“It’s Endicott 2-7299.”
“Endicott 2-7299,” Aaron said. “Gotcha. Call you right back.” He hung up and stretched out on the bed, closing his eyes, wondering how long it would take Scudder to realize no call was going to come. Quiet, Aaron waited with a smile. As the wait grew, the smile grew, and seven minutes later when the telephone rang Aaron answered it with cheer. “Hello.”
“You didn’t call me back,” Branch managed, the hurt in his voice genuine and lingering. “And I only called you this time for one reason. And that’s to say goodbye. You went too far, Aaron. I’m not a kid anymore. You can’t treat me like that. You didn’t call me back. You just let me sit there. Well, this is goodbye.”
“Who is this?” Aaron said. “Who am I talking to?”
“It’s too late for games, Aaron. You went too far and—”
“I want to know who I’m talking to.”
“Dammit, Aaron—”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Branch and you know it and—”
“Who?”
“Branch. Branch Scudder.”
“Oh my God,” Aaron said. “Branch Scudder. Now I understand. I thought I was talking to Branch Scudder. Don’t you see my mistake? I never much liked Branch Scudder and—”
“If you hang up one more time, Aaron—”
“Shut up. You love it.”
“I don’t! I don’t! Not anymore.”
“Branch Scudder, well, what do you know. And all the time I thought I was talking to Branch Scudder. Well, how are you, Branch Scudder? I haven’t seen you since my Army days.”
“I won’t call you back again, Aaron. I promise.”
“Oh-oh, I just remembered something.”
“I mean it. You hang up again and we’ll never see each other. Not ever. I swear.”
“What I just remembered was I never much liked Branch Scudder either.”
“I’ll hang up on you, Aaron. I will. It’ll be goodbye. I’ll never call you back and you’ll never get a chance to hang up on me again and I’m not kidding either so just—”
“Toodle-oo,” Aaron said and he hung up. Licking his lips, he sat huddled over the black phone, his knees pressed against his thin chest, his fingers caressing the receiver. Aaron waited. The phone did not ring. Aaron smiled. You’ll call, he thought. Fight the good fight, but you’ll call. The phone did not ring. Aaron stood up and stretched. Across from him, the wastebasket had stopped smoking, so he approached it, staring down at the black ashes. He prodded the basket with his foot. The ashes stirred, resettled. Call, Aaron thought, and he smiled again, because Scudder was just so feeble. That was the only word for him. Feeble. Aaron stuck a cigarette in a corner of his mouth and began to pace. Call, dammit. I mean it, Scudder. I don’t like being kept waiting, so you better call. Nobody keeps me waiting. Nobody keeps ...” Aaron stopped pacing and began to laugh, because for a moment he pictured Scudder in the phone booth, bald and sweating, feebly trying to keep his feeble hands off the phone, and that picture was so ridiculous he just had to laugh. Here he was, he, Aaron Fire, getting a little worked up over something like that. Tsk-tsk, for shame. Aaron stretched lazily and returned to his bed, lying flat, watching the smoke rise. Poor Scudder. Poor feeble Scudder. Every second he could postpone the call was a minor triumph for him, the closest he would ever come to glory. Scudder, I salute you, Aaron thought, and he raised his fingers in the gesture. He tossed the cigarette onto the floor. He felt relaxed, completely relaxed, except for a vague burning deep behind his eyes. The start of a headache maybe. Too much smoking and not enough sleep—that’ll do it every time. Aaron rubbed his eyes. He heard the phone, or thought he did, so he rolled up on one elbow, looking at it, waiting for the next ring, but it didn’t come, so it must have been his imagination. Aaron lay flat again, rubbing his eyes harder, because they hurt, but the rubbing only made them worse, so he rolled up on one elbow again and glared at the phone. Scudder, I pity you, you have my pity, a drop of my pity, but, goddammit, call! Call! Call! And he was up again, walking again, smoking again, kneading his hands before him as he went. He hated waiting, hated it, and I’m warning you, Scudder, you