“Adrian,” my mother whispered. “I will.”
“Hallelujah,” I shouted and I dashed upstairs for the bottle, grabbing glasses on the return trip. I filled them, handed them out. We raised them high.
“God bless us every one,” Terry said.
We drank to it ...
Which, in a couple of ways at least, was the high point—that moment when the four of us stood in the living-room, Adrian tight, Terry and my mother sniffling away, me watching them all, happy as hell.
The next day, when Adrian was in better shape, he and my mother made plans. To get married just before spring vacation so they could have a ten-day honeymoon and then spend the time between April and June packing and saying good-by. Because he was returning to England, Adrian was, and my mother with him. Terry went back to the Red Cross, sitting in the office during the day, answering phones, going to meetings, working up. And me.
I hit the books. For final exams were coming lickety-split and I had a lot to do. I spent hours reading away at geology, the worst subject in the world, bar none. I kept at it, though, learning how to spell “Pleistocene,” remembering that the Mesozoic was the Age of Reptiles, plus other interesting facts no one should be without.
I studied and I studied and when exams came, I did well, getting a B in geology, better in the rest, making the honor roll, to the wonderment of all. Once exams were over, I really got to work.
At The Athenian.
I spent all my time there, morning until late at night, dashing out when I had class, then coming back, taking up where I’d left off the hour before. The first thing I did was to clean that barn of a building. I swept the floors, waxed them, washed windows, cleaned off desks, waxed them, too, filing, dusting, making everything ship-shape.
Once the office was a decent place to live in, I started learning about the magazine. Harriet was great about that, telling me everything she knew, making things as easy for me as she could, the two of us sitting there every night, going over and over details until I understood which end was up.
The April issue was staring us in the face and I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Mainly because the two of us put it out alone, Harriet and me. There were some others helping at the start, but soon they dropped off, seeing as whenever there was anything to be done, I ran and did it.
I read stories, poems, essays. I helped Harriet with the layout, making suggestions here and there when something struck me. We planned the heads, read proof, set the type, hustled around getting the cover ready, the engraving done. I sold ads, going from place to place, making a nuisance of myself. Mr. Klein gave me an ad just to get rid of me, and so did the shoe-repair shop and the clothing store Zock’s father used to own. I painted posters, held meetings, listened, talked, and listened some more.
I even wrote things for that issue, two of which were accepted. One was a story, about a kid at college who finds out his roommate is really a machine. Which may not sound like much but compared with most of what else was submitted, it was a masterpiece. The other thing accepted was a poem. This was the first line:
Love is the color of my love’s eyes.
The rest of the poem I’ve forgotten, fortunately, seeing as it wasn’t much good. But Harriet liked that first line a lot, so she printed it, mainly, I suppose, as a favor to me. We spent February and March together, the two of us, me learning, her teaching, with always the name of Professor Janes hanging in the air overhead, like the sword of Damocles. Sometimes, though, I even forgot about him, because things were going so well down there.
Which could not be said of things at home.
Terry was the first to give me trouble. By pestering, making fun of the magazine as best she could. Then she got sullen, not talking at all, but pouting, muttering to herself, acting like a baby. Finally, late in March, we had our first real squabble.
I got home about two in the morning, having spent the evening reading proof, managing to get a headache. I crept up the stairs, shoes off, so as not to wake anybody. But the light was on in our room and Terry was sitting in bed, reading the Digest, wearing a frilly white nightgown, her hair combed, her face scrubbed.
“Hi,” I said, starting to undress. “You ought to be asleep.” She didn’t answer, but went right on reading, ignoring me. I finished undressing, headed for the bathroom, showered the dirt away, came back. She was still reading.
I sniffed. “Something smells awful.”
Which got her. “Me,” she said, glaring. “And it don’t smell awful. It cost a small fortune per ounce.”
“O.K.,” I said. “Now that you’re talking, let’s have it.”
“I got nothing to say to you,” she answered, pushing the Digest in front of her face.
I nodded and crawled into bed, closing my eyes, breathing deep.
She smacked me with the Digest. “No, you don’t,” she said. “Wake up.”
“Why? You’ve got nothing to say to me.”
“Wake up,” she said again. “Right now.”
I opened my eyes. “I’m awake. Shoot.”
She wrinkled her forehead, trying to think, not able to say anything. I waited. Then she started bawling, something she must have done five hundred times in the months we’d been married.
“Terry,” I said, “you know I hate that. Will you please stop?”
“You don’t care,” she mumbled. “You don’t care what happens to me.”
“Sure I do,” I told her. “Now please stop that crying.”
“If you care,” she went on, “why do you ignore me?”
“I don’t ignore you. I think about you all the time.”
“When you’re down at that goddam magazine,” Terry cried, “I hate that goddam magazine. I hope the goddam thing burns up.”
“You’re being irrational,” I said.
“What does that mean?”
“Silly.”
“Silly! Silly, for chrissakes. Here I put on my best nightie and my best perfume and I spend hours combing my hair and what do I get for it? ‘Something smells awful.’ ”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was just trying to make you talk.”
“Sorry! You’re sorry. You know what I am? I’m bored. B-o-r-d. Bored to beat hell.”
