“Did we come to look or did we come to talk?” Terry asked.
“Raymond,” my mother whispered, “Adrian can’t see.”
“He wouldn’t like this picture anyway,” I whispered back.
“I might,” Adrian said. “I might.”
“Chatter, chatter, chatter,” Terry said, very loud. “I’m going to get me some popcorn.” She got out and slammed the door.
“Raymond,” my mother said, “where did you find that girl?”
“She’s a friend of mine,” I answered.
“Really, Raymond,” my mother said.
“I hate to be a stick,” Adrian sighed. “But I do wish I could—”
“All right,” I said. “All right.” I opened the door and changed seats with him. “Now I can’t see,” I said. “Adrian. Will you bend down?”
Adrian bent down. Terry came back. “Whatsamatter?” she said. “Don’t you feel good?”
“Raymond can’t see,” Adrian said.
“Why don’t you bend down?” Terry asked.
“I am bending down,” Adrian told her.
At which she giggled. Then she moved up, sitting right next to him, her head resting on his shoulder. “You don’t mind?” she said.
“No, no,” Adrian coughed. “Perfectly all right.”
“Come on, Mother,” I said, putting my arm around her. “Let’s us get cozy.”
She pushed me away, glaring. “Raymond,” she said.
So we sat there for an hour or more, during which time the Western ended and the other picture began, a spy movie taking place in Europe. From the first, Adrian liked it. “That’s the Louvre,” he said, turning, smiling at my mother. “The Arc de Triomphe, of course. On the left there, is...” And he was off. Throughout most of the movie he talked away, explaining where we were, the museums nearby, on and on, talking a mile a minute.
Then Terry interrupted. “Time?” she asked.
“Nine forty-five,” I told her.
“I gotta go,” she said, all excited. “I’m entertaining at ten.”
“Couldn’t you possibly wait until the conclusion?” Adrian said.
“I’m sorry,” Terry told him, shaking her head. “I can’t.”
So Adrian got out and I got back in the driver’s seat and we left. Nobody said a word until we got to Terry’s place.
“ ’Night,” she said, smiling at them. “Awfully pleased.” She turned to me. “See you next Tuesday.”
I nodded. We left her.
And after that my mother didn’t pester me any more.
I kept to my usual routine, sticking to myself, staying in the house, reading. Nothing happened, one way or the other, until the afternoon of the 12th of September.
When Harriet called me.
I was up in my room, alone, my mother being off at a meeting. The telephone rang. I answered.
“Let’s go swimming,” Harriet said right off, as if we’d talked about it all day yesterday, when actually I hadn’t seen her for more than a year.
“No,” I said.
“Fine,” she answered, hanging up. “I’ll be right over.”
And she was. In about fifteen minutes she was pushing away at the doorbell, rat-a-tat-tat, until I had to go down and talk to her.
“Hi, Euripides,” she said. “What’s new?” She looked the same as ever, standing there in a bathing suit, a towel curled around her shoulders.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Get your suit on,” she told me. “I’ll wait.”
“Harriet,” I said. “I’m not going swimming.”
She laughed. “You just think you’re not going swimming.” I turned and went upstairs. She followed me. I sat down at my desk. She looked around at all the books. “Pressing butterflies?” she asked.
“Goddammit,” I began.
“Oh, you have changed,” she said. “It’s positively startling.” Then she came over and started pulling off my shirt.
“Harriet,” I said. “Please.”
But she kept pulling away at my shirt, finally getting it caught around my neck.
“You’re strangling me, for chrissakes,” I said.
“I’ve only just begun,” she answered, not stopping. She got it off. “You do the rest,” she told me. “I have some pride.”
I looked at her as she stood over me, smiling down. “All right, Harriet,” I said after a while. “You win.”
“I knew you wanted to all the time,” she answered, applauding. And when I was getting ready, she told me about herself. About the boys she’d gone out with, the girls she knew; about how she’d been appointed editor of The Athenian, which was why she’d come to Athens a week early, to start getting things organized.
