by Irwin Shaw
She never went to church. She never cried at sad movies. She never introduced him to any of her friends. She was unimpressed by Johnny Heath. She didn’t mind getting her hair wet in the rain. She never complained about the weather or traffic jams. She never said, “I love you.”
“I love you,” he said. They were lying close together in bed, his hand on her breast, the covers pulled up under their chins. It was seven o’clock in the evening and the room was dark. They had strolled through twenty galleries. He had crossed no barriers. They had had lunch in a small Italian restaurant, where the proprietors had no objection to girls with red-wool stockings. He had told her at lunch that he couldn’t take her to the game tomorrow and told her why. She wasn’t disturbed. He had given her the tickets. She said she would take a man she knew who had once played tackle for Columbia. She ate heartily.
They had been cold when they came in from their wanderings around the city, because the December afternoon had turned bitter early, and he had made them both hot tea spiked with rum.
“It would be nice if we had a fire,” she said, curled up on the sofa, her moccasins kicked off on the floor.
“The next apartment I rent,” he said.
When they kissed they both tasted of rum, perfumed with lemon.
They had made love unhurriedly, completely.
“This is what a Saturday afternoon in New York in the winter should be like,” she said, when they had finished and were lying together quietly. “Art, spaghetti, rum, and lust.”
He laughed, pressed her closer. He regretted his years of abstinence. Then he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps it was because of the abstinence that he was ready for her, free for her.
“I love you,” he said. “I want to marry you.”
She lay still for a moment, then moved away, threw the covers back, started to dress in silence.
I have ruined everything, he thought. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s a subject I never discuss naked,” she said gravely.
He laughed again, but was not happy. How many times had this beautiful, assured girl, with her own mysterious rules of behavior, discussed marriage, and with how many men? He had never been jealous before. Unprofitable emotion.
He watched the slender shadow move around the dark room, heard the rustle of cloth over skin. She went into the living room. Bad sign? Good sign? Would it be better just to lie here as he was, not go after her? He hadn’t planned on saying either “I love you” or “I want to marry you.”
He got out of bed and dressed quickly. She was sitting in the living room, other people’s furniture, fiddling with the radio. Announcers’ voices, honeyed and smooth, voices you would never believe if they said, “I love you.”
“I want a drink,” she said, without turning around, still fiddling with the dials.
He poured them both some bourbon and water. She drank like a man. What previous lover had taught her that?
“Well?” he said. He stood before her, feeling at a disadvantage, pleading. He hadn’t put on his shoes or his jacket and tie. Barefooted and in his shirtsleeves he felt he wasn’t properly dressed for the occasion.
“Your hair is mussed,” she said. “You look much better with your hair mussed.”
“Maybe my language is mussed,” he said. “Maybe you didn’t understand what I said in the bedroom.”
“I understood.” She turned the radio off, sat down in an easy chair, holding the glass of bourbon in her two hands. “You want to marry me.”
“Exactly.”
“Let’s go to the movies,” she said. “There’s a picture I want to see just around the corner …”
“Don’t be flip.”
“It’s only on till tomorrow night and you won’t be here tomorrow night.”
“I asked you a question.”
“Am I supposed to be flattered?”
“No.”
“Well, I am flattered. Now let’s go to the movies …” But she didn’t make any move to get up from the chair. Sitting there, half in shadow, because the one lamp that was lit threw its light obliquely from the side, she was fragile, vulnerable. Looking at her he knew that he had been right to say what he had in bed, that he hadn’t spoken just from a flicker of tenderness on a cold afternoon, but from a deep and abiding need.
“I will be broken,” he said, “if you say no.”
“Do you believe that?” She was looking down into her glass, swirling the drink around now with a finger. He could see only the top of her head, her loose hair gleaming in the lamplight.
“Yes.”
“Tell the truth.”
“Partially,” he said. “I partially believe it. Partially broken.”
