Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  “As for girls,” Crane said. “The homeland of compromise, the womb of the second best—” Crane shook his head emphatically. “Not for my brother. Do you know what he did with his first girl? And he thought he was in love with her, too, at the time, but it still didn’t make any difference. They only made love in the dark. The girl insisted. That’s the way some girls are, you know, darkness excuses all. Well, my brother was crazy about her, and he didn’t mind the darkness if it pleased her. But one night he saw her sitting up in bed and the curtains on the window moved in the wind and her silhouette was outlined against the moonlight, and he saw that when she sat like that she had a fat, loose belly. The silhouette, my brother said, was slack and self-indulgent. Of course, when she was lying down it sank in, and when she was dressed she wore a girdle that would’ve tucked in a beer barrel. And when he saw her silhouette against the curtain, he said to himself, This is the last time, this is not for me. Because it wasn’t perfect, and he wouldn’t settle for less. Love or no love, desire or not. He, himself, had a body like Michelangelo’s David and he knew it and he was proud of it and he kept it that way, why should he settle for imperfection? Are you laughing, Dennicott?”

  “Well,” Steve said, trying to control his mouth, “the truth is, I’m smiling a little.” He was amused, but he couldn’t help thinking that it was possible that Crane had loved his brother for all the wrong reasons. And he couldn’t help feeling sorry for the unknown girl, deserted, without knowing it, in the dark room, by the implacable athlete who had just made love to her.

  “Don’t you think I ought to talk about my brother this way?” Crane said.

  “Of course,” Steve said. “If I were dead, I hope my brother could talk like this about me the day after the funeral.”

  “It’s just those goddamned speeches everybody makes,” Crane whispered. “If you’re not careful, they can take the whole idea of your brother away from you.”

  He wiped his glasses. His hands were shaking. “My goddamned hands,” he said. He put his glasses back on his head and pressed his hands hard on the table, so they wouldn’t shake.

  “How about you, Dennicott?” Crane said. “Have you ever done anything in your whole life that was unprofitable, damaging, maybe even ruinous, because it was the pure thing to do, the uncompromising thing, because if you acted otherwise, for the rest of your life you would remember it and feel shame?”

  Steve hesitated. He did not have the habit of self-examination and had the feeling that it was vanity that made people speak about their virtues. And their faults. But there was Crane, waiting, himself open, naked. “Well, yes …” Steve said.

  “What?”

  “Well, it was never anything very grandiose …” Steve said, embarrassed, but feeling that Crane needed it, that in some way this exchange of intimacies helped relieve the boy’s burden of sorrow. And he was intrigued by Crane, by the violence of his views, by the almost comic flood of his reminiscence about his brother, by the importance that Crane assigned to the slightest gesture, by his searching for meaning in trivialities, which gave the dignity of examination to every breath of life. “There was the time on the beach at Santa Monica,” Steve said, “I got myself beaten up and I knew I was going to be beaten up …”

  “That’s good,” Crane nodded approvingly. “That’s always a good beginning.”

  “Oh, hell,” Steve said, “it’s too picayune.”

  “Nothing is picayune,” said Crane. “Come on.”

  “Well, there was a huge guy there who always hung around and made a pest of himself,” Steve said. “A physical-culture idiot, with muscles like basketballs. I made fun of him in front of some girls and he said I’d insulted him, and I had, and he said if I didn’t apologize, I would have to fight him. And I was wrong, I’d been snotty and superior, and I realized it, and I knew that if I apologized, he’d be disappointed and the girls’d still be laughing at him—so I said I wouldn’t apologize and I fought him there on the beach and he must have knocked me down a dozen times and he nearly killed me.”

  “Right.” Crane nodded again, delivering a favorable judgment. “Excellent.”

  “Then there was this girl I wanted …” Steve stopped.

  “Well?” Crane said.