We left the house together, walking slow. It was a beautiful day, warm, almost hot, and in a few minutes we were at the road that led down to the Lake. The minute we turned onto that road, I started tensing.
Because I could see the beach below me, and it was jammed; hundreds of people from the town, mothers with their babies, old women, high-school kids. My stomach knotted more and more with each step. Then the noises met us, beach sounds, laughter and splashing, the roll of waves. I jabbed at my stomach, jabbed at it hard, trying to make it relax, not being able to.
Then we were there.
Harriet took my hand, led me along a few steps. I stopped. She tugged at me. I didn’t move, but just stood there, sweating and cold, taking it all in. The people, running or laughing or lying around; the yellow sand, the water beyond. And above, framing it, that cloudless blue sky.
“Come on, sissy,” Harriet said then. “What have you got to be afraid of?”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I took her by the hand and together we walked toward the water.
It was a great afternoon. We swam and horsed around some, having a gay old time. Then we flopped on the sand and I listened while she told me more of what she’d done the past year. When she was through, I started. Harriet lay alongside me, nodding, smiling, interrupting every so often, asking me questions. I don’t know how long I talked, but when I had finished, the sun was going down, the beach almost empty. Still we stayed on, both of us talking now, until finally it got a little chilly.
I took her to her dorm. On the steps, she held out her hand to me. “Thanks,” she said.
I pushed her hand away, holding her in my arms, hugging her tight. “Don’t mention it,” I answered. Then she went inside.
I walked home slowly, taking my time, singing out loud. It was after eight when I got there. I heard voices from in back so I started around.
But I stopped.
Because there, standing by the ravine, half in shadow, were my mother and Adrian Baugh. And as I watched, he reached down, pulled her close. Then he kissed her. She leaned against him, smiling.
I snuck up to my bed as quietly as I could, so as not to disturb them. I lay there awhile, thinking. Then I got up and walked into my mother’s room and looked out at them. They were still standing there by the ravine, holding each other just as tight as they could.
And as I looked out the window, it hit me. I didn’t mind; I wasn’t upset. But all of a sudden I realized that there was my mother, in love again. And where was I? I stared across at Zock’s house, empty, deserted. And where was I? The same as before. No different. Standing still while everything else was moving, leaving me, passing me by.
I thought about it all night long, tossing and turning, the books on my desk silhouetted in the moonlight. It was almost dawn when I figured out what to do. So I made a phone call right then, at five o’clock in the morning.
And when my mother came down for breakfast, I was dressed and packed, ready.
“Mother,” I said. “I’m going away for a while. But not long,” With that, I left her, standing puzzled in the kitchen.
It was three days before I came back. Not alone. “Mother,” I yelled, opening the front door.
She was in the living-room. “What is it, Raymond?” she called.
We walked in.
“Mother,” I said. “Meet the wife.”
The Wife
TERRY CLARK MOVED INTO my house with all her worldly possessions. Namely, a closetful of clothes, eleven pairs of lounging slippers, and sixty-six copies of the Bedside Digest.
I watched her unpack. We were up in my room, me sitting on the bed, her wandering around, putting things away, neither of us saying much of anything. She took her dresses and suits and shoved them into my closet. She took her lounging slippers and dumped them on the floor, beneath the clothes. She took her stockings, slips, etc., and stuffed them in the dresser.
Then she went to my bookcase and began pulling out books, stacking them on my desk.
“What are you doing?” I asked her.
She didn’t answer but just kept on pulling away at the books. When she’d gotten about two shelves cleared, she went to the hall and brought in a beautiful red leather suitcase with a dial combination, humming as she fiddled with the dial, opening it.
She took out a copy of the Bedside Digest, dog-eared and torn, blew away some make-believe dust, and stuck it on one of the empty shelves. Then she backed away, staring at it, her head tilted to one side.
