“I want to talk about J. D. Salinger,” Mrs. Lauderdale said. “My husband and I had a big fight about J. D. Salinger.”
“Your husband said she was pregnant and you said she wasn’t,” Mr. Sanders said.
Mrs. Lauderdale looked at him. “That’s absolutely right.”
Mr. Sanders sighed.
“Who’s pregnant?” Betty Jane asked.
“Branny,” Mr. Sanders said.
Oh, now, I meant to read that too, Betty Jane thought.
“Do you like Salinger, Mrs. Fiske?”
You shouldn’t ask me questions, Betty Jane thought. This is my first time and it isn’t fair. “I don’t know ... I guess ... yes—well, not so much. If you ask me everybody sounds the same.”
“Many critics feel he writes the best dialogue since Hemingway but you say all his characters sound the same, is that right?”
Betty Jane stared at the desk top where someone had scratched “Peter is a Fink!” and she heard the class laughing at her and she almost said “They all do talk the same my husband says so too and he’s smarter than all of you put together.” But she didn’t.
What was it she had thought a few minutes ago? Something about mastering the class on her own? How silly. She was stupid and that was all there was to it and what was she doing anyway, sitting in a room talking about books? The only apt thing was the school child’s desk and she opened her purse, feeling around for her nail file, and when the point of it found her fingertip, quick tears came to her eyes. Or maybe the tears were there already, what did it matter? Sneaking the file out, Betty Jane stared up at the teacher, who was busy now, in animated conversation with the other ladies, talking all about was Franny pregnant. Betty Jane kept her eyes on the teacher, and she began scratching her initials in the desk top.
My God, she thought, I’m defacing school property. She scratched away, finishing the “B,” starting on the curve of the “J.” I think if Mr. Sanders caught me I would just die, because he’d probably make some smarty remark and all the others would giggle. They really liked him. Betty Jane watched them watching Mr. Sanders. Well, he was young and sarcastic and that was undoubtedly a change from what they were used to. Betty Jane finished the “J” and wondered what else she should scratch in. What was it she used to do in grammar school? She smiled. Grammar school made her do that—smile. Once, in fourth grade, Penny had made a survey and found that eleven out of seventeen boys in class had scratched “BJB” on their desk tops. Betty Jane Bunnel.
Eleven out of seventeen, Betty Jane thought.
I should have listened! All I did was smile at the boys instead of listening to the teacher and if I’d listened I’d be smart now and if I were smart I would have thought of something just terribly clever to say back to Mr. Sanders and put him in his place. No, I wouldn’t either, because if I were smart I wouldn’t have to bother with putting him in his place because I wouldn’t be here now.
Mr. Sanders glanced at her.
Betty Jane quick hid her nail file.
Mr. Sanders glanced at her again.
I wonder what else he does for a living? Betty Jane thought. Then she thought, I wonder why I wonder what else he does for a living? What possible difference does it make to me what Mr. Sanders does? For a moment Betty Jane paid attention. They were still going on about that silly pregnancy and Mrs. Lauderdale was raising her voice and so was Mrs. Bond and you could just see Mrs. Oliver getting angry and Mr. Sanders was standing in front of the room with his arms crossed, smiling. It would probably be rude for me to get up and leave, Betty Jane thought, sneaking out her nail file, scratching at the desk top. I’ll just have to stick it out. Maybe I’ll get Robby that new pair of shoes tomorrow. Honestly, that boy goes through shoes like Mr. Sanders—
That boy goes through shoes like Mr. Sanders?
What’s happening to me? I’ve got Mr. Sanders on the brain, and if that isn’t silly, I don’t know what is. Penny would say ... What did Penny say? Something about going fishing?
Ridiculous! In the first place, he doesn’t attract me. Betty Jane looked closely at her teacher. There certainly wasn’t much wrong with his face, and his physique was better than—What are you thinking? Stop it. He’s much younger than you are. He doesn’t look much past twenty-five. Forget it. Even if you were silly enough to contemplate doing such a ridiculous thing, and even if he decided to do it too, where would you find to go except the back seat of the car?
The back seat of the car?
Betty Jane blushed.
I must pay attention to what they’re saying, she decided, so she tuned in as Mrs. Lauderdale was saying, “Listen, I’ve been pregnant and Franny wasn’t!”
“Then why did she get into a foetal position?” Mrs. Bond asked. “Salinger says specifically that she gets into a foetal position!”
“Ladies, I appreciate your enthusiasm but ...”
The back seat of the car was too dangerous, Betty Jane thought. Even if you parked someplace quiet and out of the way, what was to prevent some policeman from driving by and seeing the car and—
You’re married, she thought. Not to mention the mother of two.
And besides, how do you know Mr. Sanders can keep his mouth shut?
What if he blabbed? “Hey, fellas, listen, you’ll never believe this but the other night this old bag comes to class—well, not exactly an old bag but she’s seen better days—and after class I get in the car with her and—”
I must be going mad, Betty Jane thought. She looked down at her completed initial scratching.
“B.J.—Mr. S.”
