“Or yellow? God. Yellow.”
“Cowards, I guess,” Sonny said.
“The sun,” said Marty. “Heat. Energy. Life. Van Gogh’s sunflowers.”
“I never saw them,” Sonny admitted.
“They’ll knock you out,” Gunner said.
“And goldenrod,” Marty went on, “growing wild.”
“I’ve seen that, as a kid,” Sonny said. “Does it still grow around here?”
“Sure. You just stopped seeing it. You stopped looking. Most people do.”
“Hell, yes,” said Gunner. “You go stale. You have it as a kid, that way of seeing things, and you lose it. That’s what they call ‘growing up.’”
“I guess, yeh,” said Sonny.
“Going back, going back to seeing it fresh, like a child, that’s art,” Marty said. Her face had a real glow of excitement. Gunner put an arm around her and hugged her against him.
“This kid’s got it,” he said. “She can teach it, too.”
“Better than Artists Unlimited, I bet.” Sonny grinned.
“Oh, man! Wait’ll I show you the letter I got. When I didn’t do Lesson Number One and didn’t send the next fee.”
Gunner went over to where he had slung a khaki jacket over a chair, and he pulled out this letter and handed it to Sonny.
“All over America,” it said, “the lights are burning late at night in the homes of those who are getting ahead. Ambition is burning, while others sleep. We don’t think you’re the kind of sleepy soul who wants to let opportunity and fortune pass him by. We know you want to complete this course and be right in the forefront of the kind of creative people who will emerge as the great talents and geniuses of their generation. Please send the $10 fee for your next lesson—not for our sake, for yours.”
“Wow,” Sonny said.
“See, they’re worried about me” Gunner said. “It’s not the bucks they want.”
“Of course not, dear,” Marty said mockingly. “It’s your future they’re worried about.”
“I bet Orville Lockwood himself is worried,” Sonny said.
“Maybe he’ll paint a magazine cover showing me staying up late, burning with ambition.”
“Is that what you burn with, dear? Ambition?”
Marty squeezed Gunner and he gave her a kiss on the forehead.
“Sometimes,” he said.
Sonny looked away, imagining Gunner and Marty burning up with lust every night, their bodies tangled in bizarre positions never before imagined. Gunner moved away from Marty and said why didn’t they all go out for a nice one. Sonny appreciated that; he felt Gunner must have sensed that he was feeling kind of out of it. Some guys seemed to delight in lording it over you when they had a girl, nuzzling up to her in front of you and sort of looking like “See what I’ve got and you haven’t?” but Gunner was good about that kind of thing. He didn’t go in for showing people up, even though he could have if he was that kind of guy.
They had a round of Buds at the Key and then went to Marty’s house. She and Gunner were going out again that night, and they asked Sonny to join them but he said he was busy. He just figured it would depress him to be out with them when he didn’t have a girl he was hot for himself. They insisted he stop by the house, though, to meet Marty’s old man and he said O.K. to that.
The house was one of those imposing brick jobs set way back from the street on Washington Boulevard. It looked like a small castle, with vines running all over it and casement windows. While Marty got dressed to go out, Sonny and Gunner went and sat in the den and had a drink with Mr. Pilcher.
Solomon Pilcher was the first man Sonny ever met in person who could genuinely be described as suave. Not slick, not slippery. Genuinely suave. When he made you a drink, he didn’t just slosh some booze in a glass and plunk a couple of ice cubes in it. He measured; he poured; he stirred. He proffered the drink to his guests with a manner that made you feel special, like an honor was being bestowed, a bond established. But for all this there was nothing stiff or uncomfortably formal about the man, and Sonny not only felt at ease with him, he felt more sophisticated himself, as if Mr. Pilcher’s charm was a kind of light that brightened his guests as well as him. He treated you as a gentleman, and so you felt like one.
