by Harry Mazer
I’d been going straight home from school so I could be there when she called. George? Did you read that stupid letter I wrote you? George! Throw it away! I hung around the house, afraid to be away from the phone. Waiting. Thinking about nothing but Julie. “You keep that up and you’ll grind a track in the rug,” my mother said one evening, after I’d paced the hall, heel to toe, for the hundredth time.
“Sorry. I’ll stop.” But a moment later, I was pacing again.
“What’s the trouble?” my mother said.
I watched her draw the drapes, a ritual with her when she got home from work. First the drapes, then the lights went on everywhere in the house. “Nothing, Mom. It’s okay.” I stared at the phone on the table.
She turned on a few more lights and sat down on the couch. “George.” She made a place for me next to her. “You want to tell me?”
“No, Mom, it’s not something I want to talk about.”
“You sure? You look so toubled, George.”
I was too old to cry on my mother’s shoulder. What could I say? Julie told me to get lost? Or should I say, Mom, you may think your son is terrific, but Julie has other ideas.
“George, the last time you looked so tragic was when Fuzzy died.”
“Fuzzy!” I laughed abruptly. Fuzzy was the Abyssinian guinea pig I’d had when I was nine years old. So I looked now the way I had when my guinea pig kicked the bucket. The same expression for Julie as for Fuzzy. No wonder Julie was looking around for someone else. “Thanks for putting things back in perspective,” I said. How bad could my troubles be? Did they stack up to losing Fuzzy? Were they worse than something that happened to me when I was nine years old? I was seventeen now, but so what? I had the big tragedy of my life when I was nine years old!
“I was just trying to cheer you up.”
“And you succeeded, Mom.” I gave her what I hoped was a cheerful expression but which probably came out like a dying man’s grimace.
“You loved that little guinea pig,” my mother said. “He had to sleep by your bed. You talked to him all the time. Took great care of him. It was amazing, we never had to remind you to feed him or give him water or anything.”
“I was a nice little kid. Too bad I had to grow up.”
“Oh, you’re not so bad now. You’re pretty terrific, I’d say.”
“Only a mother would say that.”
“I’m sure there’s at least one other person who feels the same way.”
“Who?” My head sank into my hands.
“You had a fight with Julie, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
“You’ll make up with her. I’m sure you’ve had fights and disagreements before.”
“Right, Mom.” I said it, but what I thought was, Yes, we’ve had spats, little things, but nothing like this. Nothing, ever, like this.
That was a tough week. I found it hard to concentrate on anything. I spent a lot of time thinking about Julie, about the good times we’d had together. The last couple of years we didn’t climb around the cliffs the way we used to. Sometimes, depending on how we felt (horny) or the weather (rainy or cold), we’d go up to the Walshes’ apartment, eat and do homework, and whatever.… I won’t say we didn’t fool around. Of course we did. But it wasn’t the awful stuff some people made it out to be.
Mrs. Adams, the Walshes’ downstairs neighbor, had her antennae out for us. Even before we entered the house, we’d see the curtains at her window moving. “Hello, Mrs. Adams!” Julie would wave. In the hall, Mrs. Adams’ door was to our left. No sooner were we past than the downstairs door would fly open and Mrs. Adams would pop out in her pink rabbit slippers. “Uh-huh!” she would say loudly.
“Hello, Mrs. Adams,” Julie would say sweetly, and she’d whisper to me, “One of these days, I’m going to tell Pink Rabbit to mind her own business!”
One day, Julie’s mother got us both together and said, “I hear you two are going up to the house every day.”
“Who told you that?” Julie said.
“Mrs. Adams. She says you’re up there for hours and that you make a great deal of, uh, unusual noise.”
Julie and I looked at each other. “Mom,” Julie said, “did you tell her to butt out?”
“What are you kids doing, anyway? She says—”
“Mom! I live here. I don’t have to explain what I’m doing in my own house.”
“Not to Mrs. Adams, that’s true, but I’m interested.”
