by Packer, Vin
“What book?”
“Oh, it doesn’t have to be a particular book. Some best seller.”
“Some dirty part or something?”
“You said it, I didn’t. If you want to call it — dirty.” “All right, sexy,” said Raymond. Well, there you have it, he thought. He felt depressed. “Yes, sexy,” she said.
A refrain from some old song came to Raymond’s mind: “… well, if this isn’t love, it’ll have to do … until the real thing comes along.”
• • •
For a week then, it went that way. Mrs. Hill had taken a job in a jewelry store, and the children were off at the nursery school. They were lovers, without any words of love exchanged, without any modesty, and with no restraint. Raymond Battle found that he was extremely inventive and imaginative; Robert Bowser was slightly shocked, often looking down his nose at the whole sordid mess. One morning in the middle of the week, as Battle was getting into his pants, he said, “You know, Bunny, I read your diaries.”
He expected her to blow up. That was gone too.
She answered. “There’s nothing in my diaries.”
“Exactly,” he answered.
“You’re not going to get me to fight with you again, Ray,” she answered. “That’s all in the past.” “Oh?”
“I don’t care what you think. If you really thought I was so terrible, you wouldn’t be coming up here every morning.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of a man seeing a woman for just one reason?”
She said, “I’ve never heard of a man telling a woman he was seeing her for just one reason. Why should he tell her? You just want to get me to react. Well, I won’t.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t!”
“I won’t come up here any more either.”
“Have it your way, Ray.” She went on applying Quik-Polish to her Keds. She was sitting on the side of the bed without any clothes on.
Raymond Battle said, “Vacant is an understatement.”
He went downstairs that day thoroughly disgusted with her. Well, it was over, and he was glad. He spent the afternoon washing his clothes and cleaning the apartment. He went to the early movie at the Uptown, and afterward, had a soda in a shop where the Stephens College girls hung out. Most of them were only three or four years younger than she was; he studied them. They reminded him of Margaret at that age. There was something about them. Class, Plangman would have called it. Plangman was right. On his way out of the shop he bought a china rabbit with lollipops stuck in its tail, and the next morning he took it up to Bunny to give to Chrissy.
“Is that all?” she said in the doorway.
“Ask me in,” he said quietly, solemnly.
She said, “The door’s open. You can walk in, but I won’t ask you in.”
He was back in it again.
It was at the week’s end, on late Saturday night. Mrs. Hill had taken the children to St. Louis, and it was their first evening together. Raymond had cooked spaghetti alla carbonara for their dinner, and he had bought a bottle of red wine.
They lingered over the wine and cigarettes at the end of the meal, and she was tight.
“I never knew you could cook so good!” she was saying. “There wasn’t anything to it.”
“So fancy! With the raw egg on top. I never had anything like it before, Ray.” “I’m glad you liked it.” “It was yummy! You’re sweet.”
It was the first endearment she had ever offered, and it pleased Battle. He actually leaned across the table and kissed her. She clung to him with a sudden force murmuring, “Red wine and everything; it was so nice and yummy!”
It was the first time, too, that they had been unable to wait out the walk down the hall to the bedroom. They made love in the living room, on the floor. It was her first time too.
“What book was it?” Raymond Battle smiled afterward.
“No book.”
“Honestly?”
“I swear it!” she said. “It’s never happened before.” “I guess the answer is a bottle of red wine.” “Natch!” she giggled. “Or raw egg yolk.” They laughed and Raymond Battle felt good. When the phone rang, he said, “Let it ring.” “I can’t. It’s probably Mother.” “Does she know anything?”
“She thinks you’re very mysterious,” Bunny said, getting up to answer the phone. “She says you don’t look or act like what you are.”
“What am I?” He put the pillow over him, sat up and lit a cigarette.
“Sweet,” she said, disappearing into the other room.
He leaned against the couch, smoking the cigarette. He had a really good feeling. He felt the way Bowser used to wonder what it was like to feel, a way Margaret would have said was not like him at all. It wasn’t either. He shut his eyes and smiled. He thought of how it had been making love with Bunny a moment ago — and then he remembered the poem Bud Wilde had tacked up in their room at Princeton:
“Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
When the grass is as soft as the breast of doves.
