There Should Have Been Castles

by Herman Raucher

  “You were getting more money than I was.”

  “Right. So what? Richie was over a barrel and I took advantage of it. And it wasn’t as if I was a bad dancer. I was damned good.”

  “Why’d you quit?”

  “I quit, dear heart, because I’m having a baby.”

  “What?”

  “I was in my third month when I signed on with you guys. I didn’t want to tell that to Richie, and I didn’t want to push it much beyond my fourth month because I’ve had two misses already. Jesus, kid, what the hell has he been saying about me?”

  “Nothing good.”

  “Yeah? Well, if he tells you we were making it, don’t believe him. We weren’t. Anything else he says, I don’t give a crap.”

  “Okay.”

  “And would you please ask Barry to call me about the fucking tax forms? I don’t want to have my baby in jail.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Bye, kid. Take care of yourself.”

  “You, too—and the baby.”

  I hung up, things awash in my head that I didn’t like. Okay, so Richie had lied. I knew he could lie. I had often been around when he lied. Often he had lied to me, as was obviously the case with Sheila. But the big question, the nervous question, was had he lied to me about Ben? Because if he had, if he’d lied to me about Ben, and about Ben’s not wanting to see me, and about Ben’s being with Marjorie Kimbrough, then he had fucked up my life and deserved to be dead. I could kill him and get away with it because no jury would convict me. I could claim to have done it as a public service and they’d give me a medal instead of a prison term.

  Richie’s accomplice in that act, if he had lied about Ben, would have to have been Barry Nadler. Barry had backed up everything that Richie had told me about Ben. It wasn’t yet eight P.M. Barry wouldn’t be in until nine the next morning. Though I wasn’t hungry, I went downstairs for a hamburger and coffee, and I came back with some magazines because there was no TV in Barry’s office that I could waste my mind on. It was going to be a long wait between trains.

  You know how things get exaggerated in the night, how fevers rise and toothaches get worse. Well, so do doubts. They rise and get worse, and by dawn mine had completely enveloped me in a kind of anguish I’d never experienced before. It gathered in my head, stabbed at my soul, and got up a Greek chorus so loud that it was a wonder the neighbors didn’t complain. By midnight the doubts were gone, displaced by facts, awful truths so bald that I hated my stupid self for not having noticed them sooner. Of course Ben had tried to reach me. Of course he wanted to at least try to explain the Maggie scene. Of course Richie had lied for his own self-serving purposes. Of course, of course, of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Schmuck, schmuck, schmuck.

  I paced about like a picket, going to the john every five minutes because the urge to pee was uncontrollable. I looked out the window and counted cars. I counted people walking dogs, dividing them into men and women and subdividing them into big dogs and little dogs. Colors became apparent at four A.M. Garbage trucks came with the news trucks at five. Derelicts were visible in their doorways at six. Rolls and pastries were delivered to restaurants at seven. School kids poked up at eight. Barry Nadler came in at nine, carrying two containers of coffee and a pair of Danish as large as horseshoes. The night had passed. The inquisition would begin—but not quite.

  He pushed my share of the breakfast across the desk at me. “You look awful. You didn’t sleep. Me neither. So it’s a draw.” He tried to get comfortable but couldn’t quite do it. “I want to tell you a story. Would you like to hear a story? Doesn’t matter, you’ll hear it anyway. It’s about a man who all of a sudden grew old. He was doing okay. Wasn’t sixty and felt maybe forty-five. But he got to be seventy in a flash. Anyway, once upon a time, so the story goes, this man was minding his own business which wasn’t much—he was an agent, making ends meet with a list of clients that wouldn’t interest Our Gang. Anyway, he chances upon a couple magical acts that are real winners, gold mines you might say. One is a dance team and the other is a writer, and by now you know of whom I speak or else you’re a dunce, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “As it turns out, one of the dancers, a girl, is in love with the writer, a boy; only lo and behold, a crazy thing happens and everyone is upset. The dancers are barely dancing and the writer is barely writing and the gold mines are leaving town. And because the agent is either a weak man or a crumb, he lets Richie Pickering talk him into a story that would grow a nose on Pinocchio the size of Dumbo. Am I going too fast for you?”

