Boys & Girls Together (44 page)

Authors: William Goldman

Aaron stretched. The company was quiet now. Captain Apple was up playing his afternoon golf match, so the orderly room was deserted. Aaron lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Placing the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, he sat at his desk. He had a little more typing to do and he would be through for the day. Wheeling the typewriter into position, he began to work.

A few moments later there was a knock at the orderly-room door. “Yes,” Aaron called, continuing to type.

“Can I come in?”

Aaron looked up. “Come on.”

A pudgy, balding figure marched into the room, stopped in front of his desk and saluted. “Sir, Private Branch Scudder reporting for duty as ordered, sir.”

Flustered, Aaron returned the salute.

“I’m new in the company,” Branch Scudder said.

“I gathered.”

“Here are my orders.” He handed a file of papers to Aaron. “What do I do now?”

“Relax,” Aaron said. “I’m a recruit too.”

“I thought so,” Branch said. “But you can’t ever be sure. What’s your name?”

“Aaron Firestone.”

“I’m Branch Scudder.”

Branch held out his hand. Aaron paused, then took it.

“Where is everybody?”

“Gone. They’ll be back.”

“What about me?”

“You’ve got the afternoon off. Get some sheets from the supply room. Around to the left.” He pointed.

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“You’re sure? I won’t get in any trouble?”

“No. No trouble.”

Branch turned, walking toward the door. Then he stopped. “Around to the left, you said?”

“Yes.”

“O.K. Thanks. Thanks a lot. You’ve been very helpful.”

“
De nada
,” Aaron muttered, watching as the other boy hurried out the door. When he hurried, Aaron noted, he jiggled. All over. His ass jiggled and the flesh above his hips jiggled. Everything. Baby fat, Aaron thought and he resumed his typing.

In ten minutes he was finished. Carefully filing the papers away, he lit another cigarette and got out his notebook. The afternoon was his now. To write. He had notified his mother to send his book of stories down to him, but while he was waiting its arrival he kept busy. Sketches, odd thoughts. Opening the notebook, he paused a moment, looking at the title page.
The Journals of Aaron Fire
. When he got around to his autobiography, he would call it that.
The Journals of Aaron Fire
. It had an almost Biblical ring. He turned the page and began to write. “Scudder jiggles. He is losing his hair while keeping his baby fat, which may be the neatest trick of the week. He appears to be boneless. Barbecued, he would undoubtedly prove tender.” Drivel, Aaron thought. Crap. He flipped to another page. “Terry,” he wrote. “Terry the Ape.” He erased it, then lit another cigarette. He had been trying for two days now to write about Terry and as yet he had nothing. Why was that? What stopped him? It had something to do with Terry’s eyes. They were too bright. He could not see past them. Not yet. Scudder was easier to write about. Aaron turned back a page. “Scudder was probably a beautiful baby but now the beauty is gone. He didn’t grow; he simply enlarged. He ...”

“I made my bed.”

Aaron looked up. Scudder stood in the doorway.

“I got the sheets like you said. My bed’s all made.”

Aaron nodded.

“There’s no one in the barracks at all. I ... uh ... felt like talking to somebody.”

Aaron tilted his head to one side. Scudder had a speech peculiarity he hadn’t noticed before. Either he talked too quickly or too slowly; no middle ground. “I made my bed” sounded like one word. This last sentence was filled with unnecessary syllables. “I ... uh ... felt ... like ... uh ... talking to somebody.”

Aaron said nothing.

“Am I ... uh ... bothering you?”

“Yes, frankly.”

“You’re working?”

“Trying to.”

Branch jiggled over to Terry’s chair and sat. “What kind of work?”

Aaron shrugged.

“I watched you through the screen door. You were writing. Are you a writer?”

“Yes.”

“Are you writing a book or a play?”

“Listen, Scudder—”

“If you write a play I’ll produce it. I’m a producer. I will be. When I’m done with the Army.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“You know the saying, ‘Those who can, write; those who can’t, teach’? Well, it’s different in the theater. In the theater it’s ‘Those who can, write; those who can’t, produce.’ ” He laughed lightly. It was warm in the room and Aaron was sweating, but Scudder’s skin was dry. “What were you writing?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on. You can tell me.”

