“Branch?” She walked in.
Branch lay in bed, reading. As she approached, he hurriedly put the book down.
“You forgot to kiss me good night.”
“Did I? I’m sorry.” He sat up, lightly touched his lips to her cheek. “Good night, Rosie.”
“Good night.” She took a step, then stopped. “What are you reading?”
“Just a book.”
“What’s it about?”
Branch shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Is it good? Should I read it?”
“I’m not all that far into it yet. Probably not.”
“What’s it called?”
“I forget.”
“Is it dirty?” Rose laughed. “Are you embarrassed to tell me?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“Then what’s it about?”
“California,” Branch said.
Rose said nothing.
“San Francisco, actually. Annie’s from San Francisco. Her whole family lives there.”
“Yes?”
“She’s crazy about the place.”
“She is?”
“It’s her home; she loves it. There are some pictures in the book here, a few photographs. I’ve got to admit, it does look beautiful. The hills and the water.”
“I’m told it’s very pretty.”
“Not only that, but according to this book, there’s a real boom out there now.”
“There is?”
Branch nodded and picked up the book. “If you want, you can read it when I’m done.”
“Maybe I will.” Rose moved to the door.
“It’s a real land of opportunity out there.” He blew her a kiss. “Good night, Mother.”
“Good night, Branch,” and she closed the door.
At two o’clock, she took her second Seconal; at three, her third. She disliked sleeping pills—they were a sign of weakness—but she had to get some rest. Somehow. Rose tossed. The sheet beneath her body felt wrinkled, so after a while she stood up and tore her bed apart, carefully tucking clean cool sheets on the mattress. She got back in and the cloth was smooth to her aching body, but still she could not sleep. Her head throbbed steadily, and that didn’t make it any easier. In vain, Rose tried clearing her mind, but inevitably the picture of that girl pawing her son haunted her. She was a fast one, that Annie. Of course young people acted differently today, but any way you looked at it, Annie was a fast one. Well, what could you expect from Californians? All those movie stars setting the kind of examples they did. Rose kicked at the sheets, driving them clear off her slender legs. God knows she wanted Branch to get married. God knows she had been sweet to his girls. Hadn’t Annie practically moved in with them? Branch ought to get married someday, but with that girl? A little dancer with not one ounce of common everyday ordinary decency? Rose rubbed her eyes with the very tips of her fingers. No one could say she hadn’t been cordial. No one could say she hadn’t been warm, hadn’t encouraged Branch to go out, find girls, bring them home. No one could say she hadn’t tried. But she knew what that little girl was up to. Women understood those things better than men ever could. Women sensed things. But did Branch? He was so open, so honest, so gullible, almost, that maybe he didn’t see. Maybe that girl had him fooled. “You don’t fool me,” Rose said out loud. No, sir, she didn’t. Why didn’t Branch see? Rose fluffed her pillow with the flat of her hand. She didn’t want to have to tell Branch; she hated being “that” kind of mother. They were so close, they understood each other so well, that having to “talk” to him that way—well, it just wasn’t going to be much fun. But it was his life. One wrong move and it was liable to be ruined. She hadn’t brought him up for that. She hadn’t loved him to see him throw it all away, his whole life, just-like-that. “Branch,” Rose said. “Branch.” She got out of bed and began to pace. In a moment she was at the window, looking out at the still back lawn. There. There was the spot where Annie had made her reappearance, lying practically naked, clutching her son’s hand. Rose stared at the black grass. “You don’t fool me,” she said again. “Not me, you don’t.” She inhaled deeply. There was really no choice for her. She would have to do it, tell Branch, make him see. In spite of everything, she would have to talk to him, explain to him, right away, honest and aboveboard. Man to man.
But at breakfast the following day he was half asleep, having read most of the night to finish his book. So Rose waited. The drive to the office was too short, but the whole morning lay ahead of them, and that, she decided, was the time. But the morning was Monday, and by ten o’clock they were still swamped with work. So Rose waited. At eleven she saw they would never catch up by noon, so she called to Branch that she wanted to have lunch with him and he nodded without speaking. So Rose waited. And waited. And—
“Ready?”
Branch looked up from his desk. “For what?”