The room itself made you feel good, too. Wherever you sat—on the pillow-fattened sofa or one of two matching easy chairs—you sank, softly, into a downy ease. Quiet, intricate music came from a pair of speakers whose parts were all hidden except for a pair of speakers that were blended among the books. The books were fine and old, yet they didn’t just seem like decoration. Sonny felt sure Mr. Pilcher really read them, returned to them like honored friends, and chose just the right one to suit his particular mood. Gunner got talking about Japan, and Mr. Pilcher asked interested, interesting questions; he was conversant, of course, with certain aspects of Japanese culture—philosophy, art, the theater. Warmed by the drink and the conversation, Sonny would have been happy to sit there the rest of the evening.
When Marty came down, Mr. Pilcher stood up and Sonny and Gunner scrambled to their feet. Mr. Pilcher asked Marty if she cared to join them in a drink, addressing her like a visiting princess instead of his young daughter fresh out of college. Marty looked tan and cool in a white summer dress that was cut low enough to show the beginning of her cleavage. She wore several interesting rings and a gold sort of band in the form of a serpent on the upper part of her left arm. She had no makeup on except for the dark accentuation of her deep brown eyes. Sonny felt himself getting a hard-on, and he felt crude and uncivilized.
“You look lovely, dear,” Mr. Pilcher said.
“Terrific,” said Gunner.
“Yeh, I’ll say,” Sonny added and quickly shut up, his bumbling compliment sounding raw and awkward in the perfumed air. He drained the last of his drink and the ice cubes made a clicking noise against his teeth.
“Let me freshen that.”
Mr. Pilcher was across the room and had the glass before Sonny could decide if it was the right thing to have a second, so he just settled back to enjoy it. Marty mainly talked to her father while Gunner looked on admiringly, and Sonny’s concentration floated pleasantly off as he enjoyed the voices, the pleasant tone and feeling of what was being said, without really hearing the words. The comfortable mood, the serenity of the room, was broken by a brittle voice that said curtly, “We’re late.”
In the door was a small, sharp-faced lady who was browned in that leathery way that comes to middle-aged women who are serious about their golf.
Mr. Pilcher stood up and said, “You know Mr. Casselman, dear; this is his friend Mr. Burns. My wife, Lilly.”
“Evening,” said Gunner, snapping to attention, and Sonny stood and said, “Pleased to meet you.”
Mrs. Pilcher gave each of the guys a quick glance, almost like a slap, and turned to Marty. “Just remember you have to be up early tomorrow,” she said.
“Yes, Mother.”
“Let’s go,” she said to Mr. Pilcher. He smiled, set down his drink, and came over to shake hands with Sonny and Gunner.
“It was pleasant to talk with you. I hope we’ll meet again.”
“Thank you, sir,” Sonny said.
“Great,” said Gunner. “See ya soon.”
Sonny was glad his parents weren’t home when Marty and Gunner dropped him off; he wanted to be alone and think. He went to his room to put on his favorite thinking record, The New World Symphony. It was the only symphony record he owned, and he guessed maybe he liked it because there was a popular song made out of the tune of one part of the symphony, a song called “Going Home,” which was sad and yet somehow sweet and nostalgic. The whole symphony reminded Sonny of wide open spaces, autumn campfires, and wild, strong rivers. America past and pure, still clean and uncluttered. He put on the record and lit a cigarette, thinking what a great guy Marty’s old man was, the great way he made you feel just talking to you. Sonny wondered if it was the thing people called “Old World charm
,” and whether there was something Jewish about it, some quality they had. Most people thought of Jews as talking too loud and trying to Jew you down, out of your money, but Sonny had several professors who were Jewish and had that special aura of culture and grace that Mr. Pilcher had.