  “Nothing,” Steve said. “I haven’t figured it out yet.” Until now he had thought that the episode with the girl reflected honorably on him. He had behaved, as his mother would have put it, in a gentlemanly manner. He wasn’t sure now that Crane and his mother would see eye to eye. Crane confused him. “Some other time,” he said.

  “You promise?” Crane said.

  “I promise.”

  “You won’t disappoint me, now?”

  “No.”

  “OK.” Crane said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They split the check.

  “Come back again sometime, boys,” the blond waitress said. “I’ll play that record for you.” She laughed, her breasts shaking. She had liked having them there. One of them was very good-looking, and the other one, the queer one with the glasses, she had decided, after thinking about it, was a great joker. It helped pass the long afternoon.

  On the way home, Crane no longer drove like a nervous old maid on her third driving lesson. He drove very fast, with one hand, humming Downtown, as though he didn’t care whether he lived or died.

  Then, abruptly, Crane stopped humming and began to drive carefully, timidly, again. “Dennicott,” he said, “what are you going to do with your life?”

  “Who knows?” Steve said, taken aback by the way Crane’s conversation jumped from one enormous question to another. “Go to sea, maybe, build electronic equipment, teach, marry a rich wife …”

  “What’s that about electronics?” Crane asked.

  “My father’s factory,” Steve said. “The ancestral business. No sophisticated missile is complete without a Dennicott supersecret what-do-you-call-it.”

  “Nah,” Crane said, shaking his head, “you won’t do that. And you won’t teach school, either. You don’t have the soul of a didact. I have the feeling something adventurous is going to happen to you.”

  “Do you?” Steve said. “Thanks. What’re you going to do with your life?”

  “I have it all planned out,” Crane said, “I’m going to join the forestry service. I’m going to live in a hut on the top of a mountain and watch out for fires and fight to preserve the wilderness of America.”

  That’s a hell of an ambition, Steve thought, but he didn’t say it. “You’re going to be awfully lonesome,” he said.

  “Good,” Crane said. “I expect to get a lot of reading done. I’m not so enthusiastic about my fellow man, anyway, I prefer trees.”

  “What about women?” Steve asked. “A wife?”

  “What sort of woman would choose me?” Crane said harshly. “I look like something left over after a New Year’s party on skid row. And I would only take the best, the most beautiful, the most intelligent, the most loving. I’m not going to settle for some poor, drab Saturday-night castaway.”

  “Well, now,” Steve said, “you’re not so awful.” Although, it was true, you’d be shocked if you saw Crane out with a pretty girl.

  “Don’t lie to your friends,” Crane said. He began to drive recklessly again, as some new wave of feeling, some new conception of himself, took hold of him. Steve sat tight on his side of the car, holding onto the door, wondering if a whole generation of Cranes was going to meet death on the roads of California within a week.

  They drove in silence until they reached the university library. Crane stopped the car and slouched back from the wheel as Steve got out. Steve saw Adele on the library steps, surrounded by three young men, none of whom he knew. Adele saw him as he got out of the car and started coming over to him. Even at that distance, Steve could tell she was angry. He wanted to get rid of Crane before Adele reached him. “Well, so long,” Steve said, watching Adele approach. Her walk was distasteful, self-conscious, teasing.

  Cran
e sat there, playing with the keys to the ignition, like a man who is always uncertain that the last important word has been said when the time has come to make an exit.

  “Dennicott,” he began, then stopped, because Adele was standing there, confronting Steve, her face set. She didn’t look at Crane.

  “Thanks,” she said to Steve. “Thanks for the lunch.”

  “I couldn’t help it,” Steve said. “I had to go someplace.”

  “I’m not in the habit of being stood up,” Adele said.

  “I’ll explain later,” Steve said, wanting her to get out of there, away from him, away from Crane, watching soberly from behind the wheel.

  “You don’t have to explain anything,” Adele said. She walked away. Steve gave her the benefit of the doubt. Probably she didn’t know who Crane was and that it was Crane’s brother who had been killed Saturday night. Still …

  “I’m sorry I made you miss your date,” Crane said.

