HE’S GOT A ROOMMATE.
“Careful,” Aaron said out loud. He inhaled five or six quick times until the heat from the cigarette began hitting his lip. Then he lifted a glass ashtray and flicked his tongue, knocking the butt into the center of the glass. Aaron smiled at his trick, lit another cigarette, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, shut one eye and reached for his thesaurus. Opening it to the entry on “Sex,” he began jotting down possible euphemisms. “You must remember this,” he sang softly, “a kiss is still a kiss, a siiiigh, is still a siiiigh ...” He looked at the letter again. “Be brilliant,” he commanded, and began to type.
Mrs. Scudder, I have always been the kind of person who hated gossipy things, and I swear to you that I am not the kind of person who tells tales out of school, especially when I don’t know exactly all the details of the tale I’m telling, and so what I will do is stick to the facts (like they’re always saying on television) and let the chips fall where they may—This roommate’s name is Rudy Miller and I don’t quite know how to describe him to you. He’s a strikingly handsome person and he is supposed to be an actor, except he’s never I don’t think acted in anything so how he got the lead in that brilliant play (so I hear) your son is producing, I’ll never know.
“And when two lovers woo, they still say I love you ...” I wonder if the old bag’s an anti-Semite?
Now I certainly think it is commendable of Branch, taking in an untrained Jewish actor and making him the star of his play, but I don’t see why Branch has to support him at the same time, do you?
“She’ll pop her cork,” Aaron said, starting to laugh. “Moonlight and love songs, never out of date; hearts full of passion, jealousy and hate ...”
MRS. SCUDDER THAT BOY HAS SOME UNNATURAL HOLD ON BRANCH, I’M JUST ABSOLUTELY CONVINCED OF IT.
Now I don’t know what it is, and I’m the first to admit that this is none of my business, but I know how you love Branch and ... well ... to tell you the truth I guess I loved him too once and I hate to see this happening to him, whatever it is. But that Miller boy has something unnatural about him. He orders Branch around like Branch was his slave practically, and all the time Branch is paying for the food he puts in his mouth. It’s unnatural.
If I can just figure out how to use the word “unnatural” enough times, perhaps I can bring on menopause. Or, considering old Rose, bring it back. “It’s still the same old story, a fight for love and glory ...”
Well, Mrs. Scudder, I guess that’s all I have to say. Please don’t tell anybody about this and please don’t above all do anything on just my saying that Branch is supporting this Jewish actor who’s got some unnatural hold on him. I wish I had a prettier story to tell, Mrs. Scudder, but I know everything will work out just fine for all concerned. Branch is such a sweetheart as we both know and the unnatural people of this world, they sometimes try to take advantage of the sweethearts, but God looks after us all, Mrs. Scudder, and Thank God for that ...
ANNIE
Rose read the letter in her living room. Or started it. Because, when she was halfway through, she jerked her head back and forth, put stubby fingers to paper and began to tear. She tore the letter into strips, the strips into shreds and then, with one wild gesture, scattered it across the floor. Rose stared at the mess, scowling. Then she gave a cry.
A moment later she was on her knees.
She crawled around the rug, gathering the bits, and when she had them all she smoothed them as best she could and began to order them back the way they were. It was laborious work, and her knees began to feel the strain, but she kept on, having trouble only with the word “unnatural,” which seemed to appear a million times, and it was difficult to puzzle which one went where. By the time she realized the word meant the same in any sentence, the letter was back in some kind of legible form. Rose read it.
Over and over.
Mother Scudder came in in her wheelchair. She looked at her daughter-in-law. “Can I play?” Mother Scudder said.
“Play?”
Mother Scudder wheeled close. “The game,” she said excitedly. “The game. With the puzzle pieces.”
“It’s a letter,” Rose said.
“We could put it on the card table and play. I bet I beat you, Rose.”
“It isn’t a game, Mother.”
Mother Scudder wheeled closer and squinted down. “Well, it certainly looks like a game. What is it?”
“A letter.”
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
Rose stared at the pieces of paper.
“Who’s it from? Good news or bad? What, what, what?”
Rose looked up. “Branch is coming home,” she said.
Rose was the first one off the plane at Idlewild. She had no luggage, so she was almost to the taxi area before she remembered the way she must look. Doubling back, she entered the ladies’ lounge and looked at herself in the mirror.
She had never been a beauty, but she looked as well now as she ever had in her life. She had kept her figure, and that hadn’t been easy, because she was big-boned and tended naturally to gain, but she hated fat people—fat people looked old—so no matter the strain from her almost continual dieting, the knowledge that her waist was the same twenty-five and a half it had been on her wedding day provided an almost continual reward. Her legs—her best feature—were still as slender and shapely as any girl’s, and her breasts, never large, were still firm. Rose unbuttoned the jacket of her raw-silk suit. It was dark green, and the china-silk print blouse beneath picked up the color. Rose took off the jacket, tucked in the blouse. Then she smoothed the blouse, running her stubby hand down from the swell of her breasts to the flat of her stomach. She put her hands on her hips and inhaled. She stood five-four and had yet to weigh a hundred and thirty pounds, and she nodded to her image as she took a comb and began fluffing her brown hair into place. She found her lipstick, dabbed just a trace of it onto her thin lips, ran her tongue across her lips until they glistened. Then she put her jacket back on, hurried out into the May afternoon, and took a taxi to 72nd Street.
