Boys & Girls Together (61 page)

“When?”

“A little bit ago.”

“Nothing.”

“Come on. You were nervous. Why?”

“Oh, because.”

“Care to amplify that?”

“Well, because I hadn’t told you before and I thought you might be a little upset that I’d lied to you all this time.”

“A little upset? Listen: tell me you’re a leper, I might be a little upset. But tell me you got two million dollars, what the hell have I got to be upset about?”

“Nothing. But you are.”

“Where do they live, your folks? Fifth, Park, or both?” He looked at Connie. “That was supposed to be a joke.” He smiled.

She returned it. “Then you’re not mad.”

“I’ll tell you the absolute truth: it doesn’t bother me one way or the other.” They turned the corner and started walking toward the crosstown bus. A moment later a cab drove by.

Charley hailed it.

The Donaldson apartment, it turned out, was on neither Fifth nor Park but on Beekman Place, and as soon as he heard Connie giving the driver the address Charley began to prepare himself: the living room would be large and expensively furnished, the dining room too; there would perhaps be a large terrace with an unobstructed view of the East River; there would undoubtedly be servants. He thought on and on, because it was important that nothing come as a surprise because it didn’t matter that Connie (suddenly) had money because a janitor’s son could be just as civilized as anybody else.

But as soon as they walked through the front door Charley panicked. The Donaldsons’ foyer was bigger than his entire apartment. Charley hurried after Connie, but as they entered the living room he stopped. The room was filled with vases, great, elegant vases, and Charley knew he was so clumsy he was going to break one, and then he thought he had undergone all this before. At some other time, in some other place, he had stood, trembling in fear of breaking a great, elegant thing, and then he remembered what it was, and it was Prince Myshkin, Dostoevski’s poor idiot, who had trembled in fear, and Myshkin’s fear had come true, and Charley whispered “Connie!” and she stopped and came back to him and smiled as he took her hand.

The Donaldsons were waiting for them on the terrace. Charley made his way through the hellos, but in the ensuing pause he heard himself saying how nice and “unobstructed” the view was, and as he said it he knew he sounded like an ass, so he blushed and shut up, feeling like the fool of all the world until from somewhere he heard his father saying that you gotta not be ashamed, and for just a moment he felt hot tears behind his eyes, but he blinked them gone, and after that he was quite himself again.

He entered the conversation and, in a few moments, found himself leading it. He spoke quietly, easily, about nothing in particular: football, fashion, the war, the peace. He accepted a daiquiri when it was offered him, refused a second when that time came. A servant appeared and Mrs. Donaldson suggested they have brunch, so they all moved to the end of the terrace and sat down beneath a large striped umbrella. Charley stared out at the East River and thought about things. Brunch was simple—eggs and livers and bacon and toast and marmalade and champagne—and as he sipped his third glass Charley suddenly stopped and realized that it didn’t matter at all, Connie’s money, except that he could never, not in all his life, remember having had a nicer meal.

When brunch was done Charley was aware that the ladies seemed to be making excuses for leaving, and he wondered why, until he decided that the reason must be because it was time for the two of them to have a “talk,” Mr. Donaldson and he, except they really hadn’t anything to talk about. But by then Mr. Donaldson was talking.

“Connie’s in love with you.”

“How do you know?” Charley wished he had drunk less champagne. Or more.

“By your presence. You’re the first one she’s brought here. Like this. She’s rather ashamed of us, you know.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“Oh, she
likes
us well enough. We’re all really quite close. In our own way.”

Charley nodded and stared at the older man. Mr. Donaldson was probably fifty-five, but he looked a good ten years younger. His face was pleasant although at one time, years before, he was probably strikingly handsome.

“Actually,” Mr. Donaldson said, “I knew of Connie’s feelings a good deal before she brought you. She’s told us about you, of course. Everything, I imagine. In the most disgustingly praiseworthy way. I was quite prepared to loathe you on sight.” He smiled. “To my horror, I find you altogether likable.”

Charley nodded and he smiled back at Mr. Donaldson and then suddenly he stopped smiling, because he realized that the older man was waiting for him to say something. “You’re waiting for me to say something.”

“That’s correct.”