“You don’t sweat, do you?”

“Not very much. Why?”

“No reason.”

“That’s one way to tell a writer. By how perceptive they are. You’re very perceptive. I just know it. I’ll bet your writing is that way too. Read me something.”

“I will not.”

“It’s all right. What were you just writing about?”

“You, Scudder.”

Branch laughed again, louder. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” Aaron said. “I’m not.”

“Well, then, you’ve got to read it to me.”

“It’s hardly flattering, Scudder.”

“Read it anyway.”

“Dammit—”

“I’m waiting.”

“All right. All right.” Aaron picked up the journal. “ ‘Scudder jiggles,’ ” he began. “ ‘He is losing his hair while keeping his baby fat ... ’ ” He read it venomously. When he finished, he put the journal down.

Branch was staring at him.

Aaron smiled. “Like it?” he asked.

“I’m ... uh ... very sensitive about ... uh ... my ... uh ... hair. I don’t like ... uh ... people ... making ... uh ... jokes about it.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“Otherwise I thought it was fine.”

“I’m delighted. Now—”

“Where did you go to college? I went to Oberlin. Where did you go?”

“Princeton. Now come on, Scudder—”

“I was going to guess Yale.”

“That makes us both perceptive.”

“I had some friends at Princeton. Did you, by any chance, know—”

“Probably not. For the last time, Scudder, leave me in peace.” He paused. “If you don’t, I’ll have you put on K.P.”

Branch sat up. “You wouldn’t do that.”

“ I’ll give you three to get out of here.”

“We’re both college men. You wouldn’t—”

“One.”

“Besides, you don’t have the authority.”

“The first sergeant does. He’ll do what I say. Two.”

Nervously, Branch stood. “Remember, if you write a play, I’ll pro—”

“Thr ...” Aaron began.

Jiggling, Branch bolted out the door.

Alone, Aaron laughed. He put his head down on his arms and howled, tears falling onto the desk blotter. He laughed until his throat hurt. He sat up then, wiping his eyes. Hurriedly, he opened his journal, muttering aloud. “I said, ‘If you don’t, I’ll put you on K.P.’ and he said ‘You wouldn’t do that’ and I said ... It was good dialogue and sometime it might be usable. Aaron lit a cigarette, continuing to write. He felt, somehow, strange. Why? He paused in his work. His shoulders itched, so he rubbed them against the back of his chair. Taking a deep breath, he held it. There was no sound in the room. Aaron listened. Yes, there was. He could hear it now. It was coming from behind him, a soft sound. What was it? There was an open window behind him and suddenly Aaron knew.

Someone was watching him.

Aaron froze. The sound was that of quick breathing but very soft, like a tiny puppy, panting after the ordeal of birth. Aaron waited. The sound stayed. “Cut it out, Scudder!” Aaron shouted. Still the sound. “I mean it, cut it out!” The panting seemed a level louder now. With a cry, Aaron flung his body around, facing the window.

He saw nothing. Nothing. He knew that he had only to go to the window and stick his head out to see who it had been.

But he did not move.

The next afternoon, Aaron sat alone in the orderly room. It was a pleasant day, warm, but with a wind, and his writing was going well. Captain Apple had called in at lunch, saying, somewhat thickly, that he would not be down for a while. In the background Aaron could hear what he assumed to be the sounds of the Officers’ Club bar—soft music, loud laughter. Starting a fresh page in his journal, Aaron titled it
Apple’s Fall
and set to work. He had written almost a page when Terry appeared.

“Where are the troops?” Aaron said.

“Watching a triple feature. Hygiene, Military Courtesy and something else.” He sat heavily at his desk. “Ye gods.”

“What’s up?”

“More nuts,” Sergeant Terry said. “A fresh supply. Two dozen or more. Due this afternoon.”

“Where’ll we stick them?”

“The last barracks down.”

“That’s locked up.”

Terry threw him a key. “Open it.” He rubbed his eyes. “And give it a once-over.”

“How?”

“See that the toilets all flush. And make sure each bed’s got a mattress. And make sure the sinks work. Think you can do that, Firestone?”

“With luck.” Aaron stood.

“I’ll be down in a while,” Sergeant Terry said. He rubbed his eyes. “More nuts,” he muttered. “Jesus.”

