nothing near, so he closed his eyes and ran. He ran faster than he had ever run before and this time when he fell he got up immediately and ran some more. He fell again and now it was harder to rise but he fought his way off his knees and ran, slower now but as fast as he could. He kept his eyes closed until he felt the lake around his legs and then he turned, because he had veered again, and he left the lake behind him, bolting for the bluff, but he never made it. He fell hard, and now there was no strength left. He tried to rise but his body hugged the sand, and all his kicking did was to move him around in a circle, around and around, his head the center of the circle, his footprints a jagged circumference. He kicked until he stopped. After that he knew nothing, not the week, the year, the time of day. Eventually he became aware of the hospital room, but how he got there he never remembered. In the hospital, however, several things became clear. He had lost eleven pounds. He had a fever of a hundred and five.

  And he was deaf.

  “I didn’t do it!” Sid said. “You can’t blame me.”

  “No one is blaming you, Mr. Miller,” Dr. Weiss said. “Please.”

  Sid glanced down the hospital corridor toward Esther, who sat slumped in a wooden chair. “I love that boy. It’s not my fault. I love him. I would give up my life for that boy.”

  “Please,” Dr. Weiss repeated. “Try to get control, Mr. Miller.”

  “Why did it happen? What?”

  “The boy showed signs of being beaten severely when he was brought in. Particularly around the head and face.”

  “I never touched him. Ask anybody. I have never laid a hand on Rudy.”

  “Undoubtedly he was beaten on the beach. Or someplace nearby. At any rate, he was beaten. And then the infection set in. He was not in good shape when they brought him in, Mr. Miller.”

  “Poor Rudy—God.”

  “The hearing loss isn’t complete. Almost, but not quite. Perhaps, with the use of a hearing aid, plus lip reading—”

  “God,” Sid said. “Why wasn’t it me? Why Rudy?”

  “Would you like to see him?”

  “More than anything.”

  “He’s looking quite well now. May I ask you a question, Mr. Miller?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “I understand the boy’s reluctance to give his name. But why didn’t you notify the police about the boy’s disappearance sooner? Two weeks is a long time to wait.”

  “I wanted to. My wife, she was against it. She kept saying he’d come back. We love the boy. He never ran away before. Every night Esther prayed for his return. It wasn’t the police’s affair, she said. A family business only. We have never liked washing our dirty linen in public.”

  “Yes,” Dr. Weiss said. He gestured down the corridor. “Your son is in the last room. Don’t stay long. I’ll stop in after a few minutes. When I come, that will be your signal to leave.”

  “Bless you, Doctor,” Sid said, and he turned, hurrying to Esther. “Come,” he said. “Come quick.
We can see Rudy now.”

  “Why didn’t you let me call the police? Two weeks he’s been alone. All by himself. We should have been with him. I should have been.”

  “Come,” Sid said. “Every minute is precious.”

  Esther stood. “Rudy,” she said. “Rudy.”

  “The last room. This way.”

  “What did the doctor say to you?”

  “He looks fine, the doctor said.”

  “Then he’s all right.”

  “Perfect. Except maybe for a little trouble with the ears.”

  Esther stopped. “What? What trouble?”

  “Nothing. Some infection he caught.”

  “He can hear?”

  “Of course he can hear. He’ll be perfect.” Sid pulled at her, but she would not move.

  “Tell me.”

  “A hearing aid. Maybe. Now come.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He will be perfect with a hearing aid and maybe some lip reading. Come.”

  “You beat him deaf.”

  “The infection. It was the infection. Ask the doctor. Ask anybody. Don’t get excited. He will be fine.”

  “You beat him deaf!”

  “I hardly touched him. You know that.”

  “Rudy!”

  “Esther—Esther, stop!” Sid chased after her down the corridor.

  “Rudy! Rudy!” and she ran into his room.

  Sid entered a moment later, standing in the doorway, watching as she cradled the boy, rocking back and forth, muttering in Yiddish. “Weh ist mir. Weh ist mir.”

  Sid smiled. “Hello, Rudy,” he said.

  The boy said nothing.

  “You look good, kid. I mean it. Fine.”

  The boy looked at him.

  “Shondeh. Weh ist mir.”

  “They treating you O.K.?”

  Slowly the boy’s eyes widened.

  “Can you hear me, Rudy? At all?”