by Max Shulman
“That’s telling him, missy!” crowed Jefferson. “Come on, let’s go look at them mice you injected with sodium nitrite.”
Dr. Silenko shook her head. “Too late, Tatum. They only lasted thirty-five minutes.”
“No kidding?” said Jefferson, a sunny grin lighting his face. He turned to Ira. “You like hot dogs, Mr. Shapian?”
“Hot dogs? Sure. Why?”
“Sodium nitrite is what gives ’em that pretty pink color,” he said jovially. “Okay, kids, let’s go over to Dr. Levine’s lab. Dr. Levine’s our water expert.”
“One moment,” said Ira. “The thought really isn’t terribly appealing to me, but it’s time for lunch.”
And, indeed, the campus bell tower was chiming noon.
“Hell!” complained the old man. “Just when it was getting interesting.”
“Thank you, Dr. Silenko,” said Ira. “I’ll try hard not to get underfoot, but I’m afraid you’re going to have me around for a while.”
“I look forward to it,” she said. “Good-bye, Shapian. Goodbye, Tatum.”
“Fine woman,” said Jefferson to Ira as they walked back across the quadrangle. “But no action.”
“Tough,” said Ira politely.
“And speaking of that,” Jefferson continued, “should you crave a little nookie while you’re in town, just let me know.”
“You’re very kind,” said Ira.
“Proud to help out. I like you, Mr. Shapian. Fact is, I like practically all you Jew fellers.”
“Not that it makes any difference,” said Ira, “but I’m an Armenian.”
“You’re right,” said Jefferson. “It don’t make any difference.”
They walked through the arch of the administration building and into Virgil’s office. An elderly Negro in a mess jacket was setting a table for lunch at one end of the large room. Virgil was seated at his desk; across from him sat William Ransom Owens and, carrying the inevitable briefcase, Robert E. Lee Owens.
The Owenses bounded to their feet and exchanged hearty greetings with Ira.
“Mr. Shapian,” said William Ransom, twitching with eagerness, “I’ve been thinking that possibly I might be of some slight help with the background music for your television show. What I had in mind were authentic regional airs—‘Black Is the Color of My True Love’s Hair,’ ‘Bile Dem Cabbage Down,’ things of that sort—all symphonically arranged, of course. Done, you might say, in the manner of Dvořák’s ‘New World.’”
“Sit down and shut up,” said Jefferson.
Ira placed a gentle hand on William Ransom’s shoulder. “Thank you, William Ransom,” he said. “It sounds just right. I’ll put you in touch with my music director when he arrives.”
“You will?” cried William Ransom, clapping his hands.
“I will,” Ira promised.
“And I,” said Lee, approaching Ira with his briefcase, “want to assure you, sir, that my department is prepared to make all its data available to you. I have here, for instance—” He started to unzip the briefcase.
“You close that thing before I tear it up for dog leashes,” said Jefferson.
“Thank you, Lee,” said Ira. “My script writers will call on you as soon as they get here.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Lee and stuck out his tongue at Jefferson—as soon as Jefferson’s back was turned.
“Excuse me,” said Virgil, a small frown of bewilderment on his brow. He walked across the room to the Negro waiter. “I think you’ve made a mistake, Charles,” he said. “You’re setting six places, and there’s only five for lunch.”
“No, Mr. Virgil, there’s going to be one extra,” replied the waiter.
“Oh? Who?”
“I hope you don’t mind,” said Boo, entering the office. “I found out I could make it after all, so I phoned Charles.”
“Delighted,” said Virgil. “Boo, you remember Ira Shapian, of course.”
“Of course,” she said.
“Of course,” said Ira. Of course, said his swelling heart, his rushing blood, his brimming black eyes.
He took her outstretched hand.
Chapter 12
A thin, frosty moon hung over the pounding waters, and inside the beach house Boo said to Ira, “This is wrong.”
“Don’t you think I know?” he cried. “Don’t you think I’m crumbling inside?”
“Oh, my poor Ira!” she whispered and laid a tender hand upon him.