It was her turn to laugh. “At least you’ll make somebody an honest husband,” she said.
“Well?” he demanded. He stood above her and put his hand under her chin and made her look up at him. Her eyes seemed doubtful, frightened, the small face pale.
“The next time you come to town, give me a ring,” she said.
“That’s no answer.”
“In a way, it is,” she said. “The answer is I want time to think.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve done something I’m not particularly proud of,” she said, “and I want to figure out how I can be proud of myself again.”
“What’ve you done?” He didn’t know whether he wanted to know or not.
“I’ve overlapped,” Jean said. “It’s a female disease. I was having an affair with a boy when I started with you and I haven’t broken it off. I’m doing something I thought I’d never do in my whole life. I’m sleeping with two men at once. And he wants to marry me, too.”
“Lucky girl,” Rudolph said bitterly. “Is he the girl roommate you share your apartment with?”
“No. The girl is an authentic girl. I’ll produce her for you if you want.”
“Is that why you never let me come to your place? He’s there?”
“No, he’s not there.”
“But he has been there.” With surprise, Rudolph realized that he had been wounded, deeply wounded, and worse yet, that he himself was intent on turning the knife in the wound.
“One of the most attractive things about you,” Jean said, “was that you were too sure of yourself to ask questions. If love is going to make you unattractive, forget love.”
“What a goddamn afternoon,” Rudolph said.
“I guess that wraps it up.” Jean stood up, put her glass down carefully. “No movies tonight.”
He watched her put on her coat. If she walks out now, like this, he thought, I’ll never see her again. He went over to her and put his arms around her and kissed her.
“You’re all wrong,” he said. “There’ll be movies tonight.”
She smiled at him, but tremulously, as though it cost her an effort. “You’d better finish getting dressed,” she said. “I hate to miss the beginning of a picture.”
He went into the bedroom, combed his hair, put on a tie and got into his shoes. He looked briefly at the tumbled bed, now a confused battlefield, as he put on his jacket.
When he came out into the living room again, he saw that she had slung her camera equipment around her. He tried to argue but she insisted upon taking the stuff with her.
“I’ve been in this place enough,” she said, “for one Saturday.”
As he drove along the rain-drenched highway the next morning on the way to Billy’s school, through sparse early traffic, he was thinking about Jean, not about Billy. They had gone to the movie, which was disappointing, had eaten supper afterward in a joint on Third Avenue, had talked about things that hardly mattered to either of them, the movie they had seen, other movies, plays they had seen, books and magazine articles they had read, rumors from Washington. The conversation of strangers. They had avoided mentioning marriage or overlapping lovers. They were both unaccountably weary, as though a great physical effort had drained them earlier. They drank more than they usually did. If this had
been the first time they had gone out together, they would have thought each other dull. When they had finished their steaks, in the emptying restaurant, and had a cognac apiece, he was relieved to be able to put her into a taxi, walk home alone and turn the key behind him in the silent apartment, although the raw colors of the décor and the arty spikiness of the furniture made it look like an abandoned float from last year’s Mardi Gras. The bed now was just messy, the neglected tangle of a slatternly housewife, not the warm abode of love. He slept heavily and when he awoke in the morning and remembered the night before and his errand for the day, the sooty December rain outside his window seemed the appropriate weather for the weekend.
He had called the school and left a message for Billy that he would be there around twelve-thirty to take him to lunch, but he arrived earlier than he expected, a little after noon. Even though the rain had stopped and a faint cold sun was filtering through the clouds in the south, there was no one to be seen on the campus, coming or going into any of the buildings. From what Gretchen had told him about the school, in fine weather and a more clement season it was a place of beauty, but under the wet sky, seemingly abandoned, there was something forbiddingly prisonlike about the cluster of buildings and the muddy lawns. He drove up to what was obviously the main building and got out uncertainly, not knowing where to find Billy. Then, from the chapel a hundred yards away he heard young voices singing strongly, “Onward Christian Soldiers.”