“Lunch, silly. I asked you to have lunch and you said yes.”
“I did?”
“You nodded.”
“My God, what time is it?”
“Half past twelve.”
Branch stood quickly, shoving papers into his top desk drawer. “I’ve got to go.”
“We’re having lunch.”
“I can’t. Not today. Goodbye.” And he was out the door.
Rose waited a moment, hesitating. Then she dashed for the door after her son. He was half a block ahead of her when she got to the street, hurrying along Central. Rose felt the fool, in broad summer daylight, in the center of her own small town, following her son. But she followed him. At the corner of Central and Tubbs he stopped, glancing over his shoulder. Rose pressed against the side of Simmon’s Grocery, her back against the hot glass, hiding until it was safe. Branch turned onto Tubbs, walking faster, but she kept pace, staying close to the store fronts lest he turn again. He continued on Tubbs past Willow before he stopped again, looking around. Rose busied herself with a hardware-store window, hidden by the torn green awning overhead. When he got to Percy he turned again, moving out of sight, and Rose had just started to run when Mrs. Mulligan grabbed her arm.
“Hello there, Mrs. Scudder.”
“Huh? Oh, Mrs. Mulligan, hello.”
“Beautiful day.”
“Yes. I’m in something of a hurry, Mrs. Mulligan.”
“Well, it’s just that Mr. Mulligan and I are thinking of moving and I was wondering what you thought you could get for our house.”
“House? Please, Mrs. Mulligan, call me at the office. Do that,” and she pulled loose, running as fast as her good legs could carry her up to Percy. She reached the corner and crossed the street but Branch was gone. She looked again and then she saw him, far ahead of her. Rose ran. He was walking slower now and if he turned again he would see her, but that didn’t seem to matter now. She ran, closing the gap. Branch stopped. Rose ran on, panting, the air bursting from her dry throat. One hundred yards, now seventy, fifty, twenty-five. Her dress was soaked and her legs hurt and her throat, so she stopped running, pausing a moment, leaning against the window of a haberdashery, trying to get her breath. Branch moved very slowly, one small step at a time. Rose stayed with him. Then he turned abruptly and entered a store. Rose waited. In a few moments her breath was almost back to normal and she straightened her dress and did what she could about drying the perspiration from her forehead. Then, with a brisk step, she moved forward, body stiff, head held high. When she passed the place she glanced quickly to the right and caught a glimpse of her son. He was busy, so he did not notice her.
He was in a jewelry store. Rose could see the display of wedding rings in the window.
“Branch?”
“Yes?”
“We’ve got to have a talk.” It was late the same evening and they were sitting on the back porch, prior to bed.
“Sounds important.”
“I’ve thought about this, Branch. More than you’ll ever know. It’s been in my mind for weeks. Day and night, all the time.”
“Yo
u’re upset.”
“Yes,” Rose said. “Yes, I am. Do you love me, Branch? Do you think I love you?”
“Of course.”
“Well, for the first time in my life I feel like a bad mother. I do. And I don’t much like it.”
Branch was silent.
“I want the best for you, my baby. That’s all I want. Do you believe me?”
“I don’t even have to answer that. You know how I feel.”
“Well ...”
“Yes?”
“It’s just that ...”
“Yes?”
“I think you should go to New York.”
Branch waited.
Rose said nothing, then the words came tumbling down. “Right away. Pack up and go to New York. Just go. Now. You’re not extravagant, I know that. I’ll support you.”
“I’m stunned,” Branch said.
“Like I say, I’ve thought a lot about this. Ever since we had our talk in New York and you told me you wanted to stay and I said I didn’t think it was a good idea. Well, I was wrong. You owe it to yourself to try and make good there. If that’s what you want, you have it coming. Forget about us here. Just go there and make your mark. Will you do that?”
“I hadn’t thought—yes. I’ll go. If you want me to.”
“I do.”
“I’ll fly in this weekend and find a place to live.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll need two bedrooms.”
“Why?”
“You’ll come visit me, won’t you?”
“I’d like to.”
“Well,” Branch said, and he smiled at her, “I wouldn’t dream of allowing my own mother to stay at a hotel.”