  “Forget it,” Steve said. “She’ll get over it.”

  For a moment he saw Crane looking after Adele, his face cold, severe, judging. Then Crane shrugged, dismissed the girl.

  “Thanks, Dennicott,” Crane said. “Thanks for coming to the tree. You did a good thing this afternoon. You did a friendly thing. You don’t know how much you helped me. I have no friends. My brother was the only friend. If you hadn’t come with me and let me talk, I don’t know how I could’ve lived through today. Forgive me if I talked too much.”

  “You didn’t talk too much,” Steve said.

  “Will I see you again?” Crane asked.

  “Sure,” said Steve. “We have to go back to that restaurant to listen to Downtown real soon.”

  Crane sat up straight, suddenly, smiling shyly, looking pleased, like a child who has just been given a present. If it had been possible, Steve would have put his arms around Crane and embraced him. And with all Crane’s anguish and all the loneliness that he knew so clearly was waiting for him, Steve envied him. Crane had the capacity for sorrow and now, after the day Steve had spent with the bereaved boy, he understood that the capacity for sorrow was also the capacity for living.

  “Downtown,” Crane said. He started the motor and drove off, waving gaily, to go toward his parents’ house, where his mother and father were waiting, with the guilty look in their eyes, because they felt that if one of the sons had to die, they would have preferred it to be him.

  Steve saw Adele coming back toward him from the library steps. He could see that her anger had cooled and that she probably would apologize for her outburst. Seeing Adele suddenly with Crane’s eyes, he made a move to turn away. He didn’t want to talk to her. He had to think about her. He had to think about everything. Then he remembered the twinge of pity he had felt when he had heard about the fat girl erased from her lover’s life by the movement of a curtain on a moonlit night. He turned back and smiled in greeting as Adele came up to him. Crane had taught him a good deal that afternoon, but perhaps not the things Crane had thought he was teaching.

  “Hello,” Steve said, looking not quite candidly into the young blue eyes on a level with his own. “I was hoping you’d come back.”

  But he wasn’t going to wake up, automatically feeling good, ever again.

  Full Many a Flower

  You have no doubt heard of me. My name is Carlos Romanovici. I am a gypsy, suffering from a deep psychic wound and unutterably rich.

  Among my other credentials is the fact that I am the first and only gypsy to be admitted to the Maidstone Club in East Hampton, Long Island. I am married and have four children. All daughters and all Episcopalians. I believe I am the only gypsy to have played three full seasons as a defensive tackle for a major American university. I am a graduate of the Harvard School of Business, a teaching establishment that led me to ignore all accepted theories of economics, currency, finance and management; to fear experts in whatever field and to reject informed statistical advice. As a result of my skeptical years in Cambridge, I own, to all intents and purposes, the entire state of Vermont, am the president and controlling stockholder of a large chain of television and gasoline stations, among other holdings too numerous to mention, and am, as I repeat, unutterably rich.

  About Vermont. By playing hunches and ignoring trends, I had already done remarkably well in the stock and commodities markets when a geologist friend of mine, who was no longer in a state of grace with his peers because he had to be put away in a mental clinic for years at a time, came to me with a map of North America that he had drawn himself on which he had traced lines that suggested to him that Vermont had been linked since paleolithic times by profound tropical forests and marshes with the newly discovered oil fields in Alaska. Vermont, known until recently as fit only for the habitation of inbred Puritans and exiled French Canadians, as a stony waste hostile to agriculture and inimical, because of its uncertain climate, even to skiers, concealed under its rock-strewn fields, said my geologist friend in his daft way, a vast pool of high-grade petroleum.

  His insistence upon this so-called discovery of his was received by the officers of the oil companies to whom he divulged it in much the same manner as the account of Saint Joan’s visions was received by her judges in Rouen and contributed, I’m afraid, to the geologist’s later visits to the mental clinic. Unfortunately, although later events proved that he was saner than any of the vice-presidents he harangued at Shell or Exxon, the strain of the struggle against educated disbelief overcame him once and for all and he is at present weaving baskets under guard in Connecticut. At my expense.