“Well now ... I mean, come on, Mr. Donaldson, aren’t we rushing things just a little?”

“No.”

“Why aren’t we?”

“Don’t you know what we’re really talking about?”

“I guess I don’t.”

“We’re not talking about you, Charley. Nor about Connie. We’re talking about money.”

Charley said nothing.

“You haven’t got much, have you? As a matter of fact, you haven’t any. Connie, on the other hand—”

“Mr. Donaldson, I don’t love your daughter.”

“That may not be as crucifyingly important as you think. You do like her?”

“Of course I do.”

“And she loves you. And I love her. Something ought to work out, don’t you think? There are no villains here.”

“No villains.”

“I’ll tell you something, Charley. Not only was I totally prepared to dislike you, which, alas, I don’t, but when you came in earlier I was petrified you were going to make an ass of yourself. Connie would have held that against me, you see. The money undid you, she’d say. It was my fault you were an ass and she’d only love you all the more. And you did make an ass of yourself for a moment.”

“Yes. Thank you for not letting on.”

“Good God, Charley, I’m a gentleman, I hope. What made you so nervous?”

Charley gestured toward the river, then the terrace, then back toward the splendor of the living room. “This,” he said.

“Now I don’t understand.”

“We’re talking of money, isn’t that right? Well, I didn’t know you were rich.”

Mr. Donaldson got up from the terrace table.

What is it? Charley thought. Why did he look at me like that? “You don’t believe me.”

“Of course I believe you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“All right, I don’t.”

Charley got up from the table and crossed the terrace. They stood side by side, staring down at the river. The sun was very strong. “It’s the truth,” Charley said.

“Connie told you you were coming to a tenement.”

“No. Of course not. But today was the first time she’d let on. I swear.”

“It’s really not worth this much discussion.”

“Yes it is. I don’t lie.”

“Which of us does?”

“Lots of people do. But I don’t.”

“Oh, Charley.”

“
I didn’t know
. I wouldn’t have gone out with her if I’d known.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“You know where. My class reunion.”

“And is she pretty, my Connie?” Yes.

“No. She really isn’t. I love her, but my eyes do not dazzle.”

“She’s attractive enough,” Charley said.

“Let’s hope so. And who was she with?”

“Timmy Brubaker.”

“That’s right. Now shall we add things up? Is it possible it never crossed your mind to ask why a not overly attractive girl should be at a function like a class reunion with a beautiful, socially ambitious young man like Timmy Brubaker?”

“Money,” Charley said.

“Of course, money.”

“I never thought it.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No,” Charley said. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Charley said. Then a moment later he heard himself say, “No.” And a moment after that: “I’m not sure.”

“Shall we go inside?” Mr. Donaldson said.

Charley followed him into the living room and they sat down amidst the vases.

“Mrs. Donaldson is vase happy,” Mr. Donaldson said. “One learns, eventually, to live with things.”

“I only meant I may have asked myself the question. But I didn’t know she was rich. Please believe that. I’m not after her money. If I were after her money, would I have told you I didn’t love her?”

“ ‘Get out of my house, you scheming son of a bitch!’ ”

Charley jumped up.

Mr. Donaldson laughed. “That was a quote, Charley. Sit back down ... Please.” And he waved his hand until Charley sat. “As I said, I was quoting something someone once said to me. My wife’s father, to be specific. On the moment of our first meeting. Mrs. Donaldson brought me to meet her father only after months of peaceful persuasion. The man thought me a fortune hunter. Me. Just because I was poor, he thought I was after his daughter’s money. But she persuaded him I wasn’t. And we met. Now this was a self-made man, Charley. He didn’t believe in amenities, like brunch. Out with it he came. I stepped through his front entrance and he looked at me and he screamed. ‘Get out of my house, you scheming son of a bitch!’ Poor man. He thought I didn’t love his daughter; he thought I wanted her money.” Mr. Donaldson lit a cigarette. “And, of course, he was right.”

Charley looked around.

“Relax,” Mr. Donaldson said. “This isn’t any secret, Charley. For God’s sake, if anything it’s an old family story. Mrs. Donaldson and I laugh about it from time to time. Does that surprise you?”

“Yes.”