just better make the damn call if you know what’s good for you. Aaron began clapping his hands out of rhythm with his walking: step-clap-step-clap-clap-step-step—what was it Scudder had said? That he had changed, that he wasn’t like that anymore? Impossible. Scudders never changed. Scudders were Scudders. If you pinched them they smiled and you could count on that; it was a given, permanent, a rock resisting the sea. So why didn’t he call? Aaron ran to the wastebasket and reached down, grabbing out a handful of ashes. He would have looked at them longer had there been something to see, but there wasn’t, so he began to rub his hands along his thin arms, blackening his skin. He grabbed another handful of ashes and when his arms were black and his hands were black he set to work on his face, rubbing his tender eyelids much too hard, trying to reach his brain. He didn’t want the call, it wasn’t that; he just hated being kept waiting. It was the waiting that got to him, the waiting. Aaron dropped to his knees beside the phone, lifted the receiver and started to dial. What was the number Scudder had said? Endicott? Endicott three? No, two. Two and then three. Or was it five? Seven? Aaron held the receiver until he remembered that if Scudder was trying to call, the line would be busy, so he plunged it back into its cradle and waited on his knees. The waiting. The damn waiting. That was what hell was. Waiting. Just waiting. He didn’t want the call. He knew what would follow it and he didn’t want that. I don’t want it, Aaron thought. I honest to God on my sacred word of honor cross my heart and hope to—“No!” Aaron cried and he closed his eyes, blind now, blind and kneeling over the phone.
Because he wanted the call.
He wanted the call.
God, are you going to pay. Scudder, I promise you, I swear, Scudder, on my father’s grave, Scudder, you are going to feel regret, Scudder, such regret that I cringe for you, Scudder, for you will writhe, Scudder, I promise you that, endless writhing. That I promise you, and more. The telephone rang. Aaron, on his knees, opened his eyes and slowly lifted the receiver.
“I called you back,” Branch whispered. “I called you back. I didn’t mean to but I did. I tried not to. I couldn’t help it. But I called you back. Here I am. Now what do you want from me?”
“Aaron!” Aaron said. “Aaron, it’s me Branch. Branch Scudder.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Didn’t you hear me, Aaron? This is me. Branch. I just got in town and I thought I’d call you.”
“Whatever you’re doing, Aaron, don’t,” Branch said.
“Say hello to me, Aaron. Say hello to Branch.”
“Don’t,” Branch said.
“Say hello to me, Aaron.”
“Please.”
“Aaron, this is Branch. Say hello. Say hello!”
“Hello,” Branch whispered.
“Not just ‘hello,’ Aaron. Say ‘hello, Branch.”
“Hello, Branch.”
“Hello, Aaron,” Aaron said. “How are you? I’m pretty good. I mean I’m still the same little swish I was in the Army, but other than that I’m pretty good.”
“What do you want from me?” Branch said.
“I loathe you, Aaron, do you know that?”
“No.”
“But you cause me pain and I love pain.”
“Not anymore.”
“Will you hurt me, Aaron, if I say please? Pretty please. Pretty please with sugar on it if you hurt me.”
“Aaron—”
“And you hate me too, don’t you, Aaron? Way down deep, you hate me.”
“No.”
“Yes, you do. Say it. Say you hate me.”
“No.”
“Say you hate me or I won’t let you hurt me anymore. And you know how you love that. Say you hate me.”
“I hate you. I hate you.”
“We hate each other, don’t we, Aaron?”
“Yes.”
<
br /> “Then will you marry me, Aaron? Will you come and live with me and let me keep you like a whore except you’ll be my wife?”
“Aaron—”
“Will you marry me, Aaron? Say you’ll marry me.”
“Please—”
“This is a proposal, Aaron. Will you be my wife? Say it.”
“No.”
“Say it.”
“Aaron, don’t, for God’s sake, Aaron, please don’t make—”
“Say it!”
“All right. I’ll say it.”
“You’ll come and be my wife.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Then repeat after me: for richer or richer.”
“Yes.”
“In sickness.”
“Sickness.”
“Forever and ever.”
“Forever.”
“From now till doomsday.”
“Doomsday.”
