19
Marcus wandered around the drugstore, checking first the cigarette and tobacco counter where they kept the Playboy magazines out of reach. Then he checked among the cosmetics, dental supplies, mouthwashes, bandages, stationery, vitamins, shampoos, combs and brushes, Pampers … Everything but what he wanted. Finally he went up to the prescription counter, where he picked up a jar of Noxema and a handful of ballpoint pens so it wouldn’t look like he was only in there for one thing. He was a bona fide buyer.
He waited till the pharmacist was free, then stepped up to the counter. The pharmacist was above him. With his sharp beak and blue rosy jowls, he looked like a rooster. Marcus had his question all prepared, but all that came out was, “Rubbers?”
“Rubbers?” The man frowned. “Do you mean rain shoes?”
“Rubbers,” Marcus repeated, his voice fading. What was the other name? “Rubbers. You know, rubbers.”
“Prophylactics?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” The pharmacist looked over Marcus’s head. Was he signaling someone? The police: move in and grab this pervert.
“Any particular brand?” On the shelf behind him there were rows of neat, colorful boxes.
“Brand? No. It doesn’t matter.”
“What style?”
Was there more than one? Was it like buying a suit? Did he want a conservative style, Western, something flashy?
“Natural, ribbed, extra sensitive. We’ve got them in color too.”
“Something regular,” Marcus said, “average. The ordinary ones.”
The pharmacist handed him a small plastic box with a picture of a girl with windblown hair that reminded him of Terri. Easy Riders.
“How many boxes?”
“How many in a box?”
“A dozen.”
A dozen ought to hold him for the rest of his life. He took two boxes just because he might never get the nerve to do this again. He walked away with the boxes and his other purchases, then waited till there was nobody at the checkout counter. The girl at the register looked vaguely familiar. She put the articles into a bag, sealed the top with register tape, then handed him his change. He took his loot and fled.
20
“Hi, Marcus.” Wendy met him at the door wearing dark blue corduroy pants and a pink T-shirt. “Say hello to my aunt and uncle. I told them I was going out.”
Marcus poked his head into the kitchen. “Hello.” Aunt Ginny and Uncle Doug were at the table, smoking and drinking coffee. “It’s me,” Marcus said. Enough? He was ready to go. Wendy’s aunt was always friendly, but he didn’t know how to take her uncle.
“How’s the weather?” Ginny said.
“Warm. Nice.”
“You kids going to take a walk, or what?”
“Right, a walk.”
Uncle Doug looked at Marcus as if he knew exactly what was on Marcus’s mind.
And what was on his mind? Things. Things? he could imagine Wendy saying, what things are you speaking of?
It, he would say. You know, what we talked about. The wall.
It? Things? The wall? Is there another word? Can you be more specific, Marcus?
Of course. Writers can always be more specific. We’re going to park on Brick Yard Falls Road … climb the hill behind Techumseh School … cozy down on a blanket behind some big old mauseleum in St. Mary’s Cemetery … and everywhere we go, we’re—
“Better take an umbrella, Wendy,” Uncle Doug said. “It’s drizzling out.” He didn’t trust Marcus’s weather reports, either.
Outside they sauntered along together. “Your aunt’s a lot friendlier than your uncle.”
“Uncle Doug? That’s just the way he is. He’s really sweet. Where are we going?”
“I don’t know, just walking. Let’s go over to the campus.”
They bumped into each other and he put his arm around her waist. Was she thinking the way he was? She hadn’t said anything, but then neither had he. Talk was so crude and inadequate. He didn’t want Wendy to think he had only one vulgar subject on his mind, even if he did. Talking about sex, he recognized, embarrassed him; even thinking about talking about it embarrassed him. And when you were nearly eighteen years old, that was pathetic.
“Do you remember what we were talking about in the restaurant?” Wendy said.
He gave her a squeeze and she squeezed back. “Sure, I do.”
“So are we going together? Is this our first date?”
Marcus picked up an aluminum soda tab and put it on her finger. “Now it’s official.”