Sunday. Compulsory services, he thought. They still do that in schools. Christ. When he was a boy Billy’s age, all he had to do was salute the flag every morning and pledge allegiance to the United States of America. The advantages of public education. Separation of Church and State.
A Lincoln Continental drove up to the steps and stopped. It was a richly endowed school. Future rulers of America. He himself drove a Chevrolet. He wondered what would have been said at faculty teas if he had arrived on his motorcycle, which he still owned, though he now seldom used it. An important-looking man in a smart raincoat got out of the Lincoln, leaving a lady in the car. Parents. Occasional faint weekend communication with a future ruler of America. From his manners, the man had to be at least the president of a company, ruddy and brisk, well exercised. By now Rudloph could spot the type.
“Good morning, sir,” Rudolph said, in his automatic speaking-to-company-presidents’ voice. “I wonder if you could tell me where Sillitoe Hall is?”
The man smiled widely, showing five thousand dollars’ worth of exquisite dental work. “Good morning, good morning. Yes, of course. My boy was there last year. In some ways the best house on the campus. It’s just over there.” He pointed. The building was four hundred yards away. “You can drive there if you want. Just down this driveway and around.”
“Thank you,” Rudolph said.
The hymn rang out from the chapel. The parent cocked an ear. “They’re still praising God,” he said. “All in favor of it. We could stand more of it.”
Rudolph got into his Chevrolet and drove to Sillitoe Hall. He looked at the plaque commemorating Lieutenant Sillitoe as he went into the silent building. A girl of about four, in blue overalls, was pedaling a three-wheeler around the cluttered common room on the ground floor. A large setter in the room barked at him. Rudolph was a little disconcerted. He hadn’t expected four-year-old girls in a boys’ school.
A door opened and a chubby, pleasant-faced young woman in slacks came into the room and said, “Shut up, Boney,” to the dog. She smiled at Rudolph. “He’s harmless,” she said.
Rudolph didn’t know what she was doing there, either.
“Are you a father?” the woman asked, grabbing the dog by the collar and half strangling him, while he wagged his tail madly, full of love.
“Not exactly,” Rudolph said. “I’m Billy Abbott’s uncle. I called this morning.”
A curious little expression—concern? suspicion? relief?—shadowed the pleasant, chubby, young face. “Oh, yes,” the woman said. “He expects you. I’m Mollie Fairweather. I’m the housemaster’s wife.”
That explained the child, the dog, herself. Whatever was wrong with Billy, Rudolph decided instantly, it wasn’t the fault of this healthy, agreeable woman.
“The boys’ll be back from chapel any minute now,” the woman said. “Don’t you want to come into our place and have a drink, perhaps, while you’re waiting?”
“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Rudolph said, but didn’t protest further, as Mrs. Fairweather waved him in.
The room was large, comfortable, the furniture well worn, the books many. “My husband’s at chapel, too,” Mrs. Fairweather explained. “But I do think we have some sherry.” A child cried from another room. “My youngest,” Mrs. Fairweather said, “making an announcement.” She poured the sherry hurriedly and said, “Excuse me,” and went off to see what announcement her child was making. The cries stopped immediately. She came back, smoothing her hair, poured herself a sherry, too. “Do sit down, please.”
There was an awkward pause. It occurred to Rudolph as he sat down that this woman, who had only met Billy a few months ago, must know him much better than himself, who was on a mission, unbriefed and flying blind, to rescue the boy. He should have asked Gretchen to read the letter that disturbed her so to him over the phone.
“He’s a very nice boy,” Mrs. Fairweather said, “Billy. So handsome and well behaved. We do get some wild ones, Mr. …” she hesitated.
“Jordache,” Rudolph said.
“So we appreciate the ones who know their manners.” She sipped at her sherry. Looking at her, Rudolph decided that Mr. Fairweather was a lucky man.
“His mother is worried about him,” Rudolph said.