“What’d she tell you? What kind of smut did she say? You believe her? That silly woman. Why shouldn’t we come up here? I live here and George is my friend.”
“Yes, but what are you doing?” her mother repeated.
“Eating,” I said. I’d been waiting to put in my two cents.
“George,” Julie said. “That is not exactly true.”
“Julie, you know your mother is a fantastic cook.” I loved raiding their refrigerator. There was no such pleasure raiding the Farina refrigerator, unless you liked attacking frozen dinners with an ice pick. “Really, Mrs. Walsh, lots of times, all we do is stuff our faces.”
“Will you shut up, George.” Julie’s cheeks were red. As she told me later, she didn’t see any reason for us to be defensive. She was mad that her mother didn’t trust her enough not to ask questions. “Mom, whatever we’re doing, as long as we’re not burning down the house, you don’t have to worry. We’re old enough to take care of ourselves.”
“Well, I’m sure you are, but—”
“No buts! I know what I’m doing, Ma,” Julie said. She was aroused and bouncing around, pointing a finger at her mother. “You have to impress your children.… I mean, depress … repress.…” She was so agitated she couldn’t find the right word. “Bust … lust … lust … trust,” she finally exclaimed. “Trust! Trust your children.”
Later, Julie and I laughed about it. How agitated she got, how she kept saying the wrong word. “You kept saying ‘lust,’” I said. “Lust. Your mother knew what was on your mind.”
Actually, her mother was pretty relaxed about the whole thing. I think she did trust us. At least she let the subject drop, and she didn’t come up with any kind of changes in the rules. But one thing didn’t change. Mrs. Adams went right on watching us. Even that was something that bound Julie and me together. We were the ones who knew about the Pink Rabbit. It was one of our private jokes. We had a lot of them, a whole history together, a whole history behind us. We’d been friends and in love longer than some people had been married. I’d believed that nothing could ever break Julie and me apart.
Had I been so wrong? So mistaken? I waited for her to call me, to say in her light, beautiful voice, “George, what are you doing?” I was waiting for that moment, so I could be happy again.
Then, one day I stopped waiting. The letter she had written was like a web she had spun, and I had let myself be caught in it. The story she’d made up for not wanting to see me wasn’t my story. It was her story. She had given it an air of fate, as if it was preordained, as if these things were happening now because we had committed a basic error. We’d found each other too early, too young, too soon.
That day I called Julie three times. Her sister answered every time. “Not home, George,” she said. I called an hour later. “Julie’s taking a nap.” And again, after supper. “No, George.”
Now that I’d broken my wait-and-cool-it rule, I broke it with a vengeance. I called in the morning before school. I called after school. I called before supper and after supper and again when the eleven o’clock news came on.
Beth took to sighing every time she heard my voice. “Sorry, George.”
“Listen, Beth, don’t be so sorry; just get Julie to the phone.”
“Wait a minute,” she said. Only it sounded like “wade-a-minni.…” She was sick of answering the phone. All I did was call and all she did was make excuses. “Julie’s sleeping.… She’s showering.… She’s not available.”
“Beth, tell your sister she’s not going to ge
t rid of me this easily. I’ll keep calling till I get her.” I’d be like a fly on the phone. Bzzz-bzzz-bzzz. I’d make even more of a pest of myself than I had already. I’d call every twenty minutes. I’d call at two minutes past midnight and four minutes to three and again at six in the morning. I’m sorry, Mr. Walsh, Mrs. Walsh, and Beth, I surely didn’t mean to wake you, I know you have to work in the morning, I know this isn’t an answering service, but do you know this is a matter of life and death? Yes! My life. My death. Julie is killing me.
And what would they say then? Oh, poor George.… Let me check.… No, sorry, George, Julie just this minute stepped out.…
At three in the morning?
It wasn’t only Beth who delivered the excuses. Sometimes her mother answered. Once, her father. Another time, her Aunt Patty was visiting and she got on the phone. “Do you want to leave a message? Julie’s out shopping now.”