XIX
“OF COURSE HE’S QUEER,” TONY said. “My God, how can you even argue the point?” She lay on the sofa and slowly raised her legs until they formed a right angle with her body. Then, effortlessly, she lowered her legs to the cushions, paused a moment, then raised them again.
Walt pushed his glasses up snug against the bridge of his nose with his left thumb. It was two o’clock on a muggy October morning and they were sitting in the living room of Tony’s apartment in a new red-brick building on East 53rd Street. “I went to college with Branch,” Walt said. “He dated girls as much as most people.”
“Nevertheless, dear heart, he’s queer,” Tony said. She was wearing tight black slacks and a light-gray cashmere cardigan buttoned to the throat and she continued, slowly, to raise and lower her legs.
I know why you’re doing that, Walt thought. You’re doing it because I happened to run into a college acquaintance of mine walking along Third Avenue and he’s been in New York a month and in the excitement I forgot to introduce you until he was gone and I told you I was sorry, but apologies are never enough for someone like you. What you want is for me to make a pass at you so you can get your kicks turning me down. Walt looked closely at her as she lay stretched on the couch, moving her legs. Her skin was dark and clear, her hair black, her lips red. I’m on to you, you teasing bitch. Not this time. I’m not gonna make a pass because if I did you would only remind me, again, of your precious virginity.
“Can’t we cut the calisthenics?” Walt said.
“You don’t find it attractive?”
“No-no, it’s too attractive. I’m liable to go berserk just watching you. See, lady athletes are my weakness. I’ve got pinups all over my room. Russian lady shot-putters. Tamara Press, she’s my dream girl. What a body—65-48-72.”
Tony continued moving her legs, up and down, up and down. “Knowing you, I believe it,” she said. “Getting back to your friend—”
“Boy, you make that sound dirty. Now I know you’re very knowledgeable about homosexuals, having taken Perversion I at good old Sarah Lawrence.”
Tony sat up on the couch. “What’s wrong with Sarah Lawrence?”
“Nothing’s wrong with Sarah Lawrence. It happens to be a marvelous school. Why, it’s probably the only college left in the world where you can still major in Phrenology.”
“Ohhhh, hims made a jokey.”
“Love that baby talk.”
“Hers only does it to get hims vexed.”
“Well, hims is vexed, so hers can can it.”
“You’re my cutesy-wootsy,” Tony said, and she lay back on the couch. “The reason I know about Branch or whatever his name is is that I happen to be a girl. Girls can tell things about guys like that. A guy like that, he reacts to a girl different from a guy who isn’t like that. That’s how I know he’s a fag.”
“Tony, dammit—”
“What are you so defensive about? Did you have the hots for him or something? Is that why you wouldn’t introduce me? Afraid I wouldn’t measure up to old Baldy?”
Walt said nothing.
Tony looked at him. “Oh-oh,” she said. “You’re mad at me. I’ve gone too far. I keep forgetting what a sensitive creature you are.”
“Let’s just please change the subject. Talk about something else. How about getting me a cup of coffee?”
“Say you forgive me,” Tony said, and she jumped up from the couch and ran behind Walt’s chair, throwing her arms around his neck. “Please. You’ve got to.” She leaned over his shoulder until her upside-down face was level with his. “If you don’t, I’ll fog your glasses,” and she tightened her hold on his neck, blowing hard on his lenses until they were steamed up. Then she began to giggle.
“ It really isn’t funny, y’know.”
“Oh yes it is too. You should see yourself.” She slipped over the arm of the chair and fell into his lap. “Kiss me, my fool,” she said.
Walt kissed her.
Tony jumped to her feet.
“Hey,” Walt said.
Tony shook her head. “Only one to a customer.” She looked at him. “God, you’re a sexy wench, Kirkaby, old foggy Kirkaby, old coffee drinker.”
