Following the breakup, Imogene went out with basketball dribblers and scholars, and in her sophomore year several slender members of the swimming team tried for the brass ring. Then, in her junior year, there began to be rumors of a non-Oberlinian, a Philadelphia lawyer, more precisely, who, according to talk, was quiet and kind and a one-time editor of the Yale Law Review. The rumors received substantiation as her senior year began, for Imogene returned to school officially engaged, and at Thanksgiving time her conqueror appeared, neither particularly tall nor strong nor beautiful, but, if Imogene’s eyes were to be believed, kind. As they walked hand in hand across campus they were watched, studied, appraised, and by none closer than E. Walters Kirkaby. But that wasn’t unusual; he had always managed to keep tabs on Imogene.
The first thing he ever noted about her was her hair. It was pale red, and it tumbled down around her shoulders as she walked ahead of him through Tappan Square, on the way to town. This was their freshman year, second day of school, and Walt was excited because he had heard of a pinball machine called Blue Skies and he wanted to test its mettle. At the sight of the red-haired girl, he doubled his speed, closing the gap between them, anxious to see her face. Suddenly he stopped, because it was really a dumb thing to do, following girls; whenever you followed a girl she always turned out to be a dog. Those were Walt’s findings, anyway, so what was the point of navigating after this one, particularly since she was a redhead? Redheads were invariably at their best when viewed from behind. The thing about redheads was that when you looked at them from the front, what you saw was freckles, and what you didn’t see was eyebrows. So what was the point? Walt shrugged and slowed. This hair was pale red, though, so maybe that was something. He moved a little faster. But what the hell, she had a raincoat on, so how could you tell anything about the body? He moved a little slower. I’ll bet she’s a dog, Walt thought. But her legs were nice. The ankles appeared thin and thank God the calf muscles didn’t bulge, so probably she wasn’t a field-hockey star and he began moving faster again, until he was only twenty steps behind. At that distance he noted that her pale red hair glistened in the gray afternoon, so he halved the gap, studying her with professional care. It really was a problem, because from his vantage point she looked great, and a decision would have to be made soon because they were three-quarters through the square and the chances were that she was not on her way to play pinball. To hell with her, Walt thought, and he started to slow when the girl took off her raincoat. Walt picked up the step. She was wearing a fuzzy white sweater and a straight black skirt. “Hmmm,” Walt said, and he squinted at her over the upper rim of his glasses. The odds were still on an eyebrowless dog, but the fuzzy sweater looked nice, the skirt too, and she certainly wasn’t fat and he could not fault her walking motion. They were nearing the end of the square, town just ahead, so it was now or never. Now! Walt thought and, pausing just a moment to attain the proper swagger, he thrust his hands into his pockets at a brilliantly casual angle and hurried alongside.
She was no dog.
Walt stared at her, walking right beside her, eyes wide, and when she glanced up at him he was unable to look away. She did, though, so he continued to stare. They walked together, stride for stride, and Walt thought that he really ought to stop this and go on about his business, but his head was practically resting on her shoulder and it was simply physically impossible for him to pull it away. The girl turned toward him again, and he was debating whether he preferred her full face or profile when she stopped and spoke.
“Yes?”
“Sorry. Thought you were someone I knew.”
The eight words spoken, Walt ran. By the time he went to bed that night, he had, by casual cross-examination of other freshmen, discovered her name, age (18), place of birth (India), parents’ occupation (missionaries) and shoe size (7½ AA)—this last piece of data come to him because this kid who lived down the hall worked afternoons in the shoe store where she had gone earlier that day to purchase a pair of cordovan loafers. Armed with his information, Walt slept.
Or tried to.
About three that morning the thought crossed his mind that he was totally and completely madly in love, but by half past three a little of reality returned. She was one of the pretty people, sure, and it was too bad he couldn’t talk to her again, but how could he, after that beginning? Still, he consoled himself with the thought that talking to her would only lead to ashes. You didn’t talk to people like that; they disappointed you if you talked to them. They were for looking, only for looking, and ideally everybody should have one, one just like Imogene, and everybody should keep them around, someplace close by, so you could just turn your head and stare at them a while, to make you feel better, on those days after the bottom fell, or the roof, or the sky.
The night Imogene first came to rehearsal, Walt walked Blake home. Blake’s eyes were very bright, too bright for Walt, so he looked away from them, and when he groped for her hand she pulled it from his grasp. But I haven’t done anything, Walt thought. So don’t fight. Please.
“You’ll never make it, buddy. It’s a long-lost cause. Take my word.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, come off it, what do you think I mean?”
You mean Imogene, Walt thought. But I haven’t looked at her. Not once all night. Not one time, I swear. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Right now I find you particularly unappetizing,” Blake said.
“Look. I don’t want to fight with you. We’ve got nothing to fight about. You’re smarter than I am. See? I admit it. You can outwit me, so now you don’t have to prove it. Just go easy.”
“I hate that bitch. Her and her goddam sweetness act.”