“My poor Boo, my poor Boo!” He took her hand in both of his, pulled it to his mouth, kissed each knuckle fiercely. “My poor Boo!” he repeated. “To love so much, to be so alone for so long, for so long!”
She looked at him closely in the light of the dancing driftwood flames. “My poor Ira!” she said, her voice trembling with anguish. “You are crying!”
“For you,” he replied. “For your beauty. For your gallantry.”
“Ira, Ira, Ira!” She kissed his salty eyes and pulled his head to her bosom.
“I love you, Boo. I want you.”
“And I you!”
“Now!”
“Yes, yes, now!”
He raised his head. His mouth found hers, clung, probed.
“Ira, Ira, Ira!”
“Yes, yes!”
“No!”
“No?”
“This is wrong.”
“Oh, wrong,” he agreed. “Oh, deeply wrong!”
“We can’t do this to Polly.”
“You’re right, Boo. We can’t. We mustn’t.”
“I love you, Ira—achingly and forever.”
“Me too, Boo.”
“I love you tempestuously and in my marrow.”
“Yes,” said Ira. “Yes.”
“There are no words for how I love you. There is only song.”
“Song,” said Ira. “Yes.”
“You are my dream, my essence.”
“Kiss me,” said Ira.
“Oh, Ira.”
Again they kissed, their lips prehensile with desire. His hand held her nape, stroked the golden tendrils of her hair, found the zipper in the back of her dress.
“There’s a hook on the top,” she said.
“I can’t seem to work it.”
“Here, I’ll show you.” But as she started to reach, resolution abruptly returned. She sprang away from Ira—all the way to the other end of the long sofa before the fieldstone fireplace.
“What can we be thinking of?” she cried.
“You’re right, you’re right,” said Ira, hanging his head in shame.
“It was madness to come out to the beach house.”
“Insanity.”
“We must go now.”
“Yes.”
“We have been strong for eighteen years. Let us not weaken now.”
“When I think how strong you’ve been,” said Ira, “I want to cry.”
“But you’re not going to, are you?” she said with anxiety.
“No,” he said, biting his lip.
She rose. “Come.”
He got up, grasped her hand tightly. Together they walked out the front door of the beach house and into the sudden glare of a pair of headlights speeding up the driveway.
Boo and Ira stood frozen. A small, homemade sports car screeched to a halt, the headlights full on them. Gabriel Owens Fuller got out of the car slowly. He approached his mother, his head tilted with puzzlement. “Ma, what are you doing out here this time of night?”
Boo tried desperately to still her breathing. “Hello, dear,” she said, achieving a small smile. “Gabriel, I’d like you to meet—”
“Ira Shapian,” said Gabriel before Boo could finish. “It is Ira Shapian, isn’t it?”
Black Armenian eyes searched black Armenian eyes. Oh, my God! thought Ira, for he knew immediately and with perfect certainty that he was looking at his son. Oh, my God in heaven! he thought.
And Boo, seeing the truth strike Ira like a hammer blow, seeing him reel with the force of it, looked quickly
at Gabriel to find out whether he had been visited by the same staggering realization. But Gabriel was grinning; in fact, Gabriel was chuckling.
“Sure, it’s Ira Shapian,” he continued. “Right, Mr. Shapian?”
Ira nodded dumbly.
Gabriel laughed now, peal on merry peal.
“What’s so funny, dear?” asked Boo, controlling the flutter in her voice.
“Ma, do you remember the time we were talking about that old photo of Mr. Shapian? Remember I told you about the crazy feeling I had, that I kept seeing Mr. Shapian’s eyes all the time? Well, I was right! Every time I passed a mirror, I saw those eyes. Look, Ma—they’re exactly like mine!”
“Yes, they are rather alike,” said Boo.
“Exactly alike!” declared Gabriel. “And that explains what happened. First I saw Mr. Shapian’s eyes in the photo; then, whenever I looked in a mirror, I saw the afterimage. A common case of déjà vu, that’s all it was.”
“Yes, that’s all it was.”