Branch was surprised to see her. “Rosie!” he said.
“Hi, hon.”
“Rosie!” Branch said again.
“Aren’t you gonna invite me in?”
Branch bowed. “Come in, come in.”
Rose moved through the foyer into the living room. Then she held out her arms. “Aren’t you gonna give me a kiss?”
Branch went to her, kissed her cheek, hugged her. “You look fantastic.”
Rose smiled.
“Twenty years old at the outside.”
“You’ve got your father’s charm.” She sat down on the sofa, tapped the empty cushion beside her.
Branch sat down beside her. “I’m giving you three to tell me.”
“Tell you what, hon?”
“Will you get her?” Branch said. “Appears from the blue without a word of warning and then says, ‘Tell you what, hon?” Branch took her hand and examined the palm. “Can’t read a thing,” he said. “I give. Why’re you here?”
“You’re glad, aren’tcha?”
Branch smiled. “Horrified.”
Rose dropped her voice and looked around. “Are we alone?”
“Course we’re alone. My God, who do you think should be here?”
Rose shrugged. “I just wondered.”
Branch got out a handkerchief and snapped it at her playfully. “You still haven’t told me.” He began drying his neck.
“I won a contest,” Rose said, and she stood up and stretched and started walking around the room.
“You won a what?”
“ ’Scuse me a sec,” Rose said, and she left the room, walking down the corridor to the bedroom.
Branch followed her. “What can I do for you?”
“Just want to freshen up,” Rose answered, and she moved into the bathroom and closed the door.
“Lemme get you a fresh towel,” Branch called through the door.
“I’m fine,” Rose said. “How are your teeth?”
“My teeth?”
“One toothbrush is all I ever needed.”
“Oh,” Branch said. “That. Well, I’ve been having a little gum trouble.”
“You never told me. We talked every Sunday and you never once mentioned it. I thought we didn’t keep secrets.”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” Branch called. He hurried into his bedroom and got out another handkerchief from his top right-hand bureau drawer.
“It’s that serious?” Rose said.
“No-no—the whole point is it isn’t serious. I didn’t want to upset you over a trifle. My gums have been bleeding and I got a different toothbrush, a softer bristle, you see, so that my gums wouldn’t bleed so much. The dentist I go to suggested it. It helps a lot.”
“That’s good,” Rose said. She opened the bathroom door. “I feel ever so much better now.”
“Now what about this contest?” Branch said.
Rose took his arm and held it against her as they strolled back through the bedroom into the living room. “Oh. Well, they had this contest in West Ridge. To see who wanted the most to come visit New York City. The Best Reason Contest, it was called. And I won. I had the best reason for coming to New York. Guess what it was?”
They sat back down on the sofa. “I give up,” Branch said.
“To see you, silly; that was all I put down and I won the contest.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, pay attention, Branch. There was this contest in West Ridge to see who had the best reason—”
“You’re fooling around with me.”
“You mean lying to you, don’t you?”
“Mother—”
“You don’t believe about the contest. Well, you’re right, except you say I’m fooling around and I call it lying. I’m lying to you. Do you ever lie to me?”
“Of course not.”
“I know, Branch. Let me ask it again: do you ever lie to me?”
“We never lie to each other and you know it.” He got up and walked to the window.
“Don’t get so excited, hon.”
Branch mopped his neck. “I just don’t like the whole tenor of things. You come in here surprising me—which isn’t like you—and then you all but practically accuse me of lying—and that isn’t like either of us, and—”
“Honey ... honey ... didn’t you hear me? I said I know.”
“Know what, for God’s sake?”
“About the Jew.”
Branch stared out at the Hudson. “I know I’ll wake up any minute. My own mother, the world’s most levelheaded lady, comes in from nowhere and starts talking some gibberish about some nonexistent Jewish—”
“Miller; isn’t that the name? Rudy Miller? Something like that.”
“I can just feel myself waking up any minute now.”
“Branch!”
“My neck is just absolutely giving me fits.”
“Turn around. Branch. Now. Look at me.”
Branch turned. “Yes, Mother?”
“Don’t make me get upset. Please.”
“All right, Mother.”
“Where is he?”
“Out.”
“Good.”
“He should be back in a while.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
Branch looked at her.
“We’ll be long gone,” Rose said.
Branch leaned against the window.
“Get in there and pack,” Rose said, and she gestured with her thumb toward the bedroom.
“How did you find out?”
“Never mind. Get in there and pack.”
Branch ran to her. “Now you listen, Rosie—”
“Branch—”
“Rosie, you’ve got to listen!”
“All right, hon; go ahead. Rosie’s all ears.”
“I didn’t think there was any reason to tell you. He’s just been here a little, that’s all. He’s going to be in my play.”
“I know, hon. Go on.”
“How did you know?”
“Go on, hon. You’ve got your mother’s attention; take it while you got it.”