“They’re gonna look fine,” she told me.
She took another copy from that red leather suitcase, blew again, and set it on the shelf. I was about to say something but she beat me to it. “These books,” she said, waving at the desk. “We got to find some place else to put them.”
I got off the bed and tried to hug her. She pushed me away. “Please,” she said. “I’m busy.”
“Terry,” I said. “Which is more important? Me or the Bedside Digest?”
“Trevitt,” she answered. “Don’t ever ask. Now, do something about those books. ‘A tidy home is a happy home.’ Abe Lincoln’s wife said that.” She gnawed on her finger awhile. “I think it was her. Maybe it was Martha Washington. It’s in last February’s issue. I’ll check it.” She snapped her fingers. “Bess Truman.”
“Swell,” I said, and I gathered up a big armful of books.
“Don’t hurry,” she told me as I headed for the door. “This is gonna take a while.”
I shook my head and went downstairs, turning down the hall toward my father’s study.
It wasn’t empty. My mother was sitting there, at his desk, in his chair, alone, sitting in the dark.
I switched on the light. She blinked a few times, then forced a smile. “Hi,” I said, putting the books down.
“What are you doing, Raymond?” she asked.
“Terry needs space for the Bedside Digest,” I explained.
My mother didn’t answer. Instead, she kept on staring straight ahead to the spot behind the door where the guppies had been. I set to work, sliding the books back on the shelves. It took me a long time. Still, my mother didn’t say a word. Finally, when I was done, I went over and sat on top of the desk close by her.
“You want to talk?” I asked.
“Talk?” she answered. “Talk about what?”
Then it was my turn not to say anything. I waited, sitting there on top of my father’s desk. Pretty soon, she started.
“It must be my fault,” my mother said, whispering.
“What is, Mother?”
“I don’t know.” She pushed her hair away from her face. “I’ve been sitting here, trying to reason it out. Your father always did that. Whenever something went wrong, it was right here that he’d come, sitting and thinking, reasoning it out.”
I nodded.
“I don’t know,” she said again, staring up at me. “I suppose it’s just that I always planned...I always wanted...I wanted my son to have a church wedding. With the organ playing, people crying. And you in a tuxedo, your bride in white. And then you elope. With that girl. I don’t know, Raymond. I’m disappointed, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I told her. “Really. I am.”
“With that girl,” she said again.
“Terry’s all right,” I said. “You’ll see. Once you get to know her.”
“All right?” my mother whispered. “Is that what you wanted in a wife? Someone all right? What would your father have said?”
“ ‘Indeed,’ ” I answered, at which she smiled. So I left her like that.
Back in my room, I stopped in the doorway. Terry was standing quietly, staring out the window, her arms crossed in front of her.
“Bedtime,” I said, walking in.
She spun around, her great blue eyes wide open.
“Relax,” I said. “It’s just your loving husband.”
“You should knock anyway,” she told me. “Else you’ll scare a person half to death.”
“I’m sorry. But like I said, it’s bedtime.”
“You look smelly,” she answered. “Why don’t you go take a bath. Take a shower. Take both.”
I laughed, lifting her high in the air, squeezing her just as tight as I could. “T. T.,” I said. “You know what that stands for? It stands for—”
“Tough Titty,” Terry said.
“Terry Trevitt,” I finished. Then I put her down, taking a step away, still holding tight to her hands. “Listen to me a second,” I said. “Listen to me, Terry. I mean this. I don’t want you talking like that. Not any more. Please.”
“Why?”
“Well,” I told her. “Well. Because it’s not ladylike.”
She laughed. “So who’s a lady?”
“You are,” I said.
“Sure, Trevitt.”
I picked her up again, cradling her in my arms, whispering. “Oh, maybe not now,” I whispered. “Maybe it’ll take a lot of doing. But someday, Terry.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Sure. I’ll be Queen of the May.”
“That too.”
