Boys & Girls Together (74 page)

Jenny kissed him.

“Jenny kiss’d me,” Charley said. They started to walk. “Then I found out he was deaf. The book was autobiographical. His father was the, old man with the big nose. And he made himself deaf, Rudy did, to prove to his father how much he loved him. But I told you already he was crazy.”

“Boardman hated the book, I bet. That’s why you didn’t publish it.”

“No. Boardman liked it. You had to like it; it was that good. Boardman thought it might even sell—the characters were Jews and Jews like reading about themselves, Boardman thinks. ‘Jews buy books’ is the exact quote. He thought it might sell but I
knew
it would, and I knew everything was going to work out great for both Rudy and me, it couldn’t miss jumping straight from the slop pile to the best-seller lists. So we published it and you know what? It sold a big fat eleven hundred and six copies. I think I probably bought half of them. And then I found out that Betty Jane bought the other half. It got reviewed four places, little magazines, all favorably. It was just so sad, eleven hundred and six copies. I did O.K. out of it. Boardman liked me. I guess I more or less became his boy. Anyway, it got me off the slop pile and—” Charley whirled on the river—“eleven hundred and six son-of-a-bitching copies! Everything was going to work out so great—goddammit!”

“What’s wrong?”

“She shouldn’t have bought those copies! She shouldn’t have!”

“Charley—”

“She’ll never find out! Not about us. What you want to believe you believe!”

W
ELL, IT WAS A
blow, the rejection of
Autumn Wells
. Aaron didn’t bother trying to deny it. The whole thing could hardly have been worse. His pride was battered, his ego bloody, and for a while he had a little difficulty in getting back into the swing of things. But if wounds don’t heal, you die, and he had no intention of doing that, so he drifted around the city, letting the healing process take its own sweet time. He went to museums when he felt like it, and he window-shopped when he felt like it, but mostly he went to the movies.

He loved movies, always had. He knew who the stars were and the supporting players and sometimes the bit players and the writers of course, and occasionally he could come up with the cameraman or even the set designer. There were more than a dozen movies on 42nd Street going almost twenty-four hours a day, their programs changing constantly, and for Aaron 42nd Street was very close to heaven. He saw every Bogart revival, especially
Casablanca
. No one was as good as Bogart except Cary Grant, so he caught all of Cary’s films too and he saw
It Happened One Night
and Jimmy Cagney strutting through
Yankee Doodle Dandy
and James Mason dying through
Odd Man Out
and Joanie Crawford in
Mildred Pierce
, and
Gaslight
and
Gunga Din
and
Sergeant York
and
Tarzan and the Slave Girl
and
The Snake Pit
and
The Informer
and
San Francisco
and
Pittsburgh
and
Knute Rockne
,
All American
and
Scudda Hoo, Scudda Hay
and
Letter to Three Wives
and
All about Eve
and
Asphalt Jungle
and maybe a million more and sometimes, if he felt in the mood, he would wait around the theater lobbies for a little companionship and usually it didn’t mean too long a wait. He found quick companions from all over: a farmer from Indiana, a sailor from France and others, with varying occupations, from New Jersey and California and Nebraska and Italy and England and Paris, France, and San Juan, Puerto Rico, although that wasn’t much to brag about, and Portland, Des Moines, Denver, and then, one hot summer night, he found a big black jazz dancer from Harlem.

The dancer’s name was Walker. He was very muscular and wore a tight white tee shirt and tight white pants. And he swished. Every few steps he would accentuate the movement of his white-covered butt, and Aaron would laugh. It wasn’t funny, but Aaron laughed anyway, because he knew he was supposed to, because he knew Walker thought it was simply hysterically hilarious, and he couldn’t disappoint Walker. They moved through the summer heat, away from the lights of 42nd, moving west toward Walker’s car. Walker was telling a story about his mother and her man, and whenever he was his mother he would drop his voice as deep as he could and whenever he was her man he would swish, his white teeth gleaming in appreciation at Aaron’s laughter. Aaron hoped his laughing sounded convincing—Walker’s smile seemed to indicate that it did—but it was hard work, laughing at what was not remotely funny, smiling when you weren’t laughing, pleasing the swish; it was terribly hard work, for he loathed swishes, Aaron did, absolutely loathed them. (Why did he pick them then? What possible reason?) They swung down Eighth Avenue for several blocks, then west, Walker talking faster than before, his exaggerations even more crude. The air was growing increasingly muggy; a bolt of lightning struck down over New Jersey and after a moment they heard the distant sound of summer thunder. They began moving faster as the thunder died, hurrying along the empty street, crossing Ninth Avenue, heading toward Tenth.

It was then that Aaron had his
gestalt
.

He had first encountered that word years before in a psychology text. An experiment was done, involving a monkey, a chair and a banana. The banana was hung from the ceiling of a room, too high for the monkey to jump for. But, if the monkey set the chair under the banana, he could simply mount the chair and pluck the banana down. The monkey, however, not being possessed of much logic, would jump for the banana, and jump and jump, coming close, but never able quite to grab it. Then came the monkey’s
gestalt
. It happened invariably when the monkey saw the chair and the banana in a single visual line. Once that happened, the monkey picked up the chair, placed it under the banana, clambered up and devoured his prize. The two things that Aaron saw in a single visual line were not, of course, a chair and a banana; he saw Walker and a small children’s playground. The playground, which they were rapidly approaching, was very dark. And Walker—this is what provoked the gasp from Aaron—Walker, for just an instant, was not swishing. And so, Aaron’s
gestalt:
My God, my God, he’s going to roll me.