Sure she was. Julie was never in, never available. Not to me. Was I being paranoid to think it was a family conspiracy? Sorry, George, Julie just went to the store.… She’s showering … She’s working tonight … washing her hair … indisposed.…
Indisposed? What did that mean? She was sick? Or she was in the bathroom? According to her family, she lived half her life in the bathroom. “Did she get my message? Does she know I called?”
“I think so.” Beth sounded sympathetic, even apologetic, but she didn’t get Julie to the phone.
“Tell her I’ll call tomorrow.”
“Will do.”
Off the phone, I felt humiliated. What was I doing to myself? Begging, bleeding, pleading. Where was my pride, my indignation, my self-respect, my maleness, my he-ness, my authority? I deepened my voice. I practiced.
“Beth, tell Julie to call me. I’m going to wait half an hour. That’s it. This is her last chance!” No, too strong. Try again. “Tell Julie I’ll call back in half an hour.… Tell Julie if she doesn’t come to the phone this time.…”
No, no, no. You’re not going to make a fool of yourself. Just stop calling her. Put an end to this. Never call again. “Auf Wiedersehen, Julie. Farewell, my love. Farewell, forever.” I wiped the tear that trickled from the center of my eye. Pleading, threatening, being ironic, then bleeding for myself. All strategies of defeat.
I walked away from the phone. I felt aggressive, frustrated, full of uncentered energy. I stopped at Joanne’s room. “Joanne,” I said, “come away from that damn computer! Look at the way you’re sitting there. You’re getting to look more like a turtle every day. You can’t build muscle sitting at a computer.” I took her arm. “Come on, let’s work out a little.”
“I don’t want to. I’m busy.”
“Joanne, I’m doing this for you, not for me.” I dragged her away. I was unfair, a little crazy, too. Poor Joanne. I got a cross-body hold on her and I pulled her to the stairs, babbling about self-defense and being in control. This was all for her own good.
My sister didn’t take it graciously. She was kicking at me, grunting, trying to break loose.
“You’re a scrapper, that’s good. Get down, Joanne, center yourself, keep your arms next to your body. Head back. Don’t be a turtle.”
She tried to kick my feet out from under me. She would have killed me if she could.
“Go for my middle. Toss me over your shoulder.” She lunged at me. “That’s good,” I said. “Try to get through me.” And then somehow, bang, she was under me and tossed me against the wall. The chimes bonged. My head rapped against the hall table. Over it went and everything that was on it, and Joanne was on top of me, sitting on me, her cheeks pink, her braid coming undone.
“Pinned you,” she crowed. “Pinned you!”
That’s when my parents walked in. They looked at the two of us on the floor, at the overturned table, the phone, the scattered mail. “What is going on here?” my father said. “What are you two doing? Why are you wrestling with your sister?”
“I pinned him,” Joanne said. “I pinned big-mouth George!”
I pushed her off me and got up. “Okay, Mom and Dad. Nothing to get excited about. You guys walk through as if you don’t see anything.”
“I don’t see anything.” My mother picked her way to the closet, hung up her coat, and went upstairs.
“Look at the mess here,” my father said.
“I’m cleaning up.” I put the table upright and the phone back and straightened the pictures on the wall.
My father’s jaw stuck out half a mile. “How many times have I told you not to horse around with your sister? You’re seventeen and you don’t know yet that you shouldn’t fight with girls?”
“That’s stupid,” I said. “I’m not fighting with her. I’m teaching her—”
“Stupid? You said stupid?”
“That’s not what he means, Daddy.” Joanne tried to cover for me. “George means—”
My father wasn’t listening. He must have had a tough day. It wasn’t like him. He turned on Joanne, whom he never yelled at. Never. “What did I buy you a computer for? So you could horse around and wrestle with your brother like someone off the streets? And you, my son! Don’t you think about anybody but yourself? A man should be able to come home, relax, have a little peace and quiet.”
