“It’s for laughing. I couldn’t stop, I just—”
Esther cried out then, lunging to her feet. Young Shapiro reached for her, but she shook loose and started toward the boy. One of her eyes was closed and the other could not stop blinking and the veins in her forehead throbbed. The boy retreated toward the casket but she followed him, closing the gap.
The boy reached out for the old man.
Then Esther was on him, forcing him to his knees, screaming “You killed me! You killed me!” until her voice was gone.
VII
AARON DESPISED PRINCETON UNIVERSITY.
He had not wanted to go there at all, but none of the other colleges he applied to offered nearly so generous a scholarship, so Princeton it was. Aaron immediately opened hostilities. The other students had their hair cut short; he let his hair grow long and he kept it that way, dark and unruly, brushing it back only with his hands. They all dressed in dark gray or navy blue; Aaron bought a yellow corduroy jacket and wore it incessantly, until it became his trademark. In classes he was completely competitive, never caring what grade he received just so it was the highest in the course. Sometimes straight “A” was required, sometimes “A–” sufficed. The first semester of his sophomore year, Klein, a stubby scholar from Denver, was doing straight “A” work in Modern European History.
Aaron braced for the challenge, driving himself into the night, grinding, grinding. After the final examination the professor called him into his office.
“I could find nothing wrong with your paper,” the professor said.
Aaron nodded. “I know.”
“I don’t believe in giving the grade of A plus ...”
“But you’re making an exception in my case.”
“Yes.”
“I deserved it,” Aaron said and, abruptly, left the room.
For the first two years, he suffered no friends. Several made overtures, Klein among them, but he rebuffed them all, without thinking. “No, I’m busy. No, I’m busy then too. That’s right. I’m busy.” Aaron alone.
But that was before the coming of White.
He needed money. Always. For books. Books were his passion and he bought them a dozen at a time. His room at home was flooded with them. They spilled across the top of his desk, overflowed his shelves. He had stacks of books balanced on his windowsill, piles of books lining the floor by the edge of his bed. “Where are you ever going to get the time to read them all?” Charlotte would ask as he lugged home another armload. “Honestly, Aaron. Haven’t you got enough books by now?”
“I’m paying for them,” he would answer when he cared to answer at all. “It’s my money.”
Alone in his room, he would touch the clean jackets with the tips of his fingers, gently run the palm of his hand along the spine. Then he would read. He read them all, as fast as he could, carefully turning the pages, keeping them fresh and clean. He never felt as if he really owned a book until after he had read it through. Then it was his.
To get money, he typed. Themes, term papers, anything. He tacked little postcards up all around the campus with the words FIRESTONE TYPING SERVICE on the back. Beneath he put his phone number. He was a marvelous typist, and he would sit for hours hunched over his desk, head tilted to one side, a cigarette glued to a corner of his mouth. For a time he got enough money that way, but then, as his taste in books grew more expensive, he began seeking other work.
At the start of his senior year he took a job at the Nassau Food Shoppe. The fancy spelling was the idea of the owner, Mr. Akron, who had taken over when the old Nassau Food Shop had gone bankrupt seven years before. Mr. Akron added the two extra letters the day he took over, on the theory that it added, as he put it, “a toucha class.” He was a dark, harried man and his real name was Akronopolos. The only distinguishing feature of the Nassau Food Shoppe, aside from the fact that its hamburgers were cooked in olive oil—Mr. Akron was a great believer in olive oil—was that it stayed open until two in the morning, much later than any of its competitors. Aaron worked from eleven till closing, which gave him time to catch the late movie at the Playhouse before reporting for duty. Aaron’s domain was the soda fountain, at the front of the store, Mr. Akron himself handling the hot-foods department along the rear wall. “Not so much ice cream,” he would shout at Aaron nightly, his voice booming across the booths and square tables that separated them. “Easy with that dipper.” The customers during Aaron’s working hours were almost all university students up late cramming for tests or finishing papers. Occasionally he would know one of them but mostly they were just faces. Sometimes the faces would whisper to him, “How about a little extra on the sundae?” and he would always reply, “A little extra for you, a little extra for me.” They would either nod or shrug. If they nodded, he would pocket the nickel or dime they gave him; if they shrugged, he shortchanged them on syrup. Either way, Aaron emerged victorious.