The only other person he knew who had that, though, wasn’t Jewish at all. It was Mrs. Hullen, the mother of a girl who Sonny had a real crush on when he was a sophomore at Shortley. Mrs. Hullen came from one of those families where everyone went to the fancy Eastern colleges and all of them had swanky jobs like being presidents of banks and Episcopal bishops and headmasters of expensive little schools, and she married a man from the same sort of clan who graduated from Harvard Law School and was a leading attorney. But Mrs. Hullen didn’t seem to Sonny like a snob; she had that way of treating you as a gentleman and so making you feel like one even when you only were a moldy sophomore in high school. She offered you tea and liked to have real conversations, talking about world events and books, not in a dry, schoolmarm way but so it was really interesting and fun, and her eyes were fantastically alive, as if taking everything in and getting a big kick out of it all. Sonny loved just seeing the way she sat in a chair, her back perfectly straight, without seeming stiff or uncomfortable, her hands resting in her lap, occasionally making a graceful gesture but never fidgeting. He could simply not imagine her ever crying or yelling at anyone or going to pieces, and yet she was a mother, with a son and two daughters. Mr. Hullen was polite enough, but he hardly ever said anything and seemed a little scary to Sonny. If it came to picking an All-Star parent team, Sonny would choose Mrs. Hullen and Mr. Pilcher. But that was something you couldn’t choose, at least for yourself. You took what you got and made the best of it. Or the worst of it.
Sonny went out taking pictures by himself the next day, feeling very proud and manly that he was getting off his ass and doing something constructive without anyone else’s help or urging or companionship. He went to a little playground about a half-mile from his house, nearer to the old neighborhood he’d grown up in. There was a wading pool and swings and teeter-totters, and Sonny really got a kick out of watching the kids and getting what he thought were some good shots. He stopped off and had a cherry Coke at Binkley’s Drugs on the way home, and came in hot and tired but feeling a nice satisfaction with himself. He even noticed a little stirring, an almost physical sense of the small, fluttery feeling of a kind of hope.
He walked in the den and found his mother wiping her eyes with a wet washcloth. Her face was pink and puffy.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“That woman,” Mrs. Burns said. “I am going to give that woman a piece of my mind.”
“What woman?”
“Your friend’s mother. That Casselman woman.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“That woman had the nerve to call me and go on and on about you being a bad influence on him. Can you beat that? Her son is just perfect, of course. God’s gift to the universe. Innocent as a babe in arms. My foot, he is. I know what he is. And I know what he’s done to you.”
“For God sake, we’ve been all through that stuff. It’s none of your business.”
“Oh, I suppose it’s her business, though?”
“No, it’s not anyone’s business.”
“I’d have gone to see that woman long before this, except I knew you’d hate me even more.”
“Please don’t say that stuff. I don’t hate you. I don’t hate anyone. Please don’t do something awful.”
“You see,” she started sobbing. “Whatever I do is awful.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“You think it. You think I’m awful. My only son. When you were a little boy you loved me so, and now you hate me.”
“Stop it!” Sonny shouted. “Stop saying that stuff or I’ll shoot myself! I swear to God I’ll find a gun and shoot myself!”
Mrs. Burns began screaming. Then great, horrible sobs came out of her, as if her insides were being wrenched out. Great spots were exploding in Sonny’s eyes, and he thought he was going to heave. He groped for the door and went outside, blinking as he propped one hand against a white square wooden pillar of the porch. He closed his eyes and tried to settle his mind.
Hi Diddle diddle
Cat with a fiddle
Cow jumped out into Noon
Little dog laughed to see the port
And the Prince ran away with a goon
He stood on the porch until he stopped shaking so bad and then went back inside. His mother was pressing the washcloth on her forehead, sniffling and breathing hard.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” said Sonny. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She managed a little smile that looked like it hurt. “I’ve got to fix my face. I’ve got to see that woman at six o’clock.”
There wasn’t any way he could argue her out of it, so he insisted on going with her. He went upstairs and called Gunner from the little telephone alcove. Gunner had already talked to his own mother, and he sounded a hundred years old.
Mrs. Burns got all dolled up in a pink suit and matching pillbox hat. She looked like she was going to a PTA meeting. Maybe that’s sort of what it was, except the children were grown. All they needed was a teacher to chair the meeting.