“Forget the damn coffee.” And he reached out for her, but she skipped clear of his grasp and disappeared into the kitchen. “Nuts,” Walt muttered, and he sat in the chair, all hot and bothered, all bothered and hot. She could always do that to him; no matter how casually he determined to play an evening, she could always shatter his characterization, make him commit himself one way or another, thus enabling her to reject him. Walt made a fist and was about to slam it down against the arm of the chair when he realized that if he did, she would hear, and if she heard, she would be able—with her cat’s mind—not only to identify the sound but also to know its reason, and once she knew that, then she would make a sound of her own—not quite stifled laughter—and he had heard her make that sound more than too many times. Slowly, with some difficulty, Walt relaxed his hand.
A lightning flash lit the world outside the window. Then the ensuing thunder.
“What was that?” Tony called.
Walt told her what it was.
Tony stuck her head out from the kitchen. “Gonna rain?”
“Not supposed to.”
“Good for the farmers,” Tony said, and she disappeared again.
“Good for the farmers,” Walt muttered and he stood, moving slowly to the window, gazing out. “Nuts,” he whispered, and he turned, starting for the kitchen, but halfway there he detoured left, pausing at the door to
Tony’s bedroom. The room was dark until another bolt of lightning lit it long enough for him to see the large double bed. Walt stared at it. Even after the room was dark he continued to stare.
Wistfully.
“Almost ready,” Tony called.
Walt made his way to the kitchen. “You are a supreme chef,” he said.
“I am that.” She nodded. “Pavilion is just dying for my instant-coffee recipe but I’m holding out; I don’t think the world’s ready for it.”
“Tony,” Walt said, and then he stepped up behind her and clasped his hands around her waist, kissing her neck.
“Quit with the funny stuff, huh?”
Walt released her. “That was supposed to be sexy.”
“Kirkaby, old kirk, that’s your trouble: when you’re sexy, you’re funny.”
“And when I’m funny?”
“You’re not funny.”
“God, you’re a bitch.”
Tony turned on him. “I don’t much like that. I genuinely do not.”
“Protest too much lately?”
“All right,” she said. “All right. Get this now. I didn’t start this. You did. You came in here and you had to start making remarks about what a lousy cook I am and lama lousy cook but I don’t like being reminded particularly and you know I don’t like being reminded particularly so what do you do, naturally, but lip off, asking for it, so I give it to you, just like you’re asking for, but that doesn’t make me a bitch. If you wou
ld just once grasp that when I’m what you think of as bitchy I’m not being bitchy, just defensive—well, try being sweet sometime, I’ll be sweet back. I don’t start things. Never. Not me. You. Always you. Always.”
“You win,” Walt said, and he meant to stop there, but then he said, “You shouldn’t but you do,” and then he said “Dammit” louder than he ever intended, so he grabbed the cup of instant coffee from her hands and turned back into the living room. Moving to the window, he stared sadly out at the rain.
Why sadly? What in the rain made him sad? Something ... something ... Then he remembered that it had to do with Blake and their last night together, and as he remembered he heard Tony’s voice.
“What?” Tony asked from the couch.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening.” Walt gripped his cup.
“You just said ‘Oh.’ Why?”
“Did I? No reason.” He took a sip of coffee and continued to stare at the rain. He was aware that Tony was saying something, and probably he should have listened, answered, but probably, again, what she was saying was only his name, “Walt? Walt?” time after time.
Then she was close behind him, her body pressing lightly against his, her hands clasped tight around his waist. We always seem to come up behind each other, Walt thought. I wonder why that is.
And while he was wondering he stepped clear of her embrace, turning to face her. “The coffee,” he said. “It might spill.” He moved to the chair and sat down.
She moved to the arm of the chair, hesitated, started to sit, straightened, then sat on the couch. “Coffee all right?”
“Fine,” Walt said.
“You’re a gentleman and a liar.”
“No, really,” Walt said. “It’s fine.”
“What are you thinking?” Tony said, and then she clapped her hand to her mouth. “I hate girls who ask that. Absolutely loathe and despise them. Forgive me?”
“Forgiven.” Walt stared out the window at the rain.
“Merci.”
Walt made a smile.
“What are you thinking?” Tony said. Then: “My God, I just did it again.”
Walt made another smile, took a long sip of coffee, put the cup down. “It’s about that time,” he said, and he stood.
The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold Page 64