White found him one night in late November.
It had been snowing most of the day but that had stopped by nine o’clock. Now, well past midnight, it was clear out, clear and unseasonably cold. Whenever the front door of the store opened, Aaron glanced up, shivering. He hated winter. His body was too spare for winter. Aaron saw White when he came in, shrugged and went back to his reading. He always took a book with him on the job, propping it open on the counter, returning to it whenever he had a chance. He was aware that White was sitting across the counter from him, but he kept on reading, carefully finishing the paragraph, taking his time. Then he looked up.
“Something?”
“What’s good?” White was wearing a dark tweed coat, buttoned to the throat. His hair was perfectly combed.
“Everything. You name it.”
White drummed his fingers on the counter. “Make it a sundae.”
“What kind?”
White smiled. “Surprise me.”
O.K., Aaron thought. You want a surprise. You’ll get a surprise. Grabbing a sundae dish, he moved to the ice-cream freezer. Deftly he dug out a large scoop of orange sherbet. Humming to himself, he covered the sherbet with a thick layer of butterscotch sauce. A mound of whipped cream and a cherry completed the job. Aaron set it down in front of White. “Bon appetit,” he said.
White nodded and fiddled with his spoon a moment. Then he began to eat. Aaron watched him. They had never spoken before—they were sharing Professor Haskell’s class in essay writing that semester but they had never spoken. Aaron knew about him, though.
Hugh White was one of the two or three best-known students at Princeton. It was hardly surprising. To begin with, he had all the secondary virtues: he was a WASP in good standing. White Anglo-Saxon Protestant. His breeding was impeccable—his mother was a Boston Clarke. He dressed extremely well but casually. He was handsome, but his features were uneven, which only added to his attractiveness. He was athletic enough—a shoulder separation freshman year had ended a promising football career—and smart enough, friendly enough but not too friendly, modest but sincerely so. And of course he was rich. That was the primary virtue. Money. Uncountable money. His grandfather had founded White & Co. Steel before the turn of the century, and when the old man died to the accompaniment of headlines all across the country, he was worth, conservatively, upward of seventy-five million dollars. Since that time, the steel business had improved. Hugh White was heir to it all.
Aaron loathed him on principle.
“What the hell is this?” Hugh White said, gagging on his sundae.
“Specialty of the house,” Aaron replied. “Like it?”
“Not all that much.”
“We call it ‘Butterscotch Dream.’ It’s very popular.”
“Do you charge money for it?”
“Two bits.”
“Here.”
Aaron took the dollar bill and rang it up on the cash register. He started back with the change.
“Keep it.”
Aaron bowed. “Many thanks.” He picked up his book and began to read. Once he look
ed up. White was watching him. Aaron concentrated on his reading. A little later three other boys came in and Aaron served them. Hugh White sat quietly, the sundae melting in front of him. Aaron stretched, then resumed his reading.
“Aaron?”
White was calling him. Aaron could feel himself starting to flush, so he kept his head down, staring at the glazed print until it was safe to look up. He was surprised that White knew his name. Surprised and undeniably pleased.
“Hey, Aaron?”
“What?”
“Like to talk to you.”
“Talk to me.”
“Not here.”
“Why?”
Hugh gestured toward the three boys down the counter. “It’s a little crowded.”
“Oh, I get it,” Aaron said. “We’re playing Spy.” He lowered his voice, speaking in a hurried whisper. “The secret formula is E equals MC squared. Pass it on.”
“You finished?”
“Momentarily.”
“Then let’s take a walk.”
“I’m working.”
“It’ll only take a minute.”
