Getting to my feet I headed for the door, bumping into people, into chairs, into walls, but I kept on going until I was outside. The air was cooler and it hit me hard so that I fell once or twice before I got my bearings. Finally I began walking, walking just as fast as I could, walking out there, to the cemetery, to where Zock was.
I never made it. Not that night. Patriot’s Square was too big and I fell on the grass in the middle, helpless.
The sun woke me. I don’t think I ever felt worse, but I got up all the same and, stumbling, lunging forward as best I could, I started again. “I’m coming,” I said out loud, over and over. “I’m coming, Zock. I’m coming. Wait for me.”
By that time I was pretty cut up from falling every few feet, and my clothes were in shreds. But it didn’t matter. I just kept going, falling, getting up again, making my way.
And then I was there, lying on the ground, just a little bit away from “Zachary Crowe, 1934-1954. R.I.P.” I crawled those few feet, clawed the ground with my fingers, stretching out on top of his grave and, for the first time, I think, since the death of Baxter, I cried.
“I made it, Zock,” I said. “I told you I was coming, and here I am. Just like I said. Just like I told you.” I pulled myself over to the tombstone and grabbed at it, holding it tight, crying, squeezing it against my own body.
“Zock, I’m cracking. Help me. Help me for Christ’s sake. I can’t find the handle, Zock. Tell me what to do. Tell me now because I’m cracking. I can’t go on much longer so for God’s sake, help me. Please. In the name of sweet Jesus, Zock, help me. Help me now because I’m cracking and I don’t know what to do.”
I clung to that stone for a long time, sobbing, trying to talk, hunched against his tombstone, holding it tight until finally I passed out again.
The sun was high when I woke. I don’t remember getting home, but when I did, they were waiting for me, my mother and Adrian Baugh. I said I was sorry and went up to wash. When I came down, I felt better.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, starting it off. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to be on your honeymoon?”
“What happened?” my mother said.
I laughed. “I guess I got drunk. Too much champagne. I’m sorry.”
“Raymond,” Adrian asked, “where is Terry?”
“She had to go home,” I answered. “In a hurry. Her father’s sick. She didn’t want to worry you so she just slipped out. She didn’t want to spoil your honeymoon, and neither do I, and if you’re going to have one, you’d better get moving.”
“I don’t know,” my mother said.
I went up, threw my arms around her. “I do, Mother,” I said. “So take it from me. Get going. I’ll hold the fort.” She and Adrian looked at each other. I laughed, grabbed their luggage, carried it out to the car. Finally, they followed.
“Raymond,” my mother said, “are you sure you’re all right?”
“Never better,” I told her. Then I opened the car door. She waited. I bowed low, laughing, smiling away. That did it. She got in one side, Adrian the other.
“Happy honeymoon,” I said, waving.
My mother waved back. Adrian tooted the horn twice. Then they were gone.
I went back inside the house and up to my room. I took off my clothes and showered, letting the water splash over me, scrubbing my body as hard as I could. My knee was swelling some and it hurt, but I scrubbed it too. I stayed in the shower a long time, the water stinging me, my leg aching. Then I dried off, left the bathroom, and flopped down in bed, closing my eyes.
But I couldn’t sleep. I was so tired I ached all over, but I couldn’t sleep. I just lay there in bed, listening to the house. There wasn’t a sound. No noise. Nothing. I tossed and turned and swore and flicked the radio on and off, always listening for some sound.
I got up and walked to the kitchen, opening the icebox. I wasn’t hungry. I went back upstairs and lay down again, closing my eyes as tight as I could, the pillow over my head, my hands grabbing at the mattress.
I don’t know when I figured out what to do, but it was late afternoon before I got to Crystal City.
I rang the bell to her old apartment, waited a minute until I heard footsteps. The door opened.
“I’m looking for Terry Clark,” I said to the woman in the doorway. “She used to live here.”
“She got married,” the woman said.
“I know that. But is she here now?”