What could she do but smile? “I do love you, baby. I do want what’s best for you.”
“I know that.”
“Who can tell; maybe you won’t like it there. Maybe you’ll miss your home.” And if you don’t, the money stops. After six months. Six months was a long time. Nobody could say it wasn’t generous. Six months. At the outside. Maybe less.
“You’re right. I probably won’t like it. Once the novelty wears off.”
“Time will tell.”
“Yes,” Branch said. “Good night.” He kissed his mother on the forehead, then moved to the doorway.
“Good night, my baby.”
“You know what you are?”
“What?”
“Unselfish.”
Rose smiled.
Branch left her there, alone on the porch, staring at something on the lawn. Inside the house, Branch moved very slowly up the stairs to his room. Carefully he closed the door. Then he ran full tilt across the room, dove onto his bed, clutched his pillow to his body and stuffed one corner into his mouth so she wouldn’t hear him laughing.
XIV
JENNY KNEW SHE WAS ready for something.
Monday night she forgot to go to acting class, wandering instead through Central Park, which wasn’t a smart thing to do, but she did it anyway. Tuesday noon she had an argument with her temporary boss at Kingsway Press, which also wasn’t a smart thing to do, especially for a secretary, but she did that too, anyway. Wednesday she simply overslept, waking at half past one—after a solid thirteen hours’ sleep—still tired. Thursday she jaywalked recklessly, all day long, and had another argument with her temporary boss, whose name was Archie Wesker and who looked for all the world like Robert Mitchum.
Then, Friday morning, her dry cleaner disappointed her.
His name was Mr. Yang and he was old and very wise and Jenny loved his dry cleaning, because he showed genuine interest in her occasional spots and always returned garments when he promised. So, on Friday morning, when she dashed through the summer heat to his shop only to find that half of her clothes had not come back and the other half were less well pressed than usual, she nearly wept. Sadly, she returned to her tiny apartment and almost without thinking put on a tight blue blouse and skirt and left for work without her customary raincoat. As she waited for the West Side subway she was propositioned twice and elbowed half to death by hordes of men who all seemed smaller and darker than she was. Ordinarily the elbowing would have upset her, but this morning she took it all serenely, leaving the subway before the train came, hailing a cab, blowing her budget, going to work in style.
She had not been at her desk more than five minutes when Mr. Wesker came up and stood in front of her, arms crossed, staring. He had, of course, stared at her before, except that before, when he had stared, she had not flushed. She looked up at him. “Yes?”
“Don’t attack me, Miss Devers. You didn’t have to say ‘yes’ quite so negatively.”
I really don’t like you, Jenny thought.
He smiled at her crookedly, the way Robert Mitchum smiles.
There’s more to a man than looks, Jenny thought.
“Good news, Miss Devers.”
“Auh?”
“Yes. You’re getting a new boss. I’m transferring to the textbook department.”
“Auh.”
“We’ll still be on the same floor, of course. And if you’d like, I could probably swing having you transferred with me.”
Jenny said nothing.
“That was a joke, Miss Devers. Our short time together has been more than sufficient for both of us, I’m sure.”
“I haven’t anything against you, Mr. Wesker, and that’s the truth.”
“Then have lunch with me.”
Jenny almost said “Why?” but it would have been rude, so she stopped herself in time. Rude or not, it was a good question. Why in the world had he asked her? And why in the world did she accept?
That was a good question, too.
They lunched at Adela’s, a long, narrow restaurant, very expensive, with red drapes lining the walls and elegant candles, one on each table, providing light. As they entered the cool darkness Jenny felt flattered. When a Kingsway editor wanted to impress someone, more often than not they lunched at Adela’s. The headwaiter led them to a table in the rear corner of the room. Mr. Wesker smiled and sat down right beside her.
“Who’s going to be my new boss?” Jenny asked, moving a little bit away.
“I think Fiske.” Archie smiled again.
“Mr. Fiske.” Jenny paused a moment. “He’s supposed to be very nice.”
“Who says?”
“The girls in the office.”
“Charley’s honest, upright and true,” Archie said. “A perfect senior editor. What do you want to drink?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I just don’t feel like anything.”
“You do drink.”
“Sometimes.”