And shivering-sweet to the touch.”
He remembered what Plangman had said months ago, back at the Black Bass, about there being a reason why their lives had been completely changed by each other. “I believe there’s a reason it was you, in particular, and me, in particular,” Plangman had said.
“Hey, hurry back!” Raymond Battle called out. He felt very high himself, but not on wine. He grinned and hugged the pillow to him, and thought how good it was to be the first one with a woman — not her first man, but the first time.
“No book about it!” he said aloud, laughing.
She walked in as he said it. He was glad she hadn’t put anything on. “What did you say?” “I said, no book.”
She smiled. “That’s right, Ray. Even with Tommy I never …"
“Don’t talk it all away now,” he said, reaching for her. She came down and curled into him, and he kissed her for a long time. He looked at her a minute. “Don’t smile,” he said.
“All right.”
“I love you, Bunny,” he said. He was testing again — testing the sound of those words — they were okay, and he meant it. For a fraction of a second after he said them, he thought he would hear the familiar response. “Why do you suddenly announce it? You must know what prompted it. Go back over it. I was saying that I hadn’t seen round butter balls in …"
Bunny’s eyes searched his solemnly. “Thank you,” she answered.
“I love you, Bunny,” he said again.
“But now you’re smiling, after you told me not to.”
“It’s all right,” he said holding her. “It’s okay.”
She said, “Except we have to get dressed, Ray.”
“Why should we? Let’s make love again.”
“That was Scott on the phone.”
“Banjo? What’d he want?”
“He’s coming over. He’s bringing his guitar.”
“Tonight? At quarter to twelve?”
“He just got out of rehearsal, Ray. He says he wants to make me feel better, because I didn’t get the part in the play.”
Raymond Battle simply stared at her.
She said, “Oh, you’re included, Ray! If you want to be. You’ll like him. Did I ever tell you what he wrote on the blackboard that time the director didn’t show up? He wrote, ‘We was here when you was not …’ “
“Now you is here and we is not,” Raymond Battle finished it.
“Don’t tell me you’re angry,” she said, “after the nice time we had.”
SIXTEEN
THE MOMENT Harvey Plangman saw Adair Trowbridge, he felt reassured. Trowbridge and the Cutlers had been watching home movies of some sort when Harvey rang the bell. Trowbridge was standing by the projector in the living room, while Lois and her father hung back near the entranceway, speaking to one another in very low voices. Harvey knew they were talking about him. He had not chanced a phone call to announce his arrival. His phone conversa
tions the past week with Lois were most unsatisfactory. The best thing to do, he had decided, was to make a personal appearance. He was glad Trowbridge was there at the time. He had wanted that; he had prepared for it. He had read up on ferns, enough to carry on a small conversation about them — shoe-string ferns, rattlesnake ferns, interrupted ferns, and young fern leaves, or fiddleheads. Why shouldn’t he and Trowbridge be friends, after all?
His feeling of reassurance stemmed from the fact Trowbridge was very short, and rather plump. Certainly not what Harvey had expected. Instantly, Harvey felt rather patronizing toward Trowbridge. He extended a warm hand and grinned at the fellow. “Hello, Adair!” he said forthrightly. “I’ve heard a lot about you, all good,” he said benevolently.
Trowbridge’s handshake was weak and pudgy. Harvey was surprised at the fact his voice was very deep, his tone polished and with that slight accent that was not regional, but patrician. Still, the fellow was not at all suave. There were beads of perspiration dotting his forehead — the fat man’s curse, for it was a cool October evening and the skin of his arms, neck and face was very white, and almost feminine in its seemingly hairless appearance. He was not dressed very handsomely at all — navy slacks, an undistinguished silver-buckled belt, and a white shirt open at the neck. Harvey was wearing a new bright blue, red, black and gray mohair plaid coat-sweater from Celli of Milan — when he removed it the label would show — a white shirt and black knit tie, charcoal-gray slacks, and black calf shoes. The sweater, though, was his proudest possession that night. It had a continental collar, smoked pearl buttons, and a full red silk lining, with a large white label.