What should I say? Walt wondered. If I ask who she’s talking about, she’ll land on me with both feet. If I assume she’s talking about Imogene, she’ll land on me with both feet. “Swear some more,” Walt said. “It’s terrifically becoming. So feminine.”
“You don’t get out of it that easy, buddy. No sir, you don’t. Go on. Answer my question.”
“What question? What are you talking about?”
“I’m warning you. I’m just about to get angry.”
“I love you. Now shut up.”
“Oh, that’s cute.”
“God,” Walt said.
“God,” Blake mimicked.
“What do you want from me?”
“What do you want from her?”
“Let’s change the subject, huh?”
“Let’s not.”
“Blake—”
“What do you want from her?”
“There’s no point—”
“Making an ass of yourself. Making an ass of yourself and I’ve got to watch you doing it.”
“Now dammit—”
“Ass!”
Walt hurried on ahead of her.
“She’ll laugh in your face, buddy.”
Walt whirled. “I never even looked at her!” he said, and as he said it he knew it was a mistake, but she was too angry now to catch it. That was something.
“What do you think I’m talking about? Oh God, just watching you goo-gooing around that bitch with your eyes on the floor like old Uncle Tom himself. You think she’s so fantastic you’ll turn to salt if you look at her?”
“If I’d looked at her you’d have yelled at me for that.”
“Like hell I would.”
“Admit it!”
“I would not.”
“Admit it.” I’m winning, Walt thought. How about that?
“Let’s change the subject.”
“No. Not till you admit it. You just want to blow off, right? No matter what I’d done, you’d have blown off, right? Right?”
Blake came at him then, reached for his hands. An instant later she’d placed them on her breasts and then she was kissing him, raking his mouth with her tongue, pushing her body close against him while his hands kneaded her bosom. Walt started getting aroused, biting at her tongue. She broke f
rom him, backing away, smiling, smoothing her hair. Walt was embarrassed at the sound of his breathing, but he grabbed for her anyway. She was too quick. He started to chase her. Blake started to laugh. Walt stopped. Ordinarily the sound of her laughter ruffled him. But not now. Not tonight.
After all, he’d won, hadn’t he?
Branch sat in front of the geology lab with the ticket box beside him. Walt came up. “Anybody buying?” Walt asked.
“I just purchased a pair for my mother,” Branch said. “That brings our grand total to three.”
“Three?”
“Yes. The third was bought by some gullible freshman.”
“Three?”
“Fear not.”
“Three?”
“I anticipate an upsurge this afternoon.”
“How can you smile?”
“Check you local bulletin board,” Branch said. That was all.
AN IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT
from the cast of
We wish to lay finally and forever to rest the following rumor:
IMOGENE FELKER WILL APPEAR ABSOLUTELY AND TOTALLY WITHOUT THE BENEFIT OF CLOTHING
This is false
The final decision on MISS FELKER’S CLOTHES hasn’t been reached.
Branch sat in front of the geology lab with the ticket box beside him. In front of him, seventeen people waited in line. Walt came up, counted the line and bowed low.
Branch shrugged. “Culture,” he said. “It’s wonderful.”
“O.K., now,” Walt said to Imogene. “Here’s this new sketch.” He beckoned her to the makeshift stage at one end of the geology lab. At the other end, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Blake and Branch in whispered conversation.
“What do I have to do?” Imogene asked.
“Well, it’s like this. I’ll be dressed as a magician, see? And I’ll give a little introductory thing, and then I’ll clap my hands and say, ‘Now if my sister will be kind enough to hand me my wand,’ and then you come on. And I’ll talk a sentence or two more and then I’ll do a double-take and I’ll say, ‘You’re not my sister.’ And then you say, ‘I’m a friend of hers. She’s not feeling well, so she asked me would I help.’ Got it?”
“I think so.”
“Great. Then I’ll start into this trick where I make the handkerchief turn color and I’ll build up to it and just before I do it I want you to stand there and shift your weight from one foot to the other—shoot your hip out, you know what I mean?”
“Like this?” Imogene said.
“Right. And I’ll ogle you, and when I do the trick, not only will the handkerchief not change color, it’ll rip in half. That’s sort of the way the whole sketch’ll go. When I make the glass bowl float, you shoot your hip and the bowl will crash and break on the floor. Every time I’m about to do something, you distract me, and the trick’ll go wrong. Understand?”
Imogene nodded.
“If I can make a big enough mess, it ought to work. Art it ain’t, but it might be funny. Shall we give it a try?”
“Go,” Imogene said.
“O.K.,” Walt began, and he moved to the center of the stage, starting to address the imaginary audience. “Ladies and gentlemen—”
“She ought to be your wife,” Blake called from the rear.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it’s a great pleasure to be—”
“It’s not funny if she’s your sister,” Blake said, starting to move down the room. “She’s got to be your wife.”
“—to be here. What you’re about to see—”
“Walt,” Blake said. “Shut up a minute.”
“—to see will undoubtedly amaze—”
“Walt!”
‘“—amaze and delight you.”