I am going mad, Betty Jane thought, and she prayed for class to end.
“Until next week ladies,” Mr. Sanders said. Then he said, “Mrs. Fiske?” and he started walking in her direction.
Betty Jane placed her purse directly above the initials.
“Could you wait a few moments, please?” Mr. Sanders said.
I could not. “Certainly.”
Betty Jane sat very still while he dispensed with Mrs. Lauderdale and Mrs. Bond and Mrs. Edson, who hadn’t spoken a word but who was terribly upset with all the talk of pregnancy. Betty Jane fidgeted, managing finally to get her gloves on.
When they were alone, Mr. Sanders said, “I went too far with you.”
Betty Jane pressed at the crevices between her fingers.
“I’m sorry. Sometimes I do that. I think all his characters sound the same too.”
“Well, then, you should have said so.”
“I should have.”
Betty Jane stood. “You were very nice to apologize.” He was really terribly tall, when you were right next to him.
“What I really wanted to find out was will you be here next week?”
“Well, I don’t think so.”
“I was afraid of that. Because of how I acted?”
“Oh, absolutely not, not at all. It’s just, well, I won’t be here, what’s the point. But I think you’re a very good teacher, Mr. Sanders. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye.”
She picked up her purse and coat and started toward the door.
He had his coat on and moved in the same direction.
She smiled at him quickly, then looked away.
“It’s so embarrassing isn’t it, when this happens?”
“Yes.”
“Goodbyes should be final.”
“Yes. Goodbye, Mr. Sanders.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Fiske.”
They walked through the door and both turned the same way.
“Oh dear,” Betty Jane said, and she stopped.
He stopped beside her.
“I’m going to the parking lot.”
“I’m heading that way; I’m going to the train station.”
They started walking again, together. “New York or Philadelphia?”
“New York. I’m getting my doctorate at Columbia.” He opened the door for her and they walked out into the cold.
“Do you have a car?”
; “No.”
“Oh, that’s right. You said you were going to the train station.”
“Yes.”
It would be just inhuman not to offer, she thought. In this weather. “Could you use a lift?”
“That would be lovely.”
They moved through the parking lot. “Here we are,” Betty Jane said.
He held the car door open for her.
He’s really very well-mannered, Betty Jane thought. One thing about well-mannered people: they know how to keep their mouths shut. “Can you keep a secret, Mr. Sanders?” She drove into the street.
“Mark. Try me.”
That’s sort of nice—Mark Sanders. “Oh no, I didn’t have anything in mind but my eldest—” might as well let him know now—“was asking me if I was good at keeping secrets and I said I thought I was and he said, ‘How do you know?’ That’s a pretty good question. How do you know?”
“You just do and that’s all there is to it. I can keep a secret, Mrs. Fiske. I’ll prove it to you. I teach several of these night classes. Three a week. Have for two years. I’ve taught in half a dozen different towns. Would you believe it if I told you that over fifteen women in the course of two years have thrown themselves at me?”
“How interesting,” Betty Jane managed.
“I have yet to tell anyone their names.”
“What do you do when they throw themselves at you’?”
“Try to save their pride. As gently as possible.”
“That’s very good of you.”
“No, it isn’t. All of them were married, and most of them were old, and some of them were stupid, and none of them was really what I’d call pretty—turn in at the next street, it’s dark.”
Betty Jane managed to keep control of the car.
“Turn in.”
“I can’t.”
“Of course you can.”
“You don’t even know my name.”
“What’s your name?”
“Betty Jane.”
“Turn the damn car, Betty Jane.”
Betty Jane turned the damn car.
“Now stop. Right here. No one can see.”
She made the car stop.
He took her in his arms and kissed her very hard on the mouth.
“I keep thinking I ought to say how dare you?”
“Say it.”
“I can’t. How did you know I’d let you?”
“You made it pretty obvious.”
“Oh, dear; I was trying not to.”
He kissed her again.
“Can I ask you something, please?” Betty Jane said.
“At your service, Mrs. Fiske.”
“This isn’t what you meant before about saving pride as gently as possible?”
“No; you’re not old and you’re not stupid and you are what I’d call really pretty. You’re only married.” He opened her coat and placed his hand on her cardigan sweater over her breast.
I wish Penny could see me now, Betty Jane thought.
He kissed her again.
I really ought to mind this more, Betty Jane decided. His tongue was available, so she bit it.
He started unbuttoning her cardigan and reaching inside.
“That’s all there is,” Betty Jane said.
“You mean stop?”
“I mean, that’s all there is. I’m flat-chested. I didn’t want it to come as a surprise.”
He kissed her tiny breast.
“How old are you?” Betty Jane said. If he’s twenty-three I’ll die.
“Twenty-seven.”
“Thank God.”
He laughed. “How old are you?”
“Old enough to know better.” Suddenly she began to shake her head.
“What is it?”
“When I said that, about knowing better, I thought I’d stop this right away. I mean, I do know better. But I don’t seem to be stopping. Would you kiss me, please? Anywhere you like.”