  “Richie lied and you backed him up.”

  “Correct. And I’d do it again because I’ve got nine dollars in the bank and why turn gold to shit to bring two lovers together who don’t know baloney from salami?”

  “Did you go to Ben’s apartment with Richie to get my things?”

  “No.”

  “Richie went alone.”

  “Yes.”

  “And was Marjorie Kimbrough there?”

  “Marjorie Kimbrough was a picture in a paper. Richie made a story out of it. He told you one story and Ben another—and you both fell for it. Some suckers.”

  “Did you ever speak to Ben?”

  “All the time. Lying every inch of the way.”

  “He wanted to see me, didn’t he?”

  “Of course. I told him you didn’t want to.”

  “You knew that wasn’t true.”

  “True-shmue, so what? I owed Richie. He gave me the Pickering Trio and he gave me Ben Webber. For the first time in three years my head was above water—and I was not of a mind to bite the hand that was holding me above water.”

  “Then why are you biting it now?”

  “Because ya got me, baby. Because I’m caught. You think I’m suddenly noble? That I see the error of my ways? Again you show what a sucker you are. Sheila called me last night, at my apartment, breaking a cardinal rule and also blowing my cover. So now I’m making a clean breast of it as what else can I do, especially with Arlene ready to leave me. And it’s not that I love her either—it’s that the nine dollars is in her name. I’m really a terrible person. So terrible that I’m ready to say, right now, if you leave Richie not only will I understand, but I’ll handle you. How do you like that for a final touch?”

  “Richie has the talent. Stay with him.”

  “Dance acts have had it. I know. I was there for Tony and Sally DeMarco, and for Grace and Paul Hartman. It ends with them. But it begins for you. I haven’t been telling you, but—I get five calls a day for you. Stan Arlen calls so often I think maybe he’s the UJA. So wise up—let’s both of us dump Richie and go on to greater things. At least I’ll have one gold mine for my troubles.”

  “You have Ben.”

  “Ben has signed with William Morris which I knew he would one day do.”

  “God, I don’t believe this.”

  “You mention God—I’ll tell you something. If God came back, and Moses with him—and the other guy, too, the fat one—Buddha? I’d sign all of ’em, bill ’em as The Three Stooges, and let ’em tour Africa. That’s the kind of man you’re talking to. My cupboard is so bare, I’d sign Hitler. So, if you’re through being hysterical, finish your coffee and get out of here. I’m expecting a call from Jack the Ripper and I’m going to send him Dolores. It’ll only be for one night but, what the hell, a buck’s a buck.”

  “Good-bye, Barry.”

  “You’re going to look for Ben, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do I tell Stan Arlen?”

  “Tell him I’m available.”

  “Will you work for scale?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I have your Danish?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll make a fortune for you.”

  “Jesus Christ, Barry…”

  “Him, too.”

  In the cab on my way to Ben’s apartment, I didn’t even try to make myself look good. After a night of nonsleep my face was as p
uffy as a soufflé. Still, I had my dark glasses, and if I pulled my collar up, maybe Ben wouldn’t notice. Maybe he wouldn’t even notice it was me. Maybe I wouldn’t notice him because he wasn’t living there anymore. Certainly he had a different phone number; maybe he was living over at Sutton Place somewhere.

  When the cab pulled over and I saw the dear building, I almost cried. My building. My apartment. My Ben, goddamnit. I looked at the names on the registry. “Cook/Webber.” And beneath it, where I had inked it in, “Maitland.” Maybe. Maybe, maybe.

  I climbed the stairs hoping I wouldn’t make it, wondering what I’d say if I did make it. What could I say? “I’m sorry but everyone lied to me”? “I’m sorry you and my mother caught me in the hallway”? The situation was impossible and I thought of turning back and going down and sending him a post card from Peru, and signing it “Inca-Dinka-doo.”