Aaron lighted a cigarette. “You’re ... uh ... I forget your name. You’re ...”
“Hugh White.”
Aaron shrugged. Eat that, you bastard.
“Ready?”
“Mr. Akronopolos,” Aaron called out.
“Akron. Akron, not Akronopolos.”
“I’m going out for a minute, Mr. Akronopolos.” Grabbing his coat, he rounded the counter to the front door. Hugh held it open for him and they stepped into the cold, walking slowly along Nassau Street. “All right,” Aaron said. “What?”
“You know that essay we’ve got due tomorrow?”
Aaron nodded.
“What did you write on?”
“Something or other,” Aaron answered. “I forget.”
“I couldn’t find much time to do one,” Hugh White said.
“My heart,” Aaron said, “is bleeding.”
Hugh stopped. Aaron was shivering with the cold. “Here,” Hugh said. “Throw this on.” Unbuttoning his coat, he handed it to Aaron. Aaron felt the soft, rich tweed a moment, then slung the coat around his shoulders. “I like this kind of weather,” Hugh explained.
Aaron said nothing.
“About that essay.”
“What about it?”
“How about letting me have it?”
“You mean to copy? Are you crazy? No.”
“I wasn’t exactly thinking of copying it.”
Aaron waited.
“I thought you might give it to me.”
“Give it to you? Why the hell should I?”
“Ten bucks,” Hugh White said, holding two fives in his open hand.
“Thanks for the use of the coat.” Aaron handed it back to him.
“I need that essay, Aaron.”
“Write one, like the rest of the commoners.”
“There’s not enough time for me to. But you could, Aaron. You’re a smart guy. You could knock one off tonight after you quit work. It doesn’t matter what you hand in. You know that. You’ve got the prof buffaloed. You’ll get your A.”
“Go to hell.”
“Would twenty dollars change your mind?” He started reaching for his wallet.
“No.”
“Twenty-five, then.” He pulled the money out. “Twenty-five dollars, Aaron. You can use twenty-five dollars, can’t you?”
Aaron stared at the money.
“Twenty-five dollars. I really need that essay, Aaron. I haven’t been doing so well in that course lately. So how about it?”
Aaron grabbed at the money, folding it up, shoving it into his pants pocket. “You son of a bitch,” he said. “You know I’m broke.”
“I’ll stay in the food shop while you get it.”
“I’ll give it to you before class.”
“I don’t think so. Somebody might just see us. It’s better if you get it for me now. I’ll wait.”
Aaron turned, hurrying down Nassau Street toward his house. “Thanks a lot, Aaron,” Hugh called after him. “And take your time. No hurry.”
Oh, you bastard, Aaron thought. You rich bastard. He kicked at the snow as he moved along, furious at what he had done. Yanking the money from his pocket, he counted it. Twenty-five dollars. You could buy a lot of books for twenty-five dollars. Aaron spit. Lighting a cigarette, he inhaled viciously. He was blind mad. Goddam White. Goddam all the rich ones. Aaron flung his cigarette into the snow. He was almost to his house before he realized that what riled him was not that he had sold out but that he had sold out so cheaply.
Whoever bought him next time was going to pay.
He worked most of that night completing a new paper. It was after two when he started and he was tired so the work went slowly. Then, around three, he remembered what White had said. “You’ve got the prof buffaloed. You’ll get an A.” It was true, of course. Aaron knew that, but he had never taken advantage of it. Now he decided to. Carefully placing a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he half closed his eyes and typed a quick six-page essay on the joys of bird watching in Princeton. Finished, he read it aloud, laughing, retyped it carefully and went to bed.
White was waiting for him when he got to class, pacing beside the entrance to the classroom. “Morning,” White said.
Aaron hurried into class without answering.
When the class was over he left the building and was halfway down the steps when White caught up to him.
“Aaron. Hey, Aaron.”
Aaron slowed. “What?”
“That was a good paper you gave me. Really good.”
“How would you know?”