“Imogene,” Blake called. “Will you please get the boy genius’ attention.”
“Walt,” Imogene said. “Blake’s trying—”
“I heard!” Walt said. “I heard and I chose to ignore. Now—”
“I’m talking to you, buddy, so hold on.”
“Yes,” Branch said, and he moved down beside Blake.
“The whole thing is not funny this way, buddy. I mean, I know, it’s your sketch, you stole it, and God forbid I should criticize, since I don’t think it’s going to get yucks no matter what you do with it, but I know it’s not going to work this way.”
“Will you just please let us try and rehearse?”
“The whole thing works off of you lusting after Imogene, right? The lecher, right? Well, it’s only funny if you’re married, don’t you see? If you’re married and you’re hot for your wife’s friend, then it’s at least got a chance. This way it’s nothing.”
“You through?” Walt said. “ ’Cause if you are, I’d like to rehearse.”
“It stinks this way, buddy. Believe me.”
“I’m sorry,” Walt said, and he climbed down off the stage. “Forget it, Imogene. We’ll try later. Tomorrow maybe.”
“You won’t even talk about it,” Blake said.
“Please. Just forget it, will you?”
“All right. Go sulk. You’re great at taking criticism, aren’t you, buddy?”
“You’re getting to me. That what you want? Well, hooray for you.”
“Everybody thinks I’m right.”
“Yeah-yeah-yeah.”
“Tell him, Branch.”
“Uh ... Blake’s got a point, Walt. She does.”
Walt turned to Imogene. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. It might be funnier.”
“The three experts,” Walt said, his voice starting to rise. “What do you know?” he said to Imogene. “I mean, you’re such an expert. What do you know? I’ll tell you. You don’t know a thing. Not one cotton- picking thing. So you know what your job is? Your job is to shut up. You too, Branch. Got it?” He turned to Blake, about to speak, but all of a sudden he could feel tears behind his eyes. Blake must have seen them, because she started to smile. Walt ran at her until he saw she was afraid of him, for the first time afraid of him, and her fear was frightening, because he hadn’t realized he was that upset, so he veered away from her, continuing to run until he was out the door and through the square and they were far behind him.
The next morning Walt found her studying in the main room of the library. She was at a back table, taking notes, and as he approached, Walt tried to remember if he had ever seen her in blue before. Probably not, and that was a shame; she looked good in blue. “Hey,” Walt whispered.
Imogene looked up.
“Can I talk to you a sec?”
She nodded.
Walt sat in the chair beside her. “About yesterday,” he whispered.
She smiled. “It’s all right.”
“No. I’ve gotta apologize. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
“It probably did me good. Really. You shouldn’t worry about it.”
“Shh,” a girl down the table said.
Walt ignored her. “I didn’t want to yell at you.”
“I know.”
“You weren’t upset or anything?”
“I’m not anymore.”
“I don’t really know why I did it.”
“Shh!” came from down the table.
“Yes, I do too. See, I was really P.O.d at Blake and—”
“I’m telling you shhhh!”
“Smoke?” Imogene said, rising.
“You smoke?”
“Sometimes.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t. Ever. Spoils the image, you know what I mean?”
“I won’t inhale; how’s that?”
They started out of the big room. Hey, Walt thought, I’m walking with Imogene, what do you know? He shoved his hands into his pockets and scuffed his way out of the library. It was a fine morning, blue and warm, and they moved across the street to Tappan Square and sat down together on the grass in the sunshine.
“Nice,” Walt said.
She nodded.
“Here’s the thing about
yesterday,” Walt began. “See, Blake and I, we’d had it all out beforehand. The sister-wife business. Just the two of us. In private. And I told her I was going to do it my way. I don’t think it’s funny, infidelity, on account of I guess I’m a prude. Anyway, I don’t, so Blake, just to get to me, she brought the whole thing up again. In public. She does that. I mean, she’s a great girl and all, but she does that. I was really mad. That’s why I yelled at you.” He dragged on his cigarette. “But I didn’t mean anything.” Suddenly he stood up. “I’ve got to be going,” he said. “It’s really great, though, having you in the show,” Walt said as he sat down again. “I mean, you’re really good. I enjoy working with you.”
“Same here.”
“I mean, you could have been just awful.”
“You’re right.”
“I hate it when you see somebody on the stage and they’re just awful.”
“Me too.”
“It’s so embarrassing.”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes I want to hide under my seat, I can’t stand it so much.”
“Absolutely.” She began to laugh.
“You don’t laugh much.”
“No. I guess I don’t.”
“I do. It’s supposed to be good for you. Something about wrinkles.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Why were you laughing?”
“We sounded so stupid.”
“Yes. I guess we did.”
Imogene stretched her hands high into the air. “No clouds,” she said. “Not one.”
“Not one,” Walt echoed.
Suddenly she stood up. “I’ve got this paper I just have to finish.”
“Yes.”
“This paper,” Imogene said as she sat down again, “it’s for Abnormal Psych and it’s killing me.”
The Novels of William Goldman Page 29