Adair Trowbridge, after his initial greeting, stood wordless. Behind Harvey, Lois and her father had not yet made a move forward. Harvey knew Lois was probably all upset, probably completely misled as to Harvey’s intentions this evening, but he would straighten it all out. It might be a little awkward at first, but somehow the sight of Trowbridge had given Harvey a booster shot of confidence. Trowbridge was in his late thirties, at least. Not that Harvey had any intention whatsoever of breaking up Trowbridge and Lois — not any more — but it made what he did have in mind seem all the more likely — the fact that Adair Trowbridge was such a colorless specimen. His picture in the Tribune had led Harvey to imagine he would be quite a bit grander than this sad chap with the receding hairline and protruding waistline.
He said to Trowbridge, “How are the ferns?”
Trowbridge smiled weakly, as Harvey continued to talk. Harvey said, “From the Latin hortus, we have garden and from the Latin cultura, we have cultivation. Horticulture.” Harvey had never taken Latin in school; any Latin he knew he had learned himself, from reading the dictionary, and the words sounded very cultured to him. He was as proud of the Latin he knew as he was of the three or four words in Russian he knew. He continued talking to Adair, saying, “A very interesting hobby, photographing flowers and whatnot. How did you become interested, Adair?”
Trowbridge was glancing back at the Cutlers with an anxious expression, his hands fooling with a reel of movie film on the projector. He said, “My father was a gardener.”
“Oh, well you’ve come a long way then. I suspect he’s proud of you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How many gardener’s sons get their pictures in the Sunday Tribune?” Harvey said with a gentle smile.
“That wasn’t what I meant,” Trowbridge said. “Gardening was a pleasure of my father’s.”
“Oh. Not a living, eh?”
“No … not a living.”
“I should have known from your name,” said Harvey. “How many gardeners would name their sons Adair?” Trowbridge said, “I have no idea.” “It’s a funny name,” said Harvey. “I looked it up. It means ‘from the ford by the oak trees.’ I suppose you knew that.” “No.”
“It’s Celtic,” Harvey said.
Trowbridge said nothing. Then Hayden Cutler cleared his throat in a portentous manner and stepped forward, Lois following a few paces behind.
Culter said, “I’m afraid you’ve interrupted us, Harvey. Adair was showing us some films of Venice which he took last summer.”
“While I was in the neighborhood,” Harvey said, “I thought I’d drop in and straighten out a few things.”
“I wish you’d telephoned first,” Cutler said. “We might have avoided embarrassment all the way around.”
“You mean because Adair’s here? I’m glad he’s here, Mr. Cutler, sir. Look,” Harvey smiled. “I have no ill feeling. I admit I was shocked. It was all very sudden, it seemed to me.”
“I’ve known Adair for years and years,” Lois said. “Haven’t I, Daddy?”
“Oh, never mind. Never mind,” said Harvey, “I’m resigned to it. That’s the way the ball bounces.”
“We know Adair very well,” Cutler said, “and we don’t know you very well at all, Harvey.”
“All I want is a chance, sir,” Harvey said brightly. “That’s why I came by. There’s no reason we can’t all be good friends.”
“Perhaps that’s true,” Cutler answered, “but none of our friends simply barge in on an evening. Please don’t make it any more embarrassing, Harvey. We’ve been very patient, already.”
“I don’t have leprosy, you know, sir,” Harvey chuckled. “Couldn’t we all watch Adair’s movies … Adair, you wouldn’t mind, would you?” Harvey clamped an affectionate arm across Trowbridge’s shoulders. “Bygones are bygones. Hmmm? I wasn’t much of a threat at all, anyway,” Harvey said generously. “I tried, but the best man won.”
Trowbridge was not much of a talker.
Hayden Cutler said, “We have to ask you to leave, Harvey. I’m sorry, but you force me to be very blunt.”