“I said I was sorry!” All of a sudden, I got really upset. I started to say something else, but then I just shut up and walked away.
“Where are you going? I’m still talking to you.”
I stopped, and he gave it to me some more, really loaded me up. He got it off his chest and on my head. “You got anything to say?” he asked finally.
I shook my head. By that point I was feeling so sorry for myself I could barely talk. “I’m going for a walk,” I said and I went out.
I walked, and without realizing what I was doing, I found myself at Julie’s house. It was dark. The lights were on in the Walshes’ windows. I leaned against the stone wall overlooking the cliff, and watched Julie’s window. Would she know I was out here? Could she sense it? I’d stood in that same spot other times, beaming messages at her, and after a while, she had always looked out her window and seen me. Then, later, she would tell me she didn’t know I was there, she had no idea, just a feeling that she wanted to look out the window.
Julie. Julie. Come to the window. Julie. Julie … don’t you know how much I miss you.… Can’t you sense that I’m here … waiting for you … Julie.…
I searched the window for her face. She’d see me, open the window and.… What would she say? Maybe just my name. George. That would be enough for me. And I’d say her name. Julie.
I stood there for an hour waiting for her, waiting for that moment. It never came.
I went around to the side of the house, made a leap for the fire escape, and went up the ladder till I was standing outside Julie’s window.
To my right, across the river, there were the lights and lit-up sky of New York City. And through the window there was Julie, sitting cross-legged on the bed with books and a notebook in front of her. I crouched on the landing. My shirt was hiked up and I felt the wind on my back. I didn’t move. I just looked at her, watched her, felt how much I loved her, how much I’d missed seeing her, talking to her, hearing her voice. Sometimes she looked up, turned in my direction, seemed to look straight at me. Then she’d look down at her books again.
I don’t know how much time passed. Once, twice, several times I felt myself leaning forward and my knuckles went up to the glass, and then I pulled back. It was as if the glass were more than glass.
Julie never came to the window. She didn’t see me. She didn’t sense my presence. She was inside and I was outside, and for the first time since I’d gotten her letter, I felt that we were truly separated and there was nothing I could do to bridge the gap between us.
Chapter 10
I was coming out of the post office when I ran into Julie. We almost walked into each other. I registered the surprise on her face and shifted the package I’d picked up to my other arm. “Julie!”
She had a scarf around her neck and I gave it a little tug. “Great to see you!” I gave her a big greeting, as if I’d been smiling ever since I’d gotten her letter. And she smiled back.
I thought that in just these couple of weeks, she’d gotten thinner and better-looking. I couldn’t stop looking at her and smiling and talking too much. “This is unexpected, right? What do we do now? This isn’t part of the game plan.” I was friendly and a little ironic, talking freely, being more open and cheerful than I really felt. “Do we talk to each other? Or do we keep going and act like we didn’t see each other? I could close my eyes, proceed on, and make believe I never saw you.”
Julie put down the bag she was carrying. “George, why shouldn’t we talk? No, I’m glad we ran into each other. I want to know how you are. What are you doing these days?”
I held the package over my head. “Delivery boy. As you can see.”
“You’re working?”
“Well, let’s not go overboard. No, this is for Mom. How about you?”
“Oh, I’m the same.” She shifted from one foot to the other.
I felt her getting ready to leave. “What about a gelato?” I said quickly. There was a shop across the street.
She hesitated for a moment. “I have to be at work in an hour.”
“You’ll get there.” I took her arm, although I didn’t know if that was allowed or not. But how could I be so close to her and not even touch her? The gelato store was empty. We sat at a little round table in the window and ate raspberry gelatos.
“So how’s life?” I said, smiling a little.
“Oh. Fine.” She looked at me, then looked away. She wasn’t exactly furtive, but she wasn’t drinking up my face, either. “I’m keeping busy.”
“Enjoying yourself?”
“Sometimes.”
“Like your new life?”