Aaron was up.
“Are you an actor or a writer or what?” the girl asked him. “Everybody here seems to be one or the other.”
“Neither,” Aaron told her. Then he began to laugh.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” Aaron said. “I was just thinking of this funny thing that happened to me back in rabbinical school.”
“You’re a rabbi?”
Aaron stuck a cigarette in the far corner of his mouth. “Reform,” he said.
“Good for you,” the girl said.
“I try not to think of it as being noble. A job is a job. May I get you a drink?”
She held up her glass. “It’s just ginger ale. I’m a Baptist.”
“Good for you,” Aaron said. “Excuse me.” He started for the bar. The room was crowded and he made his way slowly, pausing for a moment by the piano. The piano player, handsome but turning to flesh, was singing what must have been an original composition:
“Your touch
Is just too much
For such as I ...
“This party is a drag,” the girl sitting by the piano player said. She pointed to a fat balding figure lurking behind the curve of the piano. “That’s my boyfriend. He’s afraid to come out. He’s a worse drag than this party is.” The piano player nodded and went on singing:
“Your touch
In our small hutch
Would make me cry:
Heaven.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” a girl sportswriter wandering by said.
“The hell it doesn’t,” the piano player told her.
“A ‘hutch’ is a box or coop for confining a small animal. Why are you putting your sweetheart in a coop? It just doesn’t make any sense. That’s a lousy song.”
“You know what you can do, dontcha?” the piano player said.
“Sticks and stones,” the girl sportswriter told him, walking away.
Aaron continued on to the bar. He held up his glass, said “Scotch” to the bartender, then waited, looking around. There must have been several hundred people in the various rooms, many of them with famous faces. Across from the bar half a dozen uniformed domestics were busily setting up a buffet of turkey and great slabs of roast beef and glazed ham and salvers of relishes and salads and bowls of fruit and melon balls and thick wedges of imported cheese. “My thanks,” Aaron said to the bartender, taking his filled glass.
“Don’t look now but I’m back,” the religion major said to him. She gestured to a corner. “That’s my escort. He’s talking about the Chicago Bears. Whenever he finds anybody who’ll talk about the Chicago Bears he completely ignores me.”
Aaron followed her gesture. “He’s got yellow teeth and he doesn’t look at who he’s talking to.”
The religion major nodded. “Sometimes I spend an entire evening just staring at the whites of his eyes. Otherwise, he’s very nice.” She glanced at the buffet. “My, my, will you look at that food.”
“Who’s giving this party?”
“Oh, somebody. My escort told me but I forget.”
“Lee Strasberg!” an aficionado of the Actors’ Studio was saying to the girl who had been sitting by the piano player. “Lee Strasberg is the most important single force in the American theater today.”
“What about Gadge?” the girl said.
“Gadge,” the aficionado said. “Gadge. Jesus, you might just as well say Josh, for crissakes.”
“Josh! Josh! Josh!” the girl said. “You’re a worse drag than my boyfriend.” She went back to the piano.
“Your touch
Makes me clutch
My heart ...
If you leave
I’ll be in dutch
With my heart ...
“Now you know what happens when you drink martinis,” the wife of a saxophone player said to her husband, smiling while she said it. “And that’s your fourth.”
“But it’s free booze,” the saxophone player said.
“All right,” his wife said. “All right. But let’s just not try for any sympathy in the morning. We’ve been warned, after all, so let’s just not beg for any back rubs or temple massages or along those lines.”
The saxophone player sighed. “Girls never understand about free booze,” he said.
“I’ll need no crutch
For your touch
Makes me strong ...
“You must get invited to a lot of parties, being a rabbi,” the religion major said.
Aaron smiled. “Hundreds.”
“You must like them, then.”
“I’m a very jovial rabbi,” he admitted. “I was voted that. Back at school. Most jovial. I was the gay blade of Hebrew Union College.”
“Oh, oh, oh,” the girl whispered, “will you just look.”
Aaron turned. A famous fifty-year-old action-movie star had just entered the room, a dazzling young girl on his arm.
“He’s handsomer even than in the movies, don’t you think? My mother’s crazy for him too. Oh, isn’t he virile-looking, though.”
Aaron smiled. “He’s a fag.”
“He is?”
“He is.”
“But he’s married.”
“Of course he’s married. It’s just a smoke screen. That only proves it.”
“It does?”
“It does.”
“But he’s been married three times.”
“That just shows how desperate he is.”
“But he’s all the time having affairs with beautiful young starlets.”
“Some men will go to any lengths to keep a secret.”
“They will?”
“They will.”
“But he loves big-game hunting.”
“Obviously.”
“You mean that proves it too?”
“Don’t you know about big-game hunters?”
“He used to play professional football, though.”
“Oh, you are young,” Aaron said.
“But he’s got seven children.”
Aaron smiled. “It’s such an obvious case of protesting too much. Who else but a fag would have seven children?”
The girl looked at him.
Aaron laughed, put his arm around her. “We have just sung our national anthem,” he said.
Branch walked by on his way to the bar. “Having any fun?”