“Go play with Andy Peabody,” I said. “He’s a nice boy. He gave you a bracelet for Christmas.”
“I do,” she said. “I see him all the time. He loves me. He writes me poems. He—”
“When do you see him?” I cut in. “When?”
She threw her arms around me then, pressing her body close, kissing me, holding me tight.
I pushed her away. “When do you see him?” I said again.
“Every afternoon,” she whispered.
“What about the Red Cross? You work there afternoons.”
She shook her head. “I quit. Three weeks ago.”
“I don’t believe it,” I said. “Why didn’t somebody tell me?”
“I was afraid you’d be mad, Trevitt. And Kate promised that she—”
“Maybe you’ll go back tomorrow,” I said.
She pressed close to me again, whispering so soft I could hardly hear. “I hated it, Trevitt. I only went because you wanted. That’s the only reason. I always hated it. So I quit.”
“You’ve just got to go back,” I told her. “You’ve got to go back tomorrow.”
“I won’t.”
“Then I don’t give a damn what you do,” I said and I lay down again, my eyes closed. Tight.
The next day, when I came home from school, my mother was waiting for me in the living-room, Adrian beside her. “Raymond,” she called as I went by, “come in here.” I did. “Raymond,” she said, “we want to have a talk with you.” She turned to Adrian. “Yes,” he began. “We feel, Raymond—Katherine and I both feel—and we reached this conclusion separately—we both feel that you are spending altogether too much time at the magazine and...neglecting other things. Such as your wife, Raymond, and your mother who, we must remember, is le
aving you and going to England before too much longer. And you’ve been terribly nervous of late and...” He chattered away, with me listening politely, nodding when I was supposed to. As soon as he’d finished, I told them I’d think it over, thanked them for their kind attention, and took off.
For the magazine. Harriet was working. I threw my jacket at a chair, missed, swore, picked it up, crumpled it in my hands. Then I heaved it all I had against the wall, yelling, “Goddam it to hell,” as loud as I could.
Harriet looked up. “A new poem you’re working on?”
I grumbled something.
“You know, Euripides,” she said, “come to think of it, I’ve never seen you looking better. All that weight you’ve lost and those wonderful shadows under your eyes. You’re dreamy.”
“Not from you,” I said. “Please.”
“I just thought you’d like one woman’s opinion.”
“Frankly, Harriet,” I began, “you can take...”
“If you swear at me,” she cut in, “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“O.K.,” I said. “All right. I’m sorry. But Jesus, Harriet. Why can’t they leave you alone?”
She got up then, came around the desk to me. “ ’Cause hims is such a cutie pie,” she answered. After which we both started laughing. ...
The magazine was printed on the night of the 10th of April, and a pretty great night it was. At least I thought so at the time, standing there in the basement of the college newspaper, Harriet beside me, the two of us filthy dirty, black with ink. I stared straight ahead, listening to the presses, watching as those sheets of glossy paper came slapping out, clean, printed, done.
Finally, Harriet turned to me. “You did it,” she said, laughing. “That’s your baby.” And she pointed at those presses, shouting over the noise. “All yours, Euripides, and you’d better take care. Because next year you’re going to be editor, so you ought to practice feeling like a father.”
“You really think so?”
“I know so,” she went on, yelling louder, laughing more. “There’s no one else Janes can put up. Just you, Euripides. You’ve made it! It’s all over but the shouting! You’ve won!”
My mother was married on Friday the 14th of April in the college chapel at four o’clock in the afternoon.
By eleven that morning she was in a state of panic. Everything was going wrong. The reception was to be held at our house after the wedding and here it was eleven already and the food hadn’t arrived. And what should she do about the way she looked? And she’d tried on her dress and it didn’t fit and her girdle hurt and where oh where was that food?
I did what I could to calm her, but she just went on and on, nervous, scared, tears in her eyes, giggling every once in a while when she couldn’t think of anything else to do. Terry wasn’t much help either. There were tears in her eyes, too, as, muttering to herself, she followed my mother around.
So finally I gave up and went to the kitchen, made a bunch of sandwiches. I carried them out to my mother and Terry and they looked at me as if I’d committed a cardinal sin. I shook my head, returned to the kitchen, and ate alone.
When the caterers did come, my mother really took off, zipping around the house, from living-room to dining-room to kitchen and back again. The punch bowl goes here, the this goes there, the that goes over in the corner. Watching her, I couldn’t help laughing.
“Raymond,” she said, “there is nothing funny.”
“I wouldn’t say that, Mother.”
“Raymond, please. If you can’t help, don’t hinder. Do you remember when to give Adrian the ring?”
“Ring?” I said. “Do I have to give Adrian a ring? Why didn’t somebody tell me?”
“Trevitt!” Terry said.
“Why don’t you two go off and play,” my mother suggested. “Do something. Is your suit pressed, Raymond? Have you bathed? Are you clean?”
“Yes, Mother.”
She turned to Terry. “Have you shown Raymond your new dress?”
Terry’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “I was saving it for a surprise,” she said. “At the wedding.”
“Surprise him now,” my mother told her. “Please, Terry. Right this minute.”