“Oh, boy, what a relief to get that mystery cleared up! If there’s anything I hate, it’s something I don’t understand.”
“You see, dear, how simple things are?”
“Yeah,” said Gabriel. “So what are you doing out here in the middle of the night with Mr. Shapian?”
“Well—” said Boo.
“Wait!” exclaimed Gabriel. “That’s simple too. You’re just showing him some of the places he knew when he was stationed here. A sentimental journey, sort of.”
“That’s it,” said Boo eagerly. “That is precisely it.”
“Gee, Ma, I hope I didn’t scare you, pulling in the driveway like this,” said Gabriel apologetically. “I was out testing my new fuel injection system and I saw lights in the beach house.”
“Perfectly all right, dear.”
“Well, I’ll be on my way now,” said Gabriel.
“As a matter of fact, we were just leaving ourselves,” said Boo.
“As a matter of fact,” said Ira, suddenly finding his voice, “I’d like to stay and have a drink, if you don’t mind, Boo.”
She gave him a curious glance. “Of course,” she said.
“It’s certainly been a great pleasure meeting you, my boy,” said Ira and shook his natural son by the hand.
“Thank you, sir,” said Gabriel. “Good night, Ma.”
He vaulted into his car and roared away. Ira took Boo firmly by the elbow and steered her back into the beach house.
“Ira, I don’t understand. We had just agreed to go back to Owens Mill.”
“No,” he said. His voice was gentle, his face was soft with love, but his no was definite.
“Ira—”
“Sit,” he said quietly and drew her down beside him on the sofa. “Sit and be truthful with me.”
“Ira, listen—”
“He’s mine, isn’t he? Gabriel is mine. You never married that Navy flier. It was all a fix to give the boy a name.”
Boo’s eyes were downcast, her voice scarcely audible. “Yes.”
“Gabriel is my son,” said Ira slowly, overcome with the force of it. “My son,” he repeated and suddenly leaped to his feet. “I must go to him!” he cried.
“No, Ira, no!” She clutched his arm fiercely.
“But he’s my son! My flesh! My blood!”
“Ira, think! You can never tell him, don’t you see?”
Ira struggled, then went slack. “I see,” he said sadly. “Yes, of course. I can never let him know. My flesh, my blood, can never know.”
“Poor Ira!”
“And what about poor Boo? For eighteen years you’ve kept this secret bravely, telling nobody, not even me.”
“I’m sorry, Ira.”
“Sorry?” It was a shout. “You say you’re sorry? For what, Boo? Do you know what any other woman would have done in your circumstances?”
“I don’t know. I only did what I had to.”
“Observe, Boo. I am on my knees.” He was.
“I don’t want you on your knees,” she insisted, tugging at his shoulders.
He knelt firmly. “I spend my life in a world where honor is dead and purity is an obscene joke. I grovel with the pack. I wear their stench.… Now in the presence of such cleanliness, I must kneel.”
“Arise, my love,” she said, still tugging.
He still knelt. “I worship you, Boo.”
She fell to her knees beside him. “I love you, Ira.”
“I called you gallant before. Now I know just how gallant you are, how noble you are!”
“It is you who are noble, good and gentle and tender and sweetly vulnerable.”
“Kiss me, Boo.”
“But how can we do this to Polly?”
“We can because we must. There may be retribution ahead; I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t let go of such great beauty, now that I truly know the greatness of it. Boo, kiss me. Hold me. Be one with me.”
“Yes! Oh, yes, yes, yes!”
Wildly they embraced, wildness begetting wildness.
“You are like the murmur of wings in my heart,” said Boo. “You are the morning.”
“How do you work this hook on top of your zipper?” said Ira.
Chapter 13
When a man passes the age of forty, the incursions of time are too evident to be denied. The joints stiffen, the wind dwindles, the belly skids, the psyche churns turgidly, and the crankcase needs oil. There are, however, certain measures a man can employ to stem the melancholy tide: he can take up calisthenics and massage; he can eat moderately and sleep immoderately; he can go on frequent vacations; he can interest himself in hobbies; he can enroll in adult education classes.… Or, most efficacious af all, he can fall in love.