Gunner greeted them at the door, wearing a fatigue camouflage suit he’d brought home from the Army. Sonny wished he had one too, even though he knew that kind of camouflage wasn’t going to help much. It was designed to keep you safe in jungles from enemy gooks, but it couldn’t protect you from wild mothers. Nina Casselman was arranged on the couch, wearing one of her slinky silk-blouse-and-toreador outfits and the backless white heels, one of them dangling from the toes of a crossed leg. Sonny felt a flush of excitement and looked away. It seemed like betraying his own mother to get sexed up by her enemy-mother. Mrs. Burns sat down in an armchair and Sonny stood beside her, as if taking up a required position.
“Would you care to have something cold to drink, Mrs. Burns?” Gunner asked politely.
“I don’t drink, thank you,” she said as curtly as possible.
“I meant a Coke or something. Orange juice?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
Gunner and his mother already had drinks themselves, and without even asking Sonny, Gunner brought him a martini strong enough to curl the hair on your chest.
Nina dipped a finger in her martini, sort of stirring it around, and said haughtily, “It’s too bad this had to happen.”
“I agree with you there,” Mrs. Burns said. “If your son hadn’t influenced Sonny the way he had—”
“My son,” said Nina, “is a leader, always has been. Frankly it’s beyond me how he got mixed up with your son and his radical, antisocial ideas, but—”
“My son has always been a good boy, a normal person, until he met—him—that playboy with a beard.”
“He never had a beard before he got mixed up with your son.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Gunner said.
“It’s true,” Nina insisted.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with anything,” Gunner said.
“No,” Sonny said. “It really doesn’t.”
Neither of the mothers paid any attention.
“I can understand,” Nina continued, “how a boy like your son, who never pledged anything, who wasn’t in any house at all in college much less a good house—I can understand how a bitter boy like that would be attracted by Jews and Communists, but—”
“Jews! It’s your son who’s out lalligagging around with a Jewish girl day and night, everyone knows about that, let me tell you—”
“My son was never involved with any Jew girl until he started running with your son and his crowd.”
“What crowd?” Sonny asked, startled at the notion of his being the leader of a crowd of any kind, which is what Nina made it sound like.
“There isn’t any crowd, Nina
,” Gunner said.
“Don’t lie for him, he’s got you all confused,” Nina said.
“I really don’t have any crowd, Mrs. Casselman,” Sonny said.
“Don’t try to brainwash me, young man!”
“Brainwash!” Mrs. Burns shouted. “My boy’s the one who’s been brainwashed. It’s your son who has the communistic beard. My Sonny shaves, like a good American.”
“Of course!” Nina said. “He wants to be safe himself, he wants to talk other people into beards and let them take the consequences.”
“It’s my goddam beard!” Gunner said. “Nobody talked me into it.”
“They have their ways,” Nina insisted. “You don’t even know how they do it, how they talk you into doing their bidding.”
“Are you implying my Sonny is a Communist?” Mrs. Burns asked in a trembling voice.
“If the shoe fits, wear it,” Nina said. “If you lie down with dogs you come up with fleas.”
“You can say that again, but it’s my son who got the fleas!” Mrs. Burns yelled.
“Please,” Sonny pleaded, looking helplessly at Gunner.
Gunner went to the middle of the room, pointing his hands at each mother, like a referee, and made an announcement.
“Listen,” he said. “I’ll shave off the beard. Will that make everybody happy? Is that what it’s all about?”
“It’s what’s on the inside that counts,” Mrs. Burns said, sobbing.
“It sure is, sister,” Nina said sharply. “And let me tell you—”
“Cut it, Nina, just cut it,” Gunner ordered. “I’m shaving the beard and that’s all she wrote.”
Sonny put a hand on his mother’s quaking shoulder and said firmly, “Come on, let’s go. We have to go home.”
Sonny drove the car back while his mother sat sniffling and crying, leaning against her door as if she were trying to press so hard she’d fall out. When they got home she washed her face and had two aspirin and a Pepsi.
“Are you still going to see that boy, after what happened?”
“After what happened!” Sonny yelled. “What happened was you and his mother acted like crazy people, that’s what happened!”
Going All the Way Page 22