Terry nodded, grabbing me by the arm, leading me upstairs, talking a mile a minute. “Kate bought it for me last week. It’s all pink. With lace. Pink and lace all over. With a great big skirt that swirls around. And I got new shoes to go along with it. They match. And a new hat. And—”
“Where is it?” I said, sitting on the bed.
“I can’t just show it to you. It’s gotta be modeled.”
“O.K.,” I said. “Model it.”
“I gotta clean up first. You can’t just model a dress like this. I gotta bathe and clean up.” She pushed me flat on the bed. “You wait right here, Trevitt. I’ll hurry.”
I stretched out, listening to the water running in the bathtub. I closed my eyes and thought about a nap, but two minutes later my mother was calling my name.
“What is it, Mother?”
“Phone,” she told me. “As if I didn’t have enough to do. Be quick, Raymond. Don’t block the line.”
I hurried into her room and answered. It was Harriet. “What’s new?” I asked.
“I have to see you,” she said. “I’m at the office and I have to see you.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I have to see you,” she said again. “I can’t tell you now. I have to see you.”
“Be right down,” I told her and I hung up.
Terry was still in the tub when I started getting dressed, putting on my suit, clean shirt, tying my tie. Finished, I knocked on the bathroom door. “I’ve got to go out,” I said.
I heard her scrambling from the tub and then the door opened. She stood there, dripping, a towel draped around her. “I’ve got to go out,” I said. “I’ll meet you at the chapel.”
She shook her head. “But I’m going to model my dress. You said that—”
“Harriet has to see me,” I cut in. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how long it’ll take, so we better plan to meet—”
“You said you wanted to see my dress.”
“I do,” I told her. “But this is important. I’ll see the dress at the wedding.”
“You promised,” Terry said, her voice rising.
“Don’t make such a big deal out of it. Please. And don’t start bawling.”
“Which means more to you, for Christ’s sake? Me or that goddam magazine?”
“Don’t ever ask,” I laughed, grabbing for her.
She stepped away. “Don’t go.”
I headed for the door.
“Don’t go,” she said again, following me. “Please. Don’t.”
“I don’t know how you look in that dress,” I said. “But you’re pretty damn cute in that towel.” And waving, I left her.
It was a beautiful day, almost too warm for April, as if summer was getting tired of waiting and had decided to give spring a run for its money. I began perspiring the second I got outside, so I slowed, picking up stones every once in a while, skipping them along the street. The afternoon sun slanted in at me as I walked along, from shadow to light, light to shadow. It must have been twenty minutes before I reached the office, and when I did, Harriet was waiting for me, sitting alone.
“Hi,” I said, walking in. “Do I look like a best man?”
“Wonderful,” she told me. “You look wonderful.” After which she started to cry. I hurried around the desk, taking her gently by the shoulders.
“Hey, Harriet,” I whispered. “Stop that. Please, Harriet, cut it out. Ever since Christmas people have been crying at me. The minute I come near them they cry. I’m getting a complex, Harriet, and you wouldn’t want that to happen to me. So stop it now. Please. Stop.”
And she did, gradually, with much blowing of nose and drying of eyes. I sat across from her, smiling, telling her everything was fine. But all that time I was tensing, knotting up, waitin
g for her to say it.
“Janes was here earlier,” she whispered finally. “And he didn’t do it, Euripides. He didn’t make you editor.”
I nodded.
“I argued with him, Euripides. I did. I tried, but he kept saying you weren’t capable, you weren’t capable.”
“Who got it, Harriet?”
“I did,” she answered, very softly. “He said I was the only one that could do the job. I told him I wouldn’t. He said if I didn’t, he’d only get someone else, because you weren’t capable. And then I got to thinking that if I were editor, you could help me, like you’ve been doing. But I’d let you make the decisions. So it will be the same as if you were editor. There’s no difference, Euripides. Just a title is all. Just a name.”
“I deserved it,” I said. “I worked for it. I deserved it.”
“I know you did. God knows. And I’m sorry, but I couldn’t tell you on the phone. I had to explain it to you. It’s just a title, and it’s a lousy magazine anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”
I didn’t answer, but just sat there in that dark, musty office, staring out at all that sunshine, thinking over and over: “I deserved it. I deserved it. I deserved it.” Harriet came close, put her arms around me, holding me, rocking.
Right then I stood up, heading for the door. Where are you going? Harriet called.
“Terry,” I told her, not turning. “Terry. I’m going home.”
It didn’t take me long, half running, half limping, cursing my leg out loud. It began aching, but I kept on, and when I did get there, the place was a madhouse. I yelled, but nobody answered so I went into the dining-room. A fat Negro lady was spreading silverware on a tablecloth for the buffet.
“Where’s Mrs. Trevitt?” I asked her.
She laughed. “Mrs. Trevitt ain’t gonna be Mrs. Trevitt long. She’s gettin’ married.”
“The other one,” I said. “The young one.”
“Who are you?”
“I live here,” I said. “I’m looking for my wife.”
“She went off with your brother.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Little blond boy,” she said. “Smaller than you.”
The Temple of Gold Page 23