“She got married last fall. She hasn’t been back since.”
“Is she here now?”
“I just told you she hasn’t been here since last fall.”
“She didn’t come back last night? You sure she isn’t here now?”
The door closed. I turned, hurrying toward the center of town, going into the dress shop on the corner. “I’m looking for Terry Clark,” I said. “She used to live in Crystal City.”
But she wasn’t there. And they hadn’t heard of her. So I went next door to the grocery. But she wasn’t there. After the grocery was a shoe shop. She wasn’t there. I kept on, walking down the street, going into every store. I crossed the street, worked my way up. She wasn’t there. Then I started on the bars. I went to every bar in Crystal City. But she wasn’t there. Nobody had heard of her. Nobody had seen her. I kept going, asking the same questions, getting the same answers.
By then it was dusk. Neon lights began flickering. Red and Green. Blue and Red. Red and Blue. I stood in the center of town, turning around and around, reading all the signs, shivering, turning around, pulling up my collar, cold and shivering from the wind, standing there, turning around. EAT. Bar. Dance. Drugs. EAT. Eat. Dance. Drugs. Eat. DANCE. Dance. Dance. BAR. BAR. BAR.
Finally, I started looking in the whorehouses.
The first was on the edge of town. Music was playing on a radio somewhere upstairs. I stood there, shivering still, listening to the music, sweet and soft, drifting down to me. I waited and waited and then a tall, thin woman came downstairs, a shawl across her shoulders.
I want to see Terry Clark.
She don’t work here no more.
The stars were out. Billions of stars. I counted them as I walked along. Ninety-five. Shivering. Five hundred. The wind got stronger. A million. I leaned over the curb, tried to throw up. Two million. Ten.
I’m looking for Terry Clark.
Never heard of her.
Why was the wind so strong? I couldn’t figure it out. Where did it all come from? Where does the wind come from? Why doesn’t it blow the stars away? Twenty million. Twenty billion. How many stars could there be? A trillion. Two trillion. Ten.
Is Terry Clark here?
Nobody here by that name.
Why weren’t the madams fat? Madams were supposed to be fat. Why were they thin? I went to the curb again, put my finger down my throat. I couldn’t throw up. I hadn’t eaten. That was why. You can’t throw up when you haven’t eaten. Anybody knows that. I waited downstairs for the madam to show. This one was quiet. No music. That was wrong. There ought to be music in a whorehouse. I kept listening for it, but it wasn’t there. I waited for the madam, but she didn’t show. Then I heard footsteps. I looked up.
Felix Brown was coming down the stairs.
His arm around a colored whore. I stared at him. He was wearing an Army uniform. Sergeant First Class. A bunch of combat ribbons on his chest. And he was bigger than before. Not taller, but bigger, heavier, thicker. I shouted to him. “Fee! Hey, Fee!”
He stopped, looking down. Then he said something to the whore and left her. I ran up to him.
“Fee!” I yelled again.
“Hello, Trevitt,” he said.
“Fee. What are you doing around here?”
“I came home to see Pa,” he answered.
“What are you doing in that uniform? Whose is it? And those ribbons?”
“Mine,” he answered. That was all.
“How’d you get to be an SFC in two years? Tell me. How’d you do it?”
> “I enlisted five years ago,” he said. “I’m a career man.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “You can’t be serious. You’ve got to be kidding. You’re getting out soon. Sure you are. What are you going to be?”
“I think I’ll be a nigger,” he said, starting to move away.
“I like your answer,” I said, grabbing him by the arm. “Now quit the kidding. This is me. Euripides.”
“I know that.”
“Well then, quit the kidding around.”
“I’m late,” he said. “I’ve got to go.”
“Invite me. I’ll come with you.”
“No,” he answered and he walked away. I followed him outside.
“Fee,” I said, grabbing him again. “What’s the matter with you? I tell you it’s me you’re talking to. Remember? ‘Pale amber sunlight falls across the reddening October trees.’ Remember?”