  Knowing nothing about the oil business and open to all seminal ideas as a bonus of my straightforward unorthodoxy, I listened carefully to the poor man and studied his map. Since no one had ever suggested that anybody could extract any wealth from the state of Vermont except by such marginally lucrative enterprises as tapping maple trees, quarrying for marble, building ski lifts or renting rooms to travelers on the way to Montreal, leases for the right to drill for oil cost no more, as my wife jokingly put it, than the price of a meal at La Grenouille, a French restaurant in New York that she favors.

  Now the inconspicuous squat pumps that cap the wells of my company can be seen dotting the landscape from Manchester and Pawlet in the south to Burlington and Winooski in the north, nodding like steel hens pecking in a barnyard, bringing enough oil to the surface each day to give pause to any Arab potentate.

  Wealth to the very rich becomes a toy, an adult version of building blocks, Erector sets and miniature electric trains, a diversion to fill the hours of the day, a game of one old cat for idle boys on a vacant lot. My own diversions are limited. I do not drink or smoke, I am bored by travel, repelled by art galleries, safaris, philanthropy and the competition for political office, the ordinary playthings of men who do not have to worry where their next dividend is coming from. Athletics, except for football, are of no interest to me, and I am well past the age when stopping a fullback at the line of scrimmage could be considered a possible form of amusement. I am happily married and would not stoop to running after women. But I am not built merely to sit back and watch money roll in. Since my wound, and conscious of my racial heritage, my pleasure has always been to demonstrate to the world that I am right and it is wrong and it remains so to this moment. In my heart, I knew that there were other Vermonts to conquer. One day, I was sure, in a random overheard phrase, a fragment of a dream, what I was searching for would be revealed to me.

  Now to the wound to which I referred earlier.

  In my last year at the university, I had an excellent season on the football field. I attracted national attention by gathering in a forward pass that had been tipped as it left the hand of the opposing quarterback and running with the ball for 70 yards for a touchdown. I was mentioned for all-American in several polls and almost automatically picked as the 14th draft choice by a National Football League team whose name I do not wish to divulge, as I have no desire to embarrass men who are still making a living from the game
by holding them up to possible ridicule. In short, I reported to the team’s training camp along with over 100 other players, confidently prepared for a career of autumn Sundays full of glory and terror in the stadiums of the country. After one week, in which I knew that I had performed with honor and occasional spurts of brilliance and had clearly, I thought, outshone all the other candidates for the defensive-line positions, I, along with some 30 other aspirants, was cut from the squad and sent home and later—luckily, in my case—to the Harvard School of Business. Though things in the long run turned out well, I have never gotten over the damage to my self-esteem, which was compounded some years later when I met an assistant coach under other circumstances (he was looking for a job in one of my companies) and I questioned him about my summary dismissal. “Well, you know,” he said, “by league rules we can only finally carry forty-three men and we had to cut somewhere. When your name came up at the meeting, the coach said, ‘Isn’t he a gypsy? I have enough trouble as it is. What the hell do I need a gypsy for?’”

  I gave the man the job he was looking for (he turned out to be absolutely incompetent and is still working for me at $43,000 a year, a figure whose significance I am sure he has never wondered at) and went back to old newspapers and game programs and studied the records of all the players who had been cut on the same day as myself and then the records of the players who had been cut in similar depletions from the other teams in the league. Almost invariably, I discovered that they had been stars in high school and college, had been the captains of their teams, had been cheered by hundreds of thousands of spectators, had trophy rooms lined with game footballs given to them by grateful teammates for outstanding performances, yards gained, tackles made, crucial blocks thrown. Surely, I thought, a team that could go all the way, to use the language of the sports page, could have been formed without the benefit of computers, reports and the cold-blooded estimates of dozens of assistant coaches from any 43 of the men who had desolately packed their bags and departed from their locker rooms on the same day as myself.