Boys & Girls Together (56 page)

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you dead?”

“Please, I’m sorry.”

“Are you dead? Huh?”

“Mother ... ?”

“
Huh?
”

“I’m alive.”

“Again.”

“I’m alive.”

“Louder.”

“I’m alive.”

“That’s my baby.”

Branch was quiet on the flight home, but Rose let him sulk, knowing it would pass. And it did pass, for by the time they reached the house on Waverly Lane he was laughing at the frivolity of the request he had made back in the hotel room. Mother Scudder was awaiting them, and while Rose paid the nurse, Branch began telling the old lady stories of the city and the old lady almost wept because, after all, they were her family come back to her and, besides, the nurse frowned on casino. When Branch gave her the decks of playing cards she did weep, saying, “Oh, you shouldn’t have, not for me,” but the tears stopped at the wonder of washable kings and queens, and she could only shake her head, repeating “Just imagine—washable; just imagine” until it was bedtime. Rose watched as her son kissed his grandmother, happily waiting her own good-night kiss, and after his lips touched her cheeks he whispered, “It really is good to be home,” so Rose had no trouble besting sleep that night. In the week that followed Branch worked harder than ever at the office, and in spite of the fact that she did not much believe in compliments, she found herself praising him to his face, his efforts were that rewarding. He shrugged at her words, barely smiling, but she knew he was pleased. On Friday of that week he sold a sixty-five-thousand-dollar house not far from where they lived on Waverly Lane. It was by far his biggest sale, and she was worried that he might somehow botch it through inexperience, almost taking over the transaction herself, but she didn’t, and he pulled the sale off like a veteran, so that night in celebration she took him to dinner at Etienne’s and from there to the Hotel Cleveland, where they danced, finally returning home well after midnight with the taste of champagne still strong on their lips. The weather turned hot the following week, but the office was air-conditioned and since they spent most of their time there they didn’t mind the heat. Branch was happy and Rose herself could never remember a sweeter time, and it was probably that unusual buoyancy of spirit that accounted for the sudden cry that escaped her when, after sleeping late Sunday morning, she found, on looking out her bedroom window, her son clad in a navy-blue bathing suit, tanning his trim body on the back lawn, lying flat on the grass, one hand outstretched.

And lying beside him, holding that hand, was Annie Withers.

Rose deserted the window, but too late, for Branch’s head jerked up at the cry, and though she was gone before his eyes could make positive identification, still, she knew an appearance was called for. So she dressed hurriedly, exchanging her room for the kitchen, heating some coffee, downing two cups before Branch entered, smiling.

“We’ve got a visitor,” Rose said, smiling back.

“That we have.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“I knew you’d be pleased.”

“Did you know she was coming?”

“I thought I’d surprise you.”

“What happened to her job? I thought you told me she was working at a theater.”

“She is.”

“Oh?”

“The theater’s near Cleveland.”

“Oh.”

“Isn’t that marvelous, Rosie?”

“That’s just wonderful.”

Branch beamed.

“We’ll be seeing lots of her, I hope.” Rosie waited.

“Lots of her.”

“Wonderful,” Rose said with a smile, and still smiling, arms stretched wide, she rushed to the lawn, hugging the slender visitor, accompanying the embrace with sounds of joy.

In the weeks that followed she really did not see “lots” of Annie; it just seemed that way. Once each week she and Branch would drive to the summer tent and watch Annie prancing as a nurse in
South Pacific
, then Annie as a townswoman in
High Button Shoes
. Sundays, Branch would bring her to West Ridge for the day. That was all. Twice a week. But the musicals came to be almost as dreaded as an opera in Italian, and in order to lessen the ordeal of the Sabbath Rose took to going to church. (The minister was long-winded, good for at least an hour each Sunday, and she blessed him for his dreary harangues.) Annie twice a week. But it wasn’t the amount of time that deprived Rose of sleep; it was the way Annie and Branch acted when they were together.

Always touching each other.

Hand-holding Rose could ignore, but it seemed that whenever she entered a room in her house they would be starting a kiss, or ending one or, worse, in the very act. They kissed in the living room, they kissed on the porch. They wrestled on the lawn, in plain view of neighbors, laughing and kicking, skin touching skin. Right in front of the neighbors! Their attraction was understandable enough. Branch was certainly handsome and some might consider Annie pretty. But it wasn’t decent. It simply was not decent. Not decent at all.

In bed, alone, Rose tossed.

One day—it was the second week of a blazing July—Branch walked over and sat on her desk and said, “Mother?” There was nothing unusual in the action, but the tone he used made her instantly wary.

“Yes, baby?”

“Could I talk to you?”

“Could you talk to me?”

Branch nodded.

Rose sat very still.

“It’s about the business.”

“Go on.”

“Well ... How good is it?”

“Good? What do you mean, good?”

“I mean, well ... from a long-range point of view, what do you think? I mean, is the town going to grow the way it has been or do you think maybe the peak is over or what do you think?”

“What are you talking about, Branch?”

“Can I make a living? A good living?”

“I don’t see you starving.”

“Well, yeah, of course, that’s true, but ... uh ... I mean, I don’t have many expenses ... now ... I mean, I’m living at home, of course, and ... uh ... there’s just me for me to support and ... well ... I was just wondering.” Rose watched as he got off her desk and moved quickly to his own, sitting down, staring out the window.

“Branch?”

“Yes, Mother?”

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Have we ever kept secrets from each other?”

“Then why did you ask about the business?”

Embarrassed, her son looked away. “No reason.”

That night, Rose took a Seconal.

The following Sunday morning, on her return from church, Rose strolled onto the porch to find the young couple lying embraced on the couch. The kiss she was almost used to, but the way her son’s hands roamed the girl’s body shocked her. They broke when her presence dawned, both of them blushing, and Rose ignored the whole thing as well as she could. But she could not ignore, during the following strained conversation, the fact that though they were talking to her, they were looking directly at each other, always at each other. Lunch was salmon salad, ordinarily one of Rose’s favorites.

But not today.

Late that evening Rose was playing casino with Mother Scudder when Branch returned from having taken Annie home. There were traces of red on his mouth and she tried not to look while he removed them, turning his back as he did it so she wouldn’t suspect. He watched them play a hand or two, then quietly went upstairs. Rose endured the cards and Mother’s prattling for a decent amount of time, then called a halt to the game. “You’re tired, Mother.”

“I am?”

“You were yawning.”

“I was?”

“Yes.”

This time the old woman did yawn. “We’d better stop, if you don’t mind.”

“If you like.”

“I’m very tired,” Mother Scudder said. “I better go to sleep.” Rose escorted her to her room, saw her to bed, then went to her own room and put on a nightgown and a robe before journeying down the hall to her son.

“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.