“I already forgot that,” he said. “Why don’t you try.” He pulled free. “So long, Trevitt.” He started off.
“So long,” I said. And then I let go. “So long, nigger!”
He stopped, turning to face me.
“Well, isn’t that right? Aren’t you a nigger? A big, buck nigger. Isn’t that what they call you? You don’t meet a big buck nigger every night. It’s something special when you meet a real live buck nigger.”
“Shut up, Trevitt,” he said.
“Sure, nigger. I’ll shut up. I won’t say one more word. But you might have had the nigger courtesy to ask about Zock. You might like to know he’s dead. He’s dead, nigger. Aren’t you glad to know? He’s as dead as you’ll be someday, but you didn’t even have the nigger courtesy to ask. Or don’t niggers have any courtesy? Maybe they only have thick skulls. How thick is your skull, nigger? One inch? Two inches? How about that, nigger? How thick is your skull?”
He walked away from me but I stood right there, yelling: “Hey, nigger! Hey, nigger! Hey!” until he was gone.
Then I started to run. I ran by the whorehouses and I ran by the stores and the shops and the bars in Crystal City. I ran along the road that led to Athens. I ran past the bushes and the trees and the lanes and the big highway leading to Chicago. I ran past the college and Patriot’s Square. I ran until I saw my bed in front of me and then I lay down, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling or out the window at the sunrise.
I tried not to think, but the house was too quiet. I wanted to talk to somebody. I wanted to talk to somebody but I didn’t know who. That was a lie. I knew. It was only a matter of admitting it.
So, finally, Sunday afternoon, I went to church.
I’m not even sure which one it was, but that doesn’t matter. I rang the front doorbell of the rectory until the minister came.
Whose name was Holloway. He was very young, no more than thirty, short, and red-faced. I barged in and told him I wanted to have a chat. He nodded and he took me into the church to his office, a small room in the back, lined with books. He sat at his desk while I pulled up a chair.
“I don’t think we’ve met before,” he said, smiling.
“No, sir,” I told him. “I’ve never been here. But my name is Trevitt.”
“Fine, Trevitt,” he said. “Now. What can I do for you?”
“I don’t know. I thought we might have a talk, is all.”
“Fine,” he said again. “About anything special? Or what?”
I was trying to get hold of myself. My stomach was knotted and I hit it some, hoping he wouldn’t see.
“Just relax, Trevitt. We’ve got all day. So relax.”
I kept on hitting my stomach, harder and harder, concentrating on the books, trying to read the titles, which was easy, for they stood out plain as day. He didn’t say a word and neither did I, but we both sat there, him watching me, me staring at the titles of those books.
“They stand out plain as day,” I said.
“What?”
“The books.” I pointed. “I can read the titles clear over here. They stand out plain as day.”
“Yes,” he said, and we were quiet again. “Perhaps I ought to leave you for a while, Trevitt. Perhaps you might use the time to think.”
“No,” I told him. “I don’t need any time to think.”
“Yes,” he said.
I looked at him. “I killed my best friend,” I said.
“How did it happen?”
“On Half Day Bridge.”
“Why don’t you start from the beginning, Trevitt?”
“I killed Zock,” I said, louder. “Can’t you understand that?”
“Just relax,” he said, leaning forward. “Take it easy.”
“Preacher,” I said, “I can’t find the handle.”
He tried smiling at me. “Yes, Trevitt.”
“What do you think of the temple of gold?”
“I don’t quite know,” he said.
“I asked you a question. What do you think of the temple of gold? Explain that. You’re the preacher. So explain it. Tell me!” He started to say something but I stood up, grabbing him by the shoulders, shaking him. “I came for some answers,” I said. “I’m twenty-one years old and I can’t find the handle.” And by then I was shouting, standing over him, pulling at his shirt, staring at his eyes. “And don’t try telling me about God. That’s all you know about is God. You and your goddamned God! I came for some answers, so just tell me about the temple of gold. That’s all I want! Just tell me about the temple of gold and I’ll be happy!”