Aaron left the orderly room and turned right, walking quickly. The large vacant field across the road seemed alive as little puffs of dust exploded, detonated by the wind. Aaron whistled, snapping his fingers in rhythm. When he reached the last barracks he unlocked it and stepped inside. It was stuffy, of course, but surprisingly cool. The silence was so complete he stopped whistling and listened. No sound. Nodding, he proceeded to the latrine and, moving down the row of sinks, turned on the faucets. The pipes groaned softly and rusty water cascaded out. Aaron moved into the next room where the toilets were. They all flushed. Returning to the sinks, he noted that the water was clear now, so he turned them off and headed out of the latrine to the main room on the first floor. Carefully he moved down the center aisle, counting cots. There were twenty-four of them, and each had a mattress. “Twenty-four,” Aaron said out loud, breaking the quiet. The floor needed mopping but aside from that everything seemed to be fine. Aaron left the room and mounted the wooden stairway that led to the second floor. He banged his boots down heavily as he climbed, taking pleasure in the sound. There were two cadre rooms by the top of the stairs and he glanced inside. Sun streamed in through the windows. Each room had two beds and two mattresses. Aaron left them and toured the second floor. “Twenty-four,” he said, again aloud, when he was finished. Making a grand total of forty-eight, not counting the cadre rooms. “Forty-eight,” Aaron said.

The front door of the barracks opened and closed.

Aaron went to the head of the stairs and looked down. “Stand and unfold yourself.”

“Everything all right?” Terry said, mounting the stairs.

“Yes.”

“Forty-eight cots excluding the cadre rooms?”

“If you knew, why’d you have me count?”

“Caution,” Terry answered. “I am, by nature, cautious. Water fountain work?”

“I didn’t check it,” Aaron said.

“Why don’t you, then?” Terry told him. “Seeing you have the time.”

Aaron descended the stairs to the water fountain. It was located in a niche outside the latrine. The water was rusty at first but then it cleared. “It’s fine,” Aaron called.

“Good.”

Aaron walked up the stairs again. “Where are you?”

“Here.” Aaron entered one of the cadre rooms. “Break time,” Terry said. “Take five.” Terry was smoking, his ape’s body sprawled across one of the cots. Aaron sat down on the other cot and lit a cigarette. The room was stuffy, the dark shade pulled down over the window. Above, a bare bulb lit the room starkly. Aaron glanced at Terry, then away. Terry had shaved. Aaron sniffed once.

“What’s that smell?”

Terry laughed. “Aftershave. French. It’s imported. A weakness of mine. You don’t like it?”

“It’s strong, all right.”

Terry laughed again. “Distinctive would have been a kinder word.”

Aaron dragged on his cigarette.

“I was first given some in Paris during the liberation. A gift from an admirer. I’ve used it ever since. The sentimentalist in me.”

“If I were writing you in a book, I’d never let you use it.”

“Why not?”

“Too obvious. It’s gimmicky. French-imported aftershave. My God, is that phony.”

“If you were writing me in a book, what would you say?”

“I don’t know yet. I haven’t got you straight. But I will.”

“I’ve been written about before,” Sergeant Terry said.

“No kidding?”

“No kidding.”

“Who did it?”

“Friends.”

“What did they say?”

“Unkind things.”

“Why?”

“Revenge, I suppose. Writers write out of revenge. Wouldn’t you say so?”

“Maybe. I thought you said they were friends of yours.”

“They were.”

“How do you know it was you they were writing about?”

“They sent me copies of the books. Suitably inscribed.”

Aaron lit another cigarette and carefully placed it in the corner of his mouth. The room was cooler now, the black shade blocking the heat of the sun. Sergeant Terry stretched.

“Maybe I’ll write about you someday,” Aaron said. “And send you a book, suitably inscribed. To add to your collection.”

“Oh, you will,” Sergeant Terry said.

Aaron shrugged.

“And yours will be just like the others. Venomous. Untrue.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Trust me.”

“You’re pretty confident, aren’t you?”

“In certain areas only.”

Aaron inhaled deeply.

“The light,” Sergeant Terry said.

Aaron’s heart bucked.

“Relax,” Terry said. “Relax, Aaron.” He pointed a thick hand. “The light.”