“But not now. Why?”
“I already said. I just don’t feel—”
“Miss Devers, we’re separating as of today, so in celebration of that fact, let’s be honest. You’re afraid you’ll get plastered and I’ll lure you someplace and quote take advantage of you close quote.”
Jenny was tempted to get up, just get up right then and there and say, “Archie Wesker, you think you’re so smart you make me sick.” But she didn’t. Instead, she sat very still with her hands folded in her lap and cursed the weakness she had always had for Robert Mitchum.
“Well, let’s analyze your fear,” Archie went on. “You’re a big strong girl. I’ll tell you the truth: I wouldn’t want to arm-wrestle you, at least not for money. And answer me this: where am I going to lure you that if you don’t want to go there with me you can’t say ‘no’? How’m I going to surprise you? I’d have to have some kind of wild place, wouldn’t I? Ian Fleming out of Rube Goldberg. You know, we’re walking along and I push some hidden button and the sidewalk opens and you fall helpless onto this huge bed I’ve got stashed away under midtown Manhattan. Now all that’s possible, but the odds against it—”
“Gin and tonic,” Jenny said.
“Sure you’re not game for a martini?”
“Gin and tonic, thank y
ou.”
Archie signaled for a waiter, gave the order. “Why don’t you like me?” he said then.
“I told you before, Mr. Wesker; I’ve got nothing against—”
“Come on, Jenny. Spiel.”
“You think you’re so good you make me sick. There.” She felt herself flushing again and she rummaged quickly through her pocketbook.
“What are you searching for?”
“Nothing. I’m just hiding. Look away. Give me a chance—please—to get back my composure. I don’t like fighting—please.”
Archie lit a cigarette. “I’m cursed,” he said.
Jenny went on rummaging.
“You’re absolutely right—I do think I’m good. I’m cursed. I am good. I would love—underline love—to feel insecure every so often. A little inferiority. But I don’t. When I’m honest, I’m an egotist. I’ve got to be hypocritical for most people to like me. It’s a curse, I tell you. Where you from?”
“Wisconsin.”
“Had to be. Or Minnesota. How’re you fixed on composure?”
“Fine.”
“You like me any better?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m really a great guy.”
“You’re very modest. I’ll say that.”
“Listen: can I help it that I look like Robert Mitchum?”
The waiter came with their drinks. Jenny sipped her gin and tonic. She was to finish three before the meal was over. More accurately, she was to finish three before the meal began. Each time she neared the bottom of her glass Archie would make a gesture and soon another drink would appear on the table. The gesture was a wrist flick, done with what, Jenny supposed, he supposed was breathtaking nonchalance.
Actually, he was so obvious she wanted to giggle.
That was what most surprised her—his obviousness. Did he think she didn’t know? Wasn’t it clear that she knew when, midway through her first drink, she downed several pieces of French bread and butter, thereby coating her stomach, thereby providing immunization? Evidently it was not clear, because during the meal he insisted on their sharing a bottle of wine, which she was more than glad to do, although he was getting a little thick-tongued by then. He was obvious in other ways too: touching her a lot—his hand on her hand, on her shoulder, once, ever so briefly, on her knee. And when he asked her questions about her background, it was obvious that he was just making conversation, that he didn’t really care a fig for her background, that he wasn’t the least bit interested in the fact that she had been in Manhattan over a year and had had an understudy part in a Stagpole play but hadn’t ever actually acted it because the play closed too soon and, besides, the girl she was understudying had had the constitution of two truck horses. Why am I talking so much? Jenny wondered, pausing before launching into a discussion of how much she hoped she was a good actress because that was the one thing in all the world she really wanted to be, a good actress, just a good solid professional working actress, and she was about to tell Archie Wesker how her acting teacher had taken her aside less than a month before and whispered that he thought she had the potential, except that since it was so obvious Archie didn’t care, Jenny decided to keep mum on that one. She also decided not to talk about Tommy Alden being on a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford or Cambridge (she could never keep them straight) except she changed her mind and did talk about it, because that way Archie would know she was practically for all intents and purposes spoken for and so wouldn’t try “anything,” whatever that was.
Boys and Girls Together: A Novel Page 46