  The hell. I continued. The whole five flights. And I stood before the old door. Open Sesame—and turn my life into a burning fucking miracle. The prodigal daughter has returned, heart in hand, foot in mouth, cigarette trembling. Knock-knock.

  The door opened and a girl stood there. Pretty, in a nice robe. Ten o’clock in the morning and the girl was pretty and she was wearing a robe—need I know more? “Excuse me,” I said. “I think I have the wrong apartment.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said, with a small sigh of resignation. “This is it. You’ve got it.” And she held the door open for me as if I were the cops and had a warrant.

  “I’m looking for a Mrs. Prendegast. Dolly Prendegast.”

  “Oh, stop it and come in.”

  I went in, absolutely blotto, not knowing what to say or what to expect. I could hear the shower running inside. I desperately wanted to run.

  “Hey,” she said. “It’s all right. What airline you with?”

  “What?”

  “What airline do you fly?”

  “Oh. Peruvian.”

  “Where you coming from?”

  “San Fran. Just in for the day.”

  “There’s room. Don’t worry.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried. I just don’t want to inconvenience either of you.”

  “Forget it. It’s no problem. Do you know any of the other girls or is this your first time?”

  “I know a couple of ’em.”

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Debra Dubonnet.”

  “I’m Candy Carson.”

  “You’re kidding. That’s better than Debra Dubonnet.”

  “You don’t have a bag or anything. How come?”

  “Well first of all, I’m not a stew. And second of all, I’m not staying.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I thought—I’ll come back some other time. Better still, if you’ll give me the number, I’ll call. You’re very nice. Just tell him that Ginnie came by.”

  “You’re Ginnie?”

  “Yeah. Bye.”

  “Hey! Wait a minute!”

  “No, I don’t think so.” I zipped out and started down the stairs. Would I always be running for my life?

  She was calling after me. “Ginnie! Don’t go! It’s alright! Honest!”

  I didn’t answer. I just wanted out. Also, I wished she hadn’t been so nice. I hit the street on the fly. No cab so I just hiked. He caught up to me, looking like a flasher in his bathrobe, running up the street after me, finally catching up to me, grabbing my arm, and spinning me to a halt.

  “Ginnie! What the hell you doing?”

  “Huh?”

  “Where the hell are you running?”

  “Don? Oh—Don!”

  We hugged and kissed on East Eighty-third Street, drawing a small crowd of mostly kids, the flasher in his robe, the blonde in dark glasses. Then we went back, arm in arm, to the building.

  Candy was Don’s girl. She had been living with him in Los Angeles and came back with him to New York. Ben had shared the place with them but only for a while, then he moved—not to Sutton Place but to Hollywood. And he had turned the apartment back to Don from whom he had gotten it in the first place. As I had no other place to stay (my usual situation) it was determined that I could have my old room back at the inn. I called Barry and asked if he could get my clothes back from Richie’s place. He said he couldn’t as Richie had called and, when told where I’d gone, had thrown every stitch I owned into the incinerator, swearing that he’d kill me on sight or, at the very least, break both my legs and mess up my vapid face.

  So, as on the night of the big fire, I was once more down to nothing, except for the Gypsy Robe which Ben had left in my closet. Oh, yes—he’d also left my portrait of Maggie. What a lucky child I was. My mommy would always be with me.

  The clock was turning back but it was also spinning ahead. I was in Ben’s apartment but Ben was away, further away than ever before. And though I could touch his bed and sleep in it whenever I wanted, we were light years apart. He being Mercury on the air waves. Me being Venus in the dumps.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Ben

  1952

  I worked like a bastard on my three plays for Frank Brokaw. And with every page I learned a little more about myself as a writer, about what I could do well and what I had trouble doing at all. I continued to write the three plays simultaneously, jumping from one to another so that whenever I returned to any one of them it was newly fresh in my mind. It was a good way for me to work. It smacked of mass production but the plays were so different from one another that the designation could not properly be applied. I was, by then, typing fairly well. I still made mistakes but my work was comprehensible. I didn’t let it worry me because NBC would have it all multigraphed later on.