“Is she?” The response was too quick. Gretchen wasn’t the only one who had noticed something.
“She got a letter from him this week. She said—well, of course, mothers are prone to exaggeration—but she said it sounded as though Billy is in despair.” There was no sense in not revealing to this obviously level-headed and well-meaning woman what his errand was. “The word seems a little strong to me,” he said, “but I’ve come to see what can be done. His mother’s in California. And …” He was a little embarrassed now. “She remarried.”
“That’s not so uncommon around here,” Mrs. Fairweather said. She laughed. “I don’t mean about parents living in California. I mean the remarried.”
“Her husband died several months ago,” Rudolph said.
“Oh,” Mrs. Fairweather said. “I’m so sorry. Perhaps that’s why Billy—” She left the sentence unfinished.
“Have you observed anything in particular?” Rudolph asked.
The woman pushed at her short hair uncomfortably. “I’d prefer it if you talked to my husband. It’s really his department.”
“I’m certain you wouldn’t say anything that your husband wouldn’t agree to,” Rudolph said. Without meeting the husband, he was sure that the wife would be less guarded, less defensive about the school, if indeed the school was at fault.
“Your glass is empty,” Mrs. Fairweather said. She took it from him and refilled it.
“Is it his marks?” Rudolph asked. “Are any of the boys bullying him for some reason?”
“No.” Mrs. Fairweather handed him the tiny glass of sherry. “His marks are fine and he doesn’t seem to have any trouble keeping up. And we don’t allow any bullying here.” She shrugged. “He’s a puzzling boy. I’ve talked it over several times with my husband and we’ve tried to sound him out. Without success. He—he’s remote. He doesn’t seem to connect with anybody. Not with any of the other boys. Or any of his teachers. His roommate has asked to be transferred to another house …”
“Do they fight?”
She shook her head. “No. The roommate says Billy just doesn’t talk to him. Ever. About anything. He does his share of housekeeping neatly, he studies at the proper hours, he doesn’t complain, but he barely answers yes or no when he’s spoken to. Physically he’s a strong
boy, but he doesn’t join in any of the games. He doesn’t even throw a football around and during this season there’re always dozens of boys playing pickup touch tackle games or just passing the ball back and forth in front of the house. And on Saturdays when we play other schools and the whole school is in the stands, he stays in his room and reads.” As she spoke, her voice sounded just as troubled as Gretchen’s when she had spoken over the phone about Billy.
“If he were a grown man, Mr. Jordache,” Mrs. Fairweather said, “I’d be inclined to say he was suffering from melancholy. I know that’s not very helpful …” She smiled apologetically. “It’s a description, not a diagnosis. But it’s the best my husband and I have been able to come up with. If you can find out anything specific, anything the school can do, we’ll be most grateful.”
The bells of the chapel were ringing far away across the campus and Rudolph could see the first boys crossing from the chapel porch.
“I wonder if you could tell me where Billy’s room is,” Rudolph said. “I’ll wait for him there.” Perhaps there would be some clues there that would prepare him for his meeting with the boy.
“It’s on the third floor,” Mrs. Fairweather said. “All the way down the corridor, the last door to the left.”
Rudolph thanked her and left her with the two children and the setter. What a nice woman, he thought as he mounted the steps. There certainly had been nobody as good as that connected with his education. If she was worried about Billy, there was something to be worried about.
The door, like most of the doors along the corridor, was open. The room seemed to be divided by an invisible curtain. On one side the bed was rumpled and strewn with phonograph records. Books were piled on the floor beside the bed and there were pennants and pictures of girls and athletes torn from magazines pinned to the wall. On the other side, the bed was tightly made and there were no decorations on the wall. The only photographs on that side were on the neatly ordered small desk. They were separate ones of Gretchen and Burke. Gretchen was sitting in a deck chair in the garden of the house in California. The portrait of Burke was one that had been published in a magazine. There was no picture of Willie Abbott.