“Getting any lovin’?” Aaron answered.
Branch laughed. “What a pretty jacket,” he said.
“A gift from an admirer.”
Branch nodded, smiled, continued on toward the bar.
For a moment Aaron watched him. They had not fought or even argued in weeks, since he’d finished the play. At first Scudder’s good humor was a little tough to take, but now he had come almost to enjoy it. Aaron fingered the soft tweed.
“It is a lovely jacket,” the girl said.
“My wife gave it to me,” Aaron explained.
“Oh, you’re—”
“Before she died,” Aaron said softly.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Yes, she died last week,” Aaron went on. “Horribly and—”
“Last week?”
“You’re wondering how I can be out like this tonight, aren’t you, laughing and drinking and smiling at the world? You’re wondering what possible reason I can have for gadding about with my wife barely chill in the ground.”
“Well, if you must know, yes.”
Aaron was about to tell her when Branch screamed.
Branch had screamed once already that day.
Late afternoon, and he had been alone in the apartment. Aaron was off at some movie revival and along about half past five Branch had felt drowsy. He had taken off his shoes and sprawled across the bed and, in a moment, he was dreaming.
The dream he had had before.
All his life, it seemed.
He was a prisoner, standing helpless, great snakes knotted tight around his hands and feet. In front of him was his captor, a
bloodless white maggot, bigger than the sun. The maggot was capable of unbelievable cruelties and there was, in all the universe, only one thing it feared.
The beautiful black prince.
Branch’s black prince. The beautiful black prince with the silver sword that could cut any body, any thing. And now, from halfway across the world, the black prince was coming. And the white maggot knew it and it knew that if it was ever going to have its victim it would have to move, fast, else the black prince would come with his silver sword.
The maggot began to move.
Branch struggled, but the snakes tightened their knots, tightened them until his hands and feet were blue and dying and nothing could loosen them except the silver sword and the maggot picked up speed, coming closer and closer, and its mouth seemed full of claws and the snakes cut into Branch’s skin and from halfway around the world the black prince was coming, the beautiful black prince was coming, but so was the white maggot, like the wind, and the maggot had never been this close before, and where was the black prince? The maggot was so close now than Branch could see it had a breast, two breasts, great hanging things, and its claw mouth opened and started coming down, covering his face, and then there was a crack! as the jaws snapped shut and his head was gone and Branch rose up from the bed, wet, wide-eyed and screaming. For a moment he stood trembling in the middle of his bedroom. Then he fell back on the bed, not daring to close his eyes.
The black prince had left him. The black prince was gone.
Branch was down.
“Your touch
In our small hutch
Would make me cry:
Heaven.”
Branch sipped his Polish vodka and looked at all the people. How pretty some of them were. Across the room Aaron had a lovely brunette in conversation, and although usually he, Branch, would have found tonight his element, now it was all he could do to smile whenever he thought Aaron might possibly be looking at him. He had to keep his feelings from Aaron. His true feelings.
Branch was down.
After twenty years his black prince was leaving him alone at the mercy of the white maggot. And Rose was scandalized by Madonna with Child. It was a mistake, sending her a copy, he knew it at the time, but she had to read it. If she was going to back it, the least he could do was let her read what she was backing. Of course, he had no intention of making her put up the money. He would certainly try to raise it elsewhere first. But lacking success, Rose would have to angel. And loathing the play the way she did ... Naturally he had argued with her, had told her what a lovely thing it was, Aaron’s Madonna.
Had, in other words, lied.
The play was wretched.
The January night that Aaron had outlined it, it seemed potentially fine. But on paper, on paper ...
“Your touch
Makes me clutch
My heart ...
Aaron was so proud of it too. That was one of the difficult things: Aaron actually thought it was good. Branch shook his head. Sooner or later he was going to have to send the play out, let people read it, try and get some money somehow. But so far Rose was the only one to have read it and Branch intended keeping things that way, for just as long as he could. He was not looking forward to any literary criticism, not about Madonna with Child. Of course, he knew he could always change his mind and pitch the project. Except if he did, Rose would drag him home forever. She would take two stubby fingers and pinch his ears and drag him across Pennsylvania to Ohio and—Branch suddenly wondered if Aaron might be looking at him.
Taking no chances, he smiled.
He grinned from ear to ear, cursing his cowardice. I loathe the public me, Branch thought. The private me, he’s not so bad; he’s sweet and gentle and I try to make him kind. He’s really all right. Not perfect, but decent enough. The public me, though, fawns and cringes and sometimes he stutters and I find him despicable. Letting the smile die, he quickly downed his Polish vodka.
“I’ll need no crutch
For your touch
Makes me strong ...
Branch moved to the window and stared unblinking out at Central Park.
“Archie, hi.”
“Hello there, Betty Jane Fiske.”
Branch glanced at the man talking with the exceptionally pretty woman.
“Just get here?” the man said.
“Just.”
“Charley?”
“Hanging up coats.”
“Lemme getcha a drink.” They moved off.