“But why must I leave? I’m really resigned to the whole thing, Mr. Cutler. Don’t you believe that? Lois, don’t you?”
Lois Cutler said, “I told you over the phone that I didn’t want to see you any more, Harvey.”
“But over the phone it was different. I was still upset. Look, Lois — Mr. Cutler — I’ve had time to think. You were perfectly right. I took too much for granted. It wasn’t my fault. I mean, how was I to know Adair was abroad! Lois didn’t even mention Adair. Not once.” The unfairness of his plight glowed again in Harvey’s heart like a little worm turning itself on again, and there was a slight quiver to his voice — a trembling in his insides. He started to complain more, but Cutler held up his hand. “Harvey,” Cutler said, “Lois may have been to blame for not mentioning Adair, but she and Adair made up their minds only a week after he returned. All’s fair in love and war, you know, and now it’s up to you to do the decent thing. Fade away like the good old soldier who never dies. Fade away, boy … now. I’ll walk you to the front door.”
“Can’t we all be friends anyway? Sir, I’d like your advice about entering business.”
“This way, Harvey. Come along.” Cutler had Plangman firmly by the arm.
Lois said, “Bon nuit, Monsieur.”
“I think it’s really rotten of you,” said Harvey. “After all, I was doing the sporting thing, Lois.”
“I told you over the phone, Harvey Plangman. And Daddy told you.”
“Nice to have met you, Trowbridge,” Harvey called over his shoulder. “We might have been good friends, if we’d been given the chance.”
Trowbridge only nodded, without smiling.
At the door, Hayden Cutler said, “I wouldn’t come back, Harvey. You know, you’re only making a fool of yourself. Why do that?”
“Why do you dislike me so? That’s what I can’t get through my head, Mr. Cutler. Why, I gave you a birthday party. Now I’m not even welcome in your house.”
“The birthday party you gave me was a great compliment to my daughter, Harvey.”
“But that’s what you don’t understand, sir. I liked you too. I wasn’t just interested in Lois.”
“You weren’t?”
“No, sir! You see, I’d like to consider myself a
friend of the family. I’d like to feel I could drop in on you, and you could drop in on me. I don’t think Adair’s such a bad sort, at all. He has nothing to do with it, any more. I’m resigned, and I’d like to offer my friendship, sir.”
“That’s very nice, Harvey, but I’m a busy man, and I expect Lois and Adair don’t want a third wheel around.”
“Sir, I moved East for Lois. I bet you never knew that, sir.”
“That was presumptuous, Harvey. Now, you’re trying my patience.”
“You want me to just leave. Just like that, is that it? And never come back?”
“I’m sorry. I’m afraid that’s it.”
“All right, sir, but Trowbridge will get it too. I know that. Lord, didn’t I hear enough of your phone conversations together, with ‘God bless me and God bless you,’ and …"
“Get out, Plangman!”
Harvey felt himself being shoved. Then he was on the step outside, and the door was slammed shut.
He hurried down the walk to his car. He got in and drove toward town. Tears smarted in his eyes, and as he lit a cigarette, his hands trembled. When he passed the phone booth on the corner of Bridge Street in New Hope, he pulled over to the curb. A man named Axtel who was forty-three inherited two-hundred and fifty-one thousand dollars; he still knew the number without looking it up.
“Hello, Margaret,” he might say. “I’d like to come and talk with you.”
He stood in the phone booth, holding the dime in his hand. Mrs. Bowser, not Margaret — not Margaret until after he talked with her. After she trusted him and liked him. His heart was pounding; his mind busy manufacturing the fantasy:
• • •
“… and do you see, Mrs. Bowser, I’ve helped him all I could. I’ve lent him money and given him a place to stay, but if you want my opinion, he’s in much more serious difficulty than that of a man who’s committed a crime. Yes, embezzlement is serious enough, Mrs. Bowser, but he’s having a nervous breakdown. I should have realized that from the start, but I didn’t know him at all, you see. It was just chance that our coats got mixed up in that gas station, and I felt sorry for him …"