“Oh, Marcus,” Wendy fluttered, “it’s so beautiful. Now what’s our favorite food?”
“Freihoffer’s chocolate chip cookies.”
“And our own song?”
“‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat,’” Marcus said. “It’s been my favorite song since kindergarten.”
Wendy put her arm through his. “Let’s go to K Mart sometime, and pick out matching shirts, something with big red hearts to wear to school so everybody knows. And we’ll hold hands in assembly and in the halls. Do you like holding hands, Marcus?”
“Ahem.” Professor Fraud cleared his throat. “Good for a while, but definitely limited. A hangover from the old days when that was all kids were allowed to do. A form of handcuff. As long as kids were holding hands, their hands weren’t other places.”
Yes, definitely limited. Today there are a lot more things for kids to do than that, Wendy.
Ahem, Miss Barrett, I wonder if you’d consider a little sport?
Sport, Mr. Rosenbloom? What game do you have in mind?
It’s a new game. No, not really that new—just to us—but I hear it’s great fun.
It started to rain a little harder. Before them, the massive university library was brightly lit. “Let’s go in there,” Marcus said. Maybe they could get into one of the carrels together and make out, or fall into each other’s arms between the stacks. The building was new, and the floors carpeted. Maybe they could thrash around in an out of the way corner. They’d fit in anywhere, a typical college pair engaged in Interpersonal Relations 101 … or was it Small Group Interaction 453?
They went down the stairs to the newspaper and periodical room and amused themselves for a while looking at the papers from all over the world. The only other person in the room was an Indian student with slick black hair and lips the color of plums. If he left they would be all alone. Maybe they could creep under the racks and cover themselves with the New York Times.
“See if there are any help-wanted ads in London,” Wendy directed. “Or Paris; Paris is better. I’d like to go there and work, and learn to speak real Parisian French.”
For a while they deciphered the headlines in French and Italian, but were defeated by the Arabic. Marcus also gave up on the Indian student leaving. They rode the elevator upstairs and wandered through the stacks. There were people everywhere. “Let’s go someplace else,” he said.
They walked over to Marshall Street, stopping to buy ice cream cones. Wendy had hers dipped in hot fudge. A gentle rain fell, a soft spring drizzle. Wendy took off her sneakers and walked barefoot. Outside the Engineering Building they leaned against a stone sculpture of a mother and child and kissed. Their first real kiss. The only parts of them that touched were their lips. Hers were wet and sweet from the fudge. He pushed a little. She pushed back. Their lips pressed hard together. He wanted to pause and ask, How’s that? but he didn’t want to stop this good feeling ever. Why hadn’t he thought to kiss Wendy sooner?
They kissed again. Her lips parted. He was having trouble catching his breath. Wendy pressed against him and they continued kissing.
21
Sunday afternoon, playing cards on Wendy’s bed. Rain spattered the windows. “Let it rain,” Marcus hummed studying his cards. “Let it pour. Ummm.”
“Ummm what?” Wendy said. She picked up a card. “Rummy. I win.”
“I lose, you win,” he sang. He leaned forward and kissed
Wendy on the mouth. They played another hand. He hummed, shelled peanuts, and fed them to Wendy. “Open up, Wendybird.”
“Play your cards, turkey.”
“Ummm.” His eyes were on his cards, on Wendy, on the long green sweater she wore with the sleeves pushed up.
“Ummm.” Dr. Horney says it’s checkup time.… Yes, Doctor … your … your … Anything you say, Doctor …
“Ummm.” Let it rain … let it rain … the rain song … The Wendy and Marcus song … the how-am-I-going-to-get-my-hands-around-her song. It was an inside, out-of-the-rain song, cozy and mellow. It gave him a glow in the pit of his being, because something good was going to happen soon, very soon. “Ummm.”
“I like to hear you singing, Marcus.”
“She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes.” He tapped time on Wendy’s knee. “When she comes.” He’d sing her into his arms. “Sunday afternoon, in the rain with my baby. Sunday afternoon with my honey.”
“Nice voice.”
“You and I,” he sang, putting his hand over his heart, “can make beautiful music together.”