I could just tell him right now, Branch thought. I could just say, “Aaron, it stinks” and then I could go call Rose and tell her the same thing and that I wasn’t coming home. I could do that. I could free myself. There would be no more snakes knotting at my wrists. I could be free of any and all maggots with great swaying breasts and jaws that go click! and I wouldn’t suffer so at the hands of that cruel skeleton. I could kill the public me! I could kill! I have that power! I have—
“Oh dear,” Branch said out loud.
His eyes were wet. With tears of despair.
It was sad but it was true, so it was funny. Here he thought grand murderous thoughts and all the while his eyes were filling with tiny tears and if Aaron saw them he would be altogether merciless. Branch got out his handkerchief and made a show of wiping his forehead. Then he turned, spotted Aaron, turned away and quickly dried his eyes. Then he wiped his forehead again, said, “It’s really hot in here,” out loud, and headed for the bar.
Aaron was muttering something about a national anthem, his arm around some girl’s shoulder.
“Having any fun?”
“Getting any lovin’?”
“What a pretty jacket,” and the words “A gift from an admirer” trailed after him as he continued on to the bar. Branch tried very hard not to think about the jacket. It had cost twice too much and he had bought it in desperation after he had finished reading Madonna with Child. He had bundled Aaron up and they had zoomed down in a taxi to Brooks and they had got the jacket and Aaron had worn it with such obvious pride that, as he paid for it, Branch almost managed to convince himself that buying it had been a good idea.
Why did you buy it, fool?
I was afraid. I was afraid.
Of what?
Of ...
Of what?
“Vodka, please,” Branch said. The bartender filled his glass. Branch leaned down on his elbows and cupped his glass between his hands. Then he closed his eyes.
“Charley ...” It was the voice of the exceptionally pretty woman.
Branch opened his eyes.
“Charley, Rudy—over here.”
Branch glanced toward the two men. The one called Charley he ignored. The one called Rudy made him weak.
Branch screamed.
His black prince stood in the doorway.
Branch had the sense to drop his glass. It shattered. Then Aaron was beside him. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You screamed. Why?”
“No reason.”
A crowd was growing around them. Aaron supported Branch as best he could but neither was Branch light nor Aaron strong. “Are you all right?”
“Lie ... down.”
“Help me, then.” Aaron draped Branch’s arm around his shoulder and started to move. The crowd was bigger now, everyone was watching, so Aaron said, “A little too much too fast, O.K.? Clear the way, huh? That’s right. Thank you,” and they moved from the bar down a wide hall into a bedroom filled with rented coat racks. Aaron shoved the racks aside and lowered Branch gently to the bed.
“Thank you,” Branch whispered.
“You going to be all right?”
“Fine.”
“Haven’t you any idea what happened?”
“Just ... got dizzy.”
“Well, Jesus, Scudder, you’re my producer; you can’t go folding up on me.”
Branch smiled, closed his eyes.
“Want me to stay with you?”
“No ... I’ll j
oin you in a little ... don’t let me spoil the party ... just close the door ... and thank you, Aaron.”
“Take it easy,” Aaron said, closing the door behind him.
Alone, Branch waited a moment. Then he whirled off the bed, eyes bright, arms out, turning, turning, circling the room, dancing a wild dance. “Any way I can get it,” he replied.
Half hidden by a doorway, Branch held his breath and stared at the three people surrounding the boy with the hearing aid—an exceptionally pretty woman, a large handsome man, another man who looked a lot like Robert Mitchum. They were talking, the quartet, and Branch was very careful to look at only the other three. Then the black prince glanced away. Branch stared at him. The black prince glanced back. Branch looked away.
“You’re sure you’re all right?” Aaron said, coming up from behind.
“Yes.”
“You look flushed.”
Branch held up his glass. “Just water now. Too much drinking. I’m fine.”
Aaron nodded and started away, saying, “I think I’ll go bait the piano player.”
Branch resumed his vigil. The party was getting louder now as more and more people entered the enormous apartment. Still hidden, Branch stared as the deaf boy looked away, looked away as the deaf boy glanced in his direction. Then the exceptionally pretty woman smiled and excused herself and crossed out of sight. Branch followed her, watched as she entered the powder room, waited a few moments until she came out, fresh lipstick on her perfect mouth. “There you are,” Branch said then. “I’ve been wanting to apologize to you. I’m Branch Scudder.”
She looked at him.
Branch laughed. “I’m the one who practically fell apart on top of you back there by the bar. Too much drinking.” He held up his glass. “Just water now. Feel a lot better. I really owe you an apology, Mrs. ...”
“Betty Jane Fiske. I didn’t place you at first.”
“Mrs. Betty Jane Fiske. Isn’t this a marvelous apartment? I love the Dakota. You must let me show you the view.” He escorted her to a window. “I really do apologize, Mrs. Fiske.”
Betty Jane laughed. “You do it very nicely.”
“Thank you. Your husband, is he an actor? He looks perhaps like he might be one.”
The Novels of William Goldman: Boys and Girls Together, Marathon Man, and the Temple of Gold Page 79