He jerked free. “Sit down, Trevitt.”
I sat down.
“And stay there.”
I did. I stayed there while he picked up the telephone. I stayed there while he called the hospital. I stayed there, waiting, not looking at anything but those gold books in those nice clean rows on the shelves with the titles shining out plain as day. I stayed there while they came in, two of them, and talked to him. I stayed there while he told them. I stayed there until one of them said for me to come along. I got up. I followed them out, obediently, like a dog, followed them out of the office, on through the church to the street, into the ambulance.
It was only then, on the way to the hospital, that I started to cry...
The End
THE ROOM WAS RECTANGULAR. It was on the first floor and everything in it was rectangular, clean, and neat. On my left was a gray rectangular wall, a rectangular bureau set exactly in the center. In front of me was another wall, with two rectangular doors, a closet, and a washstand. On my right was a big window, divided in eight.
The sun poured through that window, past me, striking the mirror, rebounding, brightening the room. In the mirror you could see trees spreading green shadow on the ground. You could see green hedges, paper smooth, and beyond them, the rising, rounded tops of the buildings of Athens College. You could even see the edge of the sky, sliding down, gently touching the edge of Lake Michigan, so close together in color you couldn’t tell where one stopped and the other began; lake and sky were joined at the end of my mirror. ...
There wasn’t much to the first day. I slept. That was about all. I slept and I don’t know if they gave me anything or not, it didn’t matter. I slept twenty hours through with the only interruptions being the nurses, tiptoeing in, bringing food, and a doctor who examined me, talking to me in a soft voice, telling me not to worry, telling me to sleep. And I did. Except that even after twenty hours, I was still tired.
Reverend Holloway visited me the second morning. He knocked and came in, stopping at the foot of my bed.
“I’m sorry,” I said to him.
He nodded, smiling. “We tried reaching your mother,” he said. “We couldn’t get in touch with her so—”
“They’re just driving around,” I told him. “They’ll be back soon enough.”
“So I thought perhaps you might like to talk to me.”
I shook my head.
“How do you feel, Trevitt?”
“Fine,” I said.
He nodded again, clearing h
is throat. Then he started talking about God, telling me that he was always at the church, whenever I wanted him. I shut my ears, smiled back, thanked him when he left. Which he did, finally, and I was alone again.
But not for long. Because Miss Dietrich came bustling in soon after. Miss Dietrich was the college psychiatrist and a harpie, if ever there was one. Short, gray-haired, and pudgy, she got to me right off, smirking at me as if she was God and asking: “How do you feel?” When most people ask that, they mean it: “How do you feel?” Not Miss Dietrich. What she meant was; “Are you nuts or not?”
“I feel fine,” I told her.
“Now Mr. Trevitt,” she began, “I don’t imagine that to be quite accurate. After all, if you felt fine, we wouldn’t be chatting, would we? So why don’t we amend that to say ‘I feel better’?”
“I feel better,” I told her.
“Better than what, Mr. Trevitt? Better than when?”
“It was your idea,” I said. “You tell me.”
And that was the way it went, her asking questions, me answering, her correcting, me agreeing. She left after an hour or so, promising to come back tomorrow, and the minute she was gone I closed my eyes and slept. I woke up for supper, ate a little, then got ready to sleep again.
I was lying in bed, eyes closed, when suddenly there was a rapping at my window. I opened my eyes and there was Harriet, standing outside, gesturing to me. I nodded, so she opened the window, started climbing in, grumbling away all the time. After she’d made it, she took a deep breath, walked over and put her face down next to mine, our noses almost touching, both of us cross-eyed.
“I’m disappointed,” Harriet muttered. “You don’t look crazy at all.”
I pointed to the window.
“Crazy people can’t have visitors,” she answered, shaking her head. “I consider the whole thing sheer fraud. Here I walk all the way from my dorm, risk life and limb, and you don’t look any different.”
The Novels of William Goldman Page 141