Get it, Wendy? Did she get it? He sang earnestly leaning toward her, smiling, caressing her with his smile, bedroom smile.
“Are you looking at my cards, you cheat?”
He sniffed her hair, her neck.
“Marcus, that tickles.”
Didn’t she get it? Couldn’t she read him? What are we waiting for Wendy, my sweet?
Through the wall he heard the low hum of the refrigerator and the rumble of the television. We are alone, Wendy. The door is shut Drop your cards and let’s embrace. I want to kiss your sweet, sweet face.
“Rummy,” Wendy said, showing her cards. “I can’t believe how easy you are to beat.”
“Let’s do something else,” he said. “Cards bore me.”
“It’s raining.”
“We don’t have to go out.”
“Marcus, I don’t think this is the best place.”
“Why not?” he said, and reached for her so hard she fell off the bed. “Oh, Wendy!” He lay there for a moment smiling down at her.
They kissed on the floor, pressed hard together. She had her arm around his neck. He was fumbling with her buttons, and she kept turning so he couldn’t get at them. She finally got to her knees and belted him with the pillow. “Pest!” Her shirt was pulled out, her hair frizzed. “Fight for your life!” He dove for her. She stood on the bed and hit him with the pillow. They scuffled. Wendy was hitting him as hard as she could. He couldn’t stop grabbing.
“Hit me, Wendy, I’m going to get you.”
She caught him in the face with the pillow. He got his arms around her legs and pulled her down.
“What the hell’s going on in there?” Uncle Doug was outside the door. “What are you kids doing? Sounds like you’re pulling the building down.”
Marcus fell back into the chair.
“Sorry, Uncle Doug.” Wendy tucked her shirt in. “We were just having a pillow fight. I’m giving Marcus a little lesson.”
Oh, yes. Marcus lay back and looked at Wendy with happy eyes. Teach me, Wendy. Teach me everything you know.
“Keep it down,” Uncle Doug said.
“You see what I mean?” Wendy said. She felt her hair, then combed it.
Marcus put out his arms and pulled Wendy into his lap.
“You’re so grabby.”
“I’ll be nicer. Will you be nicer?”
“I’m too nice to you already.”
They lay on the bed again and kissed and petted, and he was ready and eager, and, oh, so willing, and she was soft and warm and a little reluctant, and there was confusion on the bed and mixed-up signals, and fumbling and reaching. Just a little bit more … a little bit. Did she want to?… Did she want to?… She just had to.…
“Uncle Doug?”
“He won’t come in.”
Clothes, buttons, hooks, zippers. Clumsy fingers. Whispers. “Do you have something?”
“Got it.” In his wallet, tucked away in a secret compartment, neatly rolled in silver, sanitized, safe.
“Wait. I think I hear them.”
“Don’t worry.” Mr. Calm and Friendly. But underneath he was trembling, he was so eager and scared and full of wanting.
“Marcus, somebody’s in the kitchen.”
Fumbling, bumbling, crumbling.… Oh, god, he was collapsing. Oh, King George, you traitor. You Abdicator. He rolled off the bed.
“Hey, Wendy,” Uncle Doug called. “I’m making toasted cheese sandwiches. You want one?”
Wendy sat up and pulled down her sweater. “No thanks, Uncle Doug.” Then in a whisper to Marcus, “Good thing we stopped. He was practically in the room.”
Silence.
“Look, we’ve just got to plan things better.”
Silence.
“The place is wrong, you have to admit that. We can’t just do it in this dumb way.”
Silence.
“I mean, did we even know what we were doing?”
Silence.
“Marcus, will you say something. Talk!”
SILENCE.
Marcus walked home in the rain, shucked off his wet clothes, and sat on the kitchen counter, lotus fashion, with a cup of hot milk. Sally and Bill were out. He heard the clock in the living room ticking, and overhead, in the apartment upstairs, it sounded as if someone were jumping rope.
Talk, Wendy had said. She always wanted to talk, but there were some things talk wouldn’t fix. She wouldn’t believe that. Tell me, tell me what happened. Did something happen?