He laughed again. Then he kissed her.
She closed her eyes and held him very close.
“I’m not married,” he said.
“I didn’t ask if you were.”
“You would have. It always follows ‘how old are you?’ You’re looking for an excuse to stop, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Please kiss me.”
“Do you know how pretty you are?”
“I used to be.”
“I hate people who fish for compliments.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you cold?”
“A little. I don’t mind.”
“Good.”
He kissed her again and she thought about Charley, and then after that she thought about Robby and Paula, and then after that she bit his tongue again. She could feel her body relaxing beneath the pressure of his big hands. “My husband has hands like yours.”
“Don’t tell me I remind you of him.”
“He used to be like you.”
“I don’t care that you’re married.”
“I’m sure you mean that.”
“I do. I don’t care. And I’m not mad for older women either; I thought that might put your mind at rest.”
“I’ll tell you something about me; I make a very good first impression. But I don’t last like some people. That’s the truth.”
“Please shut up.”
“I’m telling you, Mark—I don’t like that name—I thought I did but I don’t anymore.”
“I’ll change it.”
“I’m not smart. And I say stupid things. And I’m dull. I swear to God.”
He made an enormous yawn.
Betty Jane laughed and grabbed him.
They started to lie back, but her shoulders hit the steering wheel. He pulled her back upright and kissed her ear. “Whoever invented the steering wheel ought to be pistooned.”
“What is that?”
“I just made it up. It feels good to say. Say it.”
“Pistooned,” Betty Jane said. “Yes, it does.”
“You don’t happen to have any friends wintering in Bermuda who asked you to look after their geraniums?”
“No.”
“I thought not.” He bit her ear.
Betty Jane stiffened.
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m not enjoying this.”
He pulled away. “I’m sorry.”
“I am, though,” she cried and she reached for him.
“Betty Jane,” he said, then he shook his head. “We’ll both change our names.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you say you weren’t enjoying this?”
“Because I thought ... I should stop.”
“Do you know what I hate—this is changing the subject.”
“What?”
“Big fat flabby floppy breasts.” He covered her tiny breasts with his big hands.
Betty Jane listened to herself breathe.
He kissed her. She closed her eyes. When she opened them again she was momentarily blinded by the headlights of a car.
Betty Jane cried out.
The car cruised by.
“That might have been a policeman,” she began.
“Princeton cops always drive convertibles?”
“Well, then, it could have been someone who knows my car. Or someone who thought we looked suspicious and went to get a policeman.”
“I don’t care.”
“Jesus God, neither do I,” Betty Jane said. “I don’t care. I’m not going to stop! I’m not going to stop!”
That stopped her.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
She shook her head, straightened her clothes, started the car.
“Listen,” he said as the car picked up speed. “I haven’t been doing this just for the hell of it.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“Talk to me then.”
“What would happen if I really liked you?”
“Find out.”
Betty Jane shook her he
ad.
“Why not?”
“There’s the train station,” Betty Jane said, and she sped up until she was there. She stopped the car, kept the motor running.
He looked at her. “I wish I could think of some great thing to say.”
Betty Jane stared out the windshield.
Then she felt the tips of his fingers touch her lips.
“What did you have to be nice for?” she said as he got out of the car. She started to drive. She drove up the street, looking for him in the rear-view mirror. Then she saw him. He had come into the street after her, waving. They both stopped still in the middle of the street. She stared back at him through the darkness. At that moment she could not imagine a lovelier boy. Well, I am stupid, she thought as she started to drive away. There’s no doubt about it now.
Jenny sat slumped in her acting class, trying to pay attention to Mr. Lee. He was a wonderful teacher and she always found him fascinating to listen to, except lately she had trouble concentrating on things. It was the beginning of March and she hadn’t felt well for a long time. Tired. Tired. All the time. It wasn’t Charley’s fault. You couldn’t blame Charley. He loved her. She knew that, even though he’d never actually told her in so many words. It didn’t bother her that he’d never told her, only sometimes, like now as she sat slumped in her chair in acting class, she thought she wouldn’t mind so much if once or twice he might actually go ahead and tell her, in so many words, just for the hell of it.
Up at the front of the class, Mr. Lee said “Skedaddle,” and the minute he did, Jenny hurried to her feet and started for the door. But she was too slow; Bernie Randolph was already there, waiting for her. Bernie Randolph was the best actor in the class, or at least the best male actor. He had already appeared in three Broadway shows and everybody knew it was just a matter of time until he made it big. For five weeks running now he had asked Jenny out for coffee after class. She had always managed one excuse or another, except that it bothered her because she wanted to say yes, because his name had not always been Bernie Randolph and he had spent his youth in a concentration camp and Jenny would have loved to have got to know him.
But back among the blue walls, Charley was waiting. This was Thursday, an easy day for him to stay late in the city, and he wanted her to change to another acting class. And she would have, except that Mr. Lee was one of the best teachers in the whole city and this was the only class of his she could make, Thursdays, from five o’clock to seven-thirty.
The Novels of William Goldman Page 69