“It shouldn’t. You see, we love each other very dearly. Have for over twenty-five years. We are devoted; we are inseparable. I married her for her money—I was, you must believe me, dashing in those days—and then to my absolute horror I fell, as the saying goes, in love. With my wife. Oh, it was terrible. I couldn’t admit it for days. Then I did, and that was that. We love each other, Mrs. Donaldson and I. We did then; we do now. Cigarette, Charley?”

“No, thank you.”

“You’re starting to squirm a little in that chair, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Oh, nonsense. I know what you’re thinking: ‘The old gasbag’s getting to the point.’ I like you, Charley, you know that? You have such a terrifyingly honest face.”

“Thank you, I guess.”

Mr. Donaldson put out his cigarette. “All right, Charley, what do you say?

“What does that mean?”

“Come, now.”

“What is this? You’re offering me your daughter—what kind of a thing is that?”

“I’m not offering anybody anything. I love my daughter. My daughter has indicated a preference—you—and I approve of her selection. I’m simply doing whatever I can to make her happy. You don’t have to love her, Charley; that’s what I’m trying to tell you. In time you will.”

“Maybe.”

“Take my word, Charley.”

“Look at this room. What am I doing in a room like this?”

“Just because she’s rich, don’t hold it against her.”

“I’m not.”

“I was like you at one time: trying to make a virtue out of poverty.”

“Listen,” Charley said, and he got out of the chair. “Listen, I liked brunch. I would like to say I didn’t, but I did. It’s nice having people wait on you. I like it.”

“And it scares you.”

“Yes.” He began to pace. “Damn right. Damn right.”

“Relax, Charley; you needn’t decide this instant.”

“I gotta not be ashamed, don’t you see? That’s the important thing. I gotta not marry somebody unless I love them because I always thought that when I got married I’d—you know—love my wife, and then you tell me I will and look at you, you’re happy, and it bothers me. I don’t know. Sometimes I do crazy things and it bothers me. I hit Timmy Brubaker. I never hit anybody but I hit him and I’ve got to love my wife and I don’t love Connie, but you say I will, and it bothers me because I think you’re right. I don’t know. I like it here. I like you. I don’t know. If I knew what to do I wouldn’t be walking around talking like I was crazy now, but I don’t. You see, I was poor, all my life, poor, and I really like Connie, and ...” He turned sharply to face Mr. Donaldson, and as he turned his hand hit a vase and the vase toppled and fell and Charley watched it shatter on the floor, listening as Mr. Donaldson said, “Forget it. Thank you for doing it. I’ve always loathed it. It’s insured.” But Charley, staring at the pieces, felt not one bit less clumsy and began shouting “Fool!”

“Princeton Junction; change for Princeton.” The conductor continued the chant, moving down the car. “Princeton Junction; change for Princeton.”

“Fool!” Charley said to the hero of
Does Your Detergent Taste Different Lately?
and he slammed the manuscript shut and stuffed it into his briefcase. “Fool for feeling shame.”

He got off the train and transferred, and when he got to Princeton he walked to the parking lot and got into his car. As he started to drive he felt loose and relaxed and free from whatever it was he had been feeling earlier, and he hardly thought of Jenny Devers at all until he got to his house and saw Betty Jane waiting on the sofa in the living room.

“Robby?” Charley said then, meaning their son.

“Upstairs asleep,” his wife answered.

Charley crossed to the sofa and she tilted her perfect face for a kiss, but he grabbed her thin shoulders with his big hands and lifted her to him and then they both fell back onto the couch and he engulfed her and she gasped beneath him and he was about to say “I love you, I love you” except he had always had a terrifyingly honest face, so he shut his mouth tight and let his body do the talking.

“Robby?”

“Upstairs asleep.”

Betty Jane looked at her husband’s face as he crossed toward her, and for just a moment she was afraid he was going to cry. She raised her head, but then he had her by her shoulders, and as he lifted her she wondered what in the world he had to cry about. He kissed her roughly, then lowered her back to the couch. Her arms clung to his neck. As he engulfed her, she could not help thinking, Oh, Charley, Charley, you’ve done something wrong.

A lot of funny things happened to Jenny that weekend. And she realized, as they were happening, that they were funny. But she didn’t smile.