“He’s very inexperienced. Brilliant, but everyone thought it would be a good idea if he were here for a little where I could help whenever he needed—”
“I knew it was a mistake letting you come here in the first place. Sometimes I think I should just have my head examined for—”
“There’s nothing wrong with taking in a roommate, Rosie.”
“That’s right, hon. Let’s go pack.” She stood up.
Branch stood beside her. “You don’t mean go home, do you? You can’t mean leave town. Not now!”
“Just take enough to scrimp by on. I’ll take care of the rest later.” She started in toward the bedroom.
Branch followed her. “This thing is all out of proportion in your mind, Rosie. My God—”
Rose opened the first closet she came to. “Good,” she said, and she picked out a canvas suitcase. “This’ll be fine.”
“Rosie, you’re acting silly—”
“Look!” Rose whirled. “Ya see? Ya see my hands?” She dropped the suitcase, held her stubby fingers before her child’s eyes. “Tell me what they’re doing.”
“Shaking.”
“That’s right. They are shaking! And I am trying to keep them under control! I am trying to keep them still but I can’t. I can’t control my hands! Now I’m asking you, Branch, as a favor—don’t make me get upset. Please!” She grabbed the suitcase, hurled it onto the bed.
Branch stayed in the doorway, staring at it.
“Honey,” Rose whispered. “Please do as I say.”
Branch moved to the bed.
“Mother knows best,” Rose said.
Branch opened the suitcase, spread it flat. Then he said, “I’m not a kid anymore, Rosie. You can’t just order me around any way you like.”
“You’re only wrong for one reason,” Rose said.
Branch waited.
“Money,” Rose said.
Branch said nothing.
“As long as Rosie pays the bills, Rosie gives the orders.”
“I’ll pay you back every penny.”
“No need, hon. I do with my money what I want. I don’t put my son in debt. I just look out for his well-being, that’s all.”
“My God, Mother, eighty trillion guys in Manhattan have roommates. It’s no sin.”
“Pretty view,” Rose said, staring out the window at the Hudson. “I’ll watch it while you pack.”
“I’ve got some little stocks. I’ll sell them.”
“Sure you have. Sure you will.”
“I don’t need your money, Mother.”
“We’re having kind of a cool May,” Rose said. “Pack accordingly.”
“Mother, you can’t make me go home just because I’ve got a roommate for probably a few days at the outside. You just can’t.”
“Branch, please pay attention—I don’t like losing my temper. It frightens me when I do. I mean that and you know I do. I hate it. I hate it. Please. For me, Branch, look at my hands—see?” The hands were trembling worse now, and Rose’s face was starting to drain of color. “It’s not on account of roommates—” she started moving in on him—“and you know it and I know it and there are some things you just don’t say and they will not be said now.” She was almost on top of him, circling around the bed, advancing while he backed away. “And I like being a woman and when I lose my temper I feel almost like a man and I hate that, so do as I say, Branch, or dare the consequences!”
“All right,” Branch whispered. “All right.”
Rose smiled.
Branch closed his eyes. “I never could fight you.”
Rose gave him a quick hug. “That’s because when we argue—not fight, baby—we don’t fight, we just argue sometimes—but when we do, Rosie’s right and you know it and that’s why you give in to Rosie, ’c
ause she’s right, baby.”
Branch nodded and started opening his bureau drawers.
“I’ll fill you in on gossip from home,” Rose said, crossing the room, returning to the window.
Branch took socks and underwear and folded them into the blue canvas case.
“Mother’s taking to her chair just like a duck to water. Wait till you see her scoot around corners and things. I tell her I’m going to enter her at Indianapolis for that speedway and she just laughs and laughs.”
Branch got some handkerchiefs and neckties and pressed them down on top of the underwear.
“And business. Well, West Ridge, you’d think it was Valhalla or they’d just discovered oil. People are moving in from all over. There’s that new factory out at the edge of town—isn’t that silly, I forget what it makes, but they’re responsible for some of the growth.”
Branch was perspiring from the effort and his shirt was soaked in the middle of his back and under his arms, so he ripped it off and got a towel, drying his skin before going back and packing some more.
“Then, of course, there’s the developers,” Rose said.
Branch was having difficulty breathing.
Rose noticed it. “What’s the matter?”
Branch shook his head.
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
“I just did,” Branch gasped. “No.” He sat down hard on the bed.
Rose went to him and put her hand to his forehead. “You feel hot.”
“I’m not going with you, Rosie.”
“You shouldn’t sit around half naked like that. You’re just asking to catch something.”
“I’m not going with you, Rosie.”
“You just rest. I’ll help you pack,” Rose said. She unbuttoned her green silk jacket.
“Hear me!”
“Now, you’ve got socks and ties and hankies. Shirts. Shirts you need. Which drawer do you keep—”
Branch put his head in his hands. “I’m not going,” he whispered.
“That’s right, hon; you just rest.” She got some shirts, started to fold them into the case, paused, took off her jacket, tucked in her blouse.
Branch stood up. “I’m not leaving.”
“That makes kind of a stalemate, hon. ’Cause I’m not leaving you here.”
The Novels of William Goldman Page 82