“You’re strangling me,” she said. “Lemme go.” I let go. “And take a shower,” she went on, sitting at my desk. “Don’t rush.”
I bowed low and headed for the bathroom.
I suppose I hadn’t spent so long getting cleaned up since my first date with Sally Farmer years before. I showered and scrubbed myself, shaving, showering again, drying off, combing my hair, even throwing on some talcum. All the time I was in there I sang away at the top of my lungs, sang all the words to all the songs I knew, as loud as I could. When I was finally finished, I tucked a towel around me, opened the door and went back to my room. Terry was still sitting at the desk.
“All clean,” I said.
“You’re practically naked,” she answered, very loud. “Go put some clothes on. Get dressed.”
“I was sort of thinking of going in the other direction,” I said.
“Men,” she muttered. “All the same. All you ever think about is sex, sex, sex. The Digest says—”
“Terry,” I interrupted, “you’re talking to your husband.”
“Please,” she said, holding up one of her hands. “Don’t remind me.”
“Well, Jesus,” I said. “Then what did you marry me for?”
“I been thinking about that,” she answered, very soft, staring out the window. “I been thinking about that a good deal. While you were yapping in the shower.”
“And?”
“I don’t know,” she told me. “I had lotsa proposals. Seventeen, total. Starting from when I was nine years old. One guy I turned down owns his own gas station. Right now he owns it. Outright. And another guy—”
“You’re a liar,” I said.
She waited awhile, then nodded. “O.K.,” she said. “But when I was nine the kid next door, he wanted to marry me. He did. His name was Wilford something or other. Nine years old and he had pimples. At that age, I never had pimples. I got a beautiful skin. My beautician told me that. ‘Terry,’ he said. ‘You got a beautiful—’ ”
“Tell me about it there,” I interrupted, pointing to the bed.
“You don’t own me, y’know,” she said. “I’m still a human being. Free as the birds.”
“Te
rry,” I said. “Don’t you even like me?”
She thought some. “Sure,” was her answer.
“Thanks.”
“You’re a nice enough guy. And nice-lookin’. And you come from a nice family. With a nice house. And you got standing in the community.” Then she was quiet for a long time. I waited, watching her as she sat there, huddled in my desk chair. “Trevitt,” she said finally.
“What?”
“Tell me you love me.”
I was about to answer but I didn’t. Because my mother was standing in the doorway, looking at us. “I just stopped by to say good night,” my mother said.
“Come in,” Terry told her. “Please do.” She stood and my mother walked in, taking her by the hands. None of us said a word until Terry spoke up, very soft. “Remember, Mrs. Trevitt. Remember it this way. You’re not losing a daughter, you’re gaining a son.”
“That’s backward,” I said.
At which my mother started to cry. She turned from Terry, flinging her arms around me, her tears dropping onto my shoulders. “Raymond,” she said. “I want you to know that I love you.” Then she hugged Terry. “I love you both,” my mother said. “And more than anything else, I want you to be happy.”
“We’ll try, Mother,” I told her. “We’ll try just as hard as we know how. We can’t promise more.”
“That’s right,” Terry echoed.
My mother looked straight at Terry. “I’m proud to have you with us,” she said, and you could tell from the way she talked that she meant it, every word. So, muttering good night, she left us alone.
I waited a second, then started taking off the towel.
Terry panicked. “Hold the phone,” she said, and she tore around the room, turning off lights, until we stood in darkness. “Strip away,” she told me then.
I got into bed, leaning up on one elbow, staring across the dark room to where Terry was.
“Now,” she whispered. “Tell me you love me.”
“O.K.,” I said. “I love you.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“I love you,” I said again.
“No good. Say it like this: ‘Terry, my rose, my flower, my sweet. I love you.’ ”
“Like hell,” I said.
“Listen,” she told me. “That was how Mr. Tarkington proposed. And if it’s good enough for Mr. Tarkington, it’s good enough for you.”
The Novels of William Goldman Page 136