  As to Ginnie Maitland, I was coming to terms with the idea that ours had been an affair of intense but short duration, a firecracker in a tin can—loud but quick, and with nobody getting hurt. It had been weird, Maggie and Ginnie, but it had to be taken in stride. To pursue it beyond its natural conclusion would be to ask too much of it. Stretching a crazy minute to an hour’s length would not multiply the craziness by sixty, it would only divide it by a million. All things have a beginning and an end, even though the geometry of it may not be immediately apparent.

  I had loved my three stewardesses and Maggie and Pat, and I could see all those endings as clearly as if I had written them myself. I had loved Ginnie, and, though I had fought the ending of it kicking and screaming, the end had arrived all the same. The idea, then, was to not be bitter at the affair’s conclusion, but grateful that it had taken place at all. Nor should one look to place blame or seek exoneration when it all does fly apart and go boom. One must leave when it’s time. One must tip his hat and thank the lady for her time and her tears, knowing all the while that everything that goes up has to come down—that axiom applying to moods, stocks and elevators, balloons and passions, aviators and erections.

  And yet, I continually asked Barry about Ginnie. Though he was reluctant to keep me plugged in, he did tell me about her upcoming appearances on The Joey Magnuson Show. I was pleased for Ginnie, truly, pleased that she had landed on her feet and had come out swinging. In a way I was also pleased that I had been spared having to explain that night in the St. Regis. It would not have been easy.

  And, if Ginnie and I ever met again, I could be as annoyed with her for not having allowed me to explain as she might be with me for the incident’s ever happening at all. Things were evening out. Time was doing its job. It would take more time, to be sure, but the girl was fading. One day she would be part of the wallpaper of my life, occurring and recurring at specific and well-defined intervals, part of an overall pattern that I would learn to live with because, in the final analysis, I would have picked it out for myself.

  I delivered all three of my scripts to Brokaw in one trip, ending my months of monastic living and stepping out into the world only to realize that all of the summer and much of fall had slid past me and that it was late October. So, like the pilgrim
of old, I revisited the Museum of Modern Art, again studying the girls therein and wondering which of them might fall in love with me if I asked her to.

  I went to Saks and bought some shirts, and in Dunhill’s I picked up three boxes of Monte Cristos plus another three of Uppmanns. I smoked one of them while walking down Sixth Avenue, half expecting to conjure up Don Cook and his magic nose. I went home and waited for Jerry Kaplan’s call—two days.

  But he did call and he loved my plays, as had Brokaw, and he was sure that Jason Kimbrough would love them, too. I would not have been surprised if Kimbrough hadn’t wanted any of them, as I had caused a tiff in the Kimbrough family, albeit innocently, by having my picture in the paper with “the Mrs.” Kimbrough hadn’t much cared for it, he and his wife evidently juggling an uneasy marriage at the time the photo appeared in print. It was all easily explained but the man did look at me slightly sideways from then on, as did his wife, though, I suspected, for another reason. But I knew to steer a course wide of her—to Madagascar via the Cape of Good Hope—for I had had enough of women in their tardy thirties. I didn’t need another Maggie, especially if it turned out that the Kimbroughs had a daughter like Ginnie.

  Ginnie. I had thought of Ginnie. Obliquely, offhandedly, but of Ginnie all the same. She was there faintly, lightly—still on my shoulder, still on my mind, but in silhouette, not solid. And further away. Each time further away.

  “The Magic Horn” swung into rehearsals, Norman Felton directing. Sal Mineo was a nice kid, very young and into lifting weights, but decent and learning in every way he could. Ralph Meeker struggled to get to rehearsals on time. He always came in carrying a container of milk and looking as though he had slept under a bear. But he did a good job, as did the rest of the cast, all of them jazz musicians. I got some nice reviews and some more phone calls in which people on the other end hung up as soon as I answered. Jerry Kaplan told me that the stuff came with fame and that I should get an unlisted number. But I wasn’t quite ready for that because, who knew, maybe someone might call me from out of the past, someone I might like to speak to.