Ira Shapian, in the weeks following his reunion with Boo, became as young as Romeo and as unlikely. Often and loud he cried the tonic words “I love you!” and as the phrase came rushing from his lips and sweetly reverberated in his ears, his heart would soar and his every corpuscle would shimmer.
And there were words from Boo too, protestations so rhapsodic that Ira’s toes would curl and his respiration loiter. “My beloved,” she would say, “you are a cello become tympani; a flute swollen to sounding brass.” Or, in another idiom, “My dear one, you are a river at flood, a mist-bound crystal cataract.”
Ira listened, stroking, the while, Boo’s tawny flanks before the driftwood fire, or looking into her tranquil eyes grown stormy with desire, or nuzzling her throat, or running a palm along the high, graceful arch of her foot, and as he listened and felt, the erosions of time were magically repaired, and winged youth was his.
Guilt came later. Returning to his room at the Stonewall Jackson Hotel after each tryst with Boo, Ira always felt an irresistible compulsion to phone Polly in California. His hands trembled on the telephone, but his voice was steady—steady and breezy and amiably matter-of-fact. He asked Polly about her health, about the house and the twins. When Polly recounted the boys’ latest achievements in mindlessness, he replied with indulgent laughter. Then, seeking to hear Polly laugh, he told her how things were going in Owens Mill, inventing anecdotes when there were none to report.
And all the time the fox of guilt slashed at his liver. How rotten I am, he thought, how stinkingly corrupt, to summon up such glibness—such purulent, slimy glibness!
Only once in each conversation did the glibness desert him. When, at the end of their talk, he said, “Well, good night, Polly,” and she answered, “I love you, Ira,” a cold, iron silence would seize him. Struggle as he did, he could find no words. “Did you hear me?” she would ask at last. “I just told you I loved you.” Still fighting for an answer, he would listen to Polly’s patient, regular breathing and finally the tiny sigh just before she hung up the telephone.
Then Ira would castigate himself in earnest, threshing and wallowing in his guilt, grinding his face in the much of it. But eventually—sometimes late, sometimes soon—a radiance would appear, a tall, slender, ethereal princ
ess, with hair of pale gold, and she would shine such tender, healing eyes on Ira that all his sins were taken away, and he would lay down his raven head and sleep, a flickering smile of peace playing on his lips.
Boo, like Ira, felt rapture and felt guilt, but she also felt despair—her own private blend. In Boo’s set of values, despair was the inseparable companion of romance, and, in fact, not an unpleasant companion. Her despair was the nonvirulent kind that only the rich can afford: wan, wistful, poignant, Brontë-ish. It was a dulcet unfulfillment that did not drive one to insert one’s head in one’s oven, but rather to pick up the poet’s pen. Never had Leda’s lyrics been more freighted with emotion than during those first weeks after Ira’s return. A quatrain, selected at random from The Mermaid, will illustrate:
The sea has turned to fire. The flame is salt.
My wounds implore the smold’ring balm to enter.
I would not if I could command a halt.
Burn, salt! Burn, sea! Let pain remain my center!
Secretly and happily Boo wrote her verses and, on those nights when it could be managed discreetly, took Ira to her house on the beach and there made clawing love or serene love, or some of each, or the two commingled. Nobody in Owens Mill had the slightest suspicion of Boo’s energetic new bed-life, for she stayed as active as ever, possibly more so, as clubwoman, civic leader, mother to Gabriel, and manager of her estate.
And Ira, younger than springtime, moved into an office at Acanthus College and started working rapidly, accurately, and without fatigue on the huge task of preparing a television documentary about the hazards of eating.
On Ira’s first day in his office at Acanthus College, Jefferson Tatum came calling. “Just thought I’d drop by and see you got everything you need,” said the old man.
“You’re very kind,” said Ira. “Yes, I’m in fine shape, thank you.”
“About them phones on your desk,” said Jefferson. “The black one’s a regular phone, and the white one is direct to Clendennon in New York.”