Yes, and no, he’d say.
What’s the yes part and what’s the no part?
She said yes, and he said no. Wendy, what’s the use of talking? You either do it, or you don’t. And if you don’t—if you can’t—you might as well jump off a cliff!
He imagined her saying: Marcus, a one-time failure doesn’t mean anything.
Maybe not to you, he would say.
Look, a little problem—
Little problem, he’d tell her. Can’t you hear what you’re saying? Don’t you have any sensitivity? This wasn’t a problem like an algebra problem where there was answer upside down in the back of the book. This is my life. Forget it, Wendy, I’m giving up sex. Your loss! Then he’d give her a sad smile.
He saw himself the writer-hermit, but famous, and all the women who’d turned him down were begging him now. Oh, the sadness of life! He knew he was acting again, and then he thought of his father. Johnny Appleseed himself! He’d dropped his seed and ran off. Marcus had come into life an accident, an afterthought. He must never forget that.
When Sally and Bill came in, it was dark and still raining. Sally turned on a light. “Marcus, what are you doing sitting in the dark? Is something the matter?”
“Not at all,” he said with quiet dignity.
“You should have come with us,” Sally said. “We had the best time. Yelled ourselves hoarse for Sherwood.”
Bill took a grapefruit from the refrigerator and started peeling it. “What did you do today?”
“Not much,” Marcus said in the same somber tone. He didn’t want to give up his subdued mood. Thoughtful, a little depressed.… Ah, Wendy, Wendybird, I flew from you, but I’ll be back.
When he woke the next day he couldn’t swallow and his head pounded. Still he tried to get up, mind over matter, but there was something the matter with his mind. His head wobbled, and felt like a pot of boiled potatoes. “Ma,” he hollered for Sally, “I’m dying.”
Sally stuck a thermometer under his tongue. A hundred and two degrees. He was a bona fide sickee. Sally fixed him up with two pillows and the TV at the foot of the bed. “Do you want to read? The light on? Do you want to watch TV?”
He could say yes and no and be grumpy, and just lie there and stare at the ceiling, and not talk, or say anything that came into his head, and it was all right. He was sick, in pain; all was forgiven. Oh, Wendybird, do you know what’s happened to me?
He slept a lot, most of the day, then slept the night through. In the morning, still feverish, he staggered to the bathroom, puked, took a shower, and changed his pajamas. He was in bed for four days. His grandmother came over with chicken soup in a jar. “You have this with noodles, and I guarantee you’ll be out of bed tomorrow. Chicken soup and noodles go together like apple pie and graham crackers.”
“Apple pie and ice cream, Grandma,” Marcus said hoarsely.
“I get tired of hearing it that way. I like graham crackers and milk, don’t you, darling?”
Alec came to see him. “Wendy told me you were at death’s door.” He smiled at himself in the mirror, then sat down on a chair next to the bed, took out his silver cigarette case. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Yes.”
“How long are you going to stay in bed?”
“I may never get up, if I have to look at you.”
“Oh, you’re all right, there’s nothing wrong with you. How’s the writing going?” He lit a cigarette. “How’s your sex life?”
“How’s yours?”
“Comme ci, comme ca.” Alec exhaled a stream of smoke. “I’m in a temporary fallow period. How are you and Wendy doing?”
“Okay.”
“Too bad I let her go. She really liked me.”
“Too bad you can’t keep your mouth shut! Just stay away from Wendy and shut up about her.”
Alec backed right off. “Sorry, comrade, I didn’t know how sensitive and sick you were.”
“Sick? You’re sick! Just bug off, Canale. Wendy’s not interested in you.”
Alec put up his hands. “No problem, Comrade Markovitch. Forget I said anything.”
“And don’t call me comrade, you moron.”
“Now you sound like yourself, Rosenbloom.”
Marcus sank back against the pillow, surprised at himself. He’d pulled a real cave-man act. “Anyway, Wendy’s too smart for you, Canale. You wouldn’t know what to do with an honest-to-god smart woman.”
I Love You, Stupid! Page 10