“I read it. Twice.”
“Then your lips must be tired,” Aaron said. “Now if you’ll excuse me,” and he turned right, heading for the library. He took notes in the library for close to an hour, and when he came out White was waiting.
“Now, look,” Aaron began.
“Will you let me talk?”
“Talk.”
“Well—” Hugh shrugged—“I thought maybe we might get to know each other a little.”
“Not in the Biblical sense, I trust. My mother’s told me about boys like you.”
“Will you cut it out?”
“I didn’t start this conversation, you remember?”
Three seniors sauntered by, going to the library. “Hugh, boy,” one of them said. Hugh nodded to them.
“Listen,” he said when they were gone.
“Why? You don’t say anything. And I’m getting cold standing here.”
“Let’s go for some coffee, then.”
“I don’t want coffee,” Aaron said. “I’ve lived twenty years without you. I can probably continue for a while longer.”
“I have a tremendous desire,” Hugh said, “to clobber you right on the nose.”
“If you do I’ll never wash it again. I promise.”
“Look—”
“What do I need you for? The only answer I can come up with is material. I might want to write about the other half someday. I’m always on the lookout for material. But there are limits.”
“What have you got against me?”
“The way you dress, just for openers. You’re so casual it makes me sick. The way you walk. You swagger.”
“Go on.”
“The way you always look people in the eye when you’re talking to them. I’ll bet you’ve got a firm handshake. If you do, I hate that too. I hate the way you look.” Aaron warmed to the task. “I hate the way you talk. I hate the way people try sitting beside you in class. I hate the way they whisper to you, hoping you’ll laugh. I hate the girls you bring down here; they’re too pretty and they smile at you. Everybody’s always smiling at you and I could do with less of that. I hate your money and your social background and I hate the humble act you’re always putting on. I even hate your name. Hugh.” Aaron said it nasally, tauntingly. “Hugh. Hugh.”
“It stands for Hu
bert! I used to get picked on in grammar school because of my name. Hubert! What’s so goddam good about Hubert?”
Aaron laughed. Hugh smiled.
Then they went for coffee.
“C,” Hugh said. “You get an A on a piece of junk about bird watching and the son of a bitch gives me a C.” It was a week later and they had just got their essays back.
“Can I help it if the teacher happens to be a bird watcher?”
They walked out of the building and down the steps. The day was sunny and cool but not cold. They paused a moment at the bottom of the steps, then started aimlessly across campus.
“God,” Hugh said.
Aaron looked at him, then away. Briefly he wondered if Hugh was going to hit something, or burst into tears, or both. “Go buy yourself something in cashmere, Hubert. It’ll cheer you.”
“Don’t,” Hugh said. “Just don’t.”
Aaron shrugged. “I’ve got to go to the library.”
“ I’m mad, Aaron. Can’t you see that?”
“Yes.”
“I’m really mad.”
“My mother always says if you do a good deed you’ll feel better.”
“You don’t have to go to the library.”
“No.”
“Let’s walk then.”
They moved in silence for a while, circling down past the gym, along the tennis courts, then up toward Nassau Street.
“It was a good paper,” Hugh said finally.
“But you didn’t write it. I did. I’m the one that ought to be angry.”
“Everything’s set!” Hugh cried suddenly, whirling on Aaron. “Don’t you see that? My whole life is set. It’s like a maze. There’s only one opening and I’ve got to follow along. I’ve bought papers before. Just to prove it to myself. It always turns out the same. It doesn’t matter what I do. It’s set. Don’t you see?”
“I find it difficult to sympathize,” Aaron answered, “with either the rich or the beautiful.”
“I don’t want sympathy. Just understand, that’s all. We all of us could use a little understanding.”
“Yes.” Aaron nodded. “That we could.” They began to walk again, slowly, changing direction, heading south, then east, wandering. The sun was warm for November. Hugh took off his coat and threw it casually over his shoulder.
The Novels of William Goldman Page 25