“Hey, man, what’s with you?”

“Nothing,” Aaron answered. He stopped to light a cigarette. “We’re not in a race, you know. Nobody says we have to run.”

“Gimme a butt.”

Aaron held the cigarettes out. His hands were trembling.

“Nervous in the service,” Walker said, holding Aaron’s hands steady, extracting a cigarette from the pack. “Light.” Aaron struck a match. Walker laughed. “Man, you need Miltown. Fast.” He lit his cigarette.

Then they started to walk. The playground was perhaps fifty yards away.

“So where was I?”

“Talking about your mother.”

“Man, I know that. But in what precise part of the narrative did I leave off?”

“You were at the part where ... where the guy was ... he was ...” Aaron knew. He knew exactly. But he couldn’t quite say it. The playground was thirty yards away.

Aaron stopped.

Walker flashed him a smile, threw an arm around his shoulder and nursed him step by step forward. Twenty-five yards. Now fifteen.

Aaron ducked loose. “My raincoat,” he said. “I ought to have my raincoat. I think I left it at the movies. No. It’s back at my place. It’s going to rain.”

“O.K., we’ll drive up to your place.”

“I don’t want to put you to all that trouble.”

“Sweetie, it’s no trouble.” And again the black arm wrapped itself around his thin shoulders. Aaron’s whole body was trembling by now and Walker felt it, for he flashed the smile again. “Relax now, hear? Walker’ll treat you nice and easy.”

I’ll report you, Aaron thought. Right to the police. If you even try and roll me I’ll report you. I’ll give them a description and you’ll go straight to jail, black boy. Walker Brown, six foot two, two hundred pounds, twenty-five, scar on left hand, scar on left cheek, jazz dancer, long hair, no mustache, black skin. I’ll give that to the police—

No.

He could not report it. Not to the police. Never. “What were you doing in that area, Mr. Fire? With a queer, Mr. Fire? You queer too, Mr. Fire? Sodomy’s illegal, Mr. Fire. Didn’t you know that, Mr. Fire?”

He could not report it. Not to the police. Not to anyone. If it happened, he was helpless. Nowhere to turn.

The playground lay just ahead of them now, narrow, black and deep.

“Nice and easy,” Walker soothed.

“Listen to me a second—”

“Nice and easy,” Walker said again, his arm tight around Aaron’s neck.

“Listen to me—”

“You talk too much.”

“Walker—”

“Too damn much.” Walker turned his strong body and led Aaron into the playground.

Aaron tried to laugh. “What’s this, a short cut?”

Walker said nothing.

“I don’t like playgrounds. Cut it out, Walker. Where’s your car?”

Aaron struggled now but Walker only led him deeper into the darkness, his big arm taut, the muscles bulging against Aaron’s skin.

“Dammit, let go!”

Walker let go.

“I’m telling you, Walker. You hear me? You better not do it.”

“Do what?” Walker said, and then he swung.

His hard fist landed high on Aaron’s cheek. Aaron could not remember having been hit like that before and he expected to tumble backward, like in the movies, falling over something, gracefully jumping to his feet, ready for battle. Bogart would have reacted that way. But this was different. Aaron didn’t tumble, didn’t fall. He simply grunted once and stepped backward one step. “Ow,” he said. “Ow,” and his hands raced to protect his swelling cheek.

Walker swung again, this time to the mouth.

Aaron tasted blood. His lip was gashed and it hurt, it hurt. He should be fighting back, he knew, hitting out with his own fists, but he didn’t know how, and his lip hurt as the blood burst loose. “I haven’t got any money,” Aaron whispered. “Just enough for the movies, that’s all.” His breath came in gasps and he wasn’t sure the words made any sense until he heard Walker whisper “You better,” and then another punch landed, doubling his pain.

The black fist collided with Aaron’s neck, slamming at the Adam’s apple, and Aaron dropped straight down to his knees. He knelt there, helpless, his long arms dangling until Walker hit him again, then again, punch after punch, bending Aaron over backward with their power. At last an elbow crashed against his cheek and Aaron sprawled full length on the hot pavement. He lay still, trying to breathe, trying to crawl, anything to stop the pain.

“Faggot!” Walker said. “Fuckin’ faggot!” and he punched down with his fist, hitting the bloody side of Aaron’s face, driving it brutally against the pavement.

After that, Aaron didn’t feel much.

Oh, he was aware. He was aware of Walker’s black hands as they scurried over his body, finding pockets, ripping out their contents; he was aware of Walker’s panting, of his whispered curses; he was aware of the final gratuitous kick that was probably aimed for his face but missed, skimming and scraping his ear, making it bleed. But he didn’t feel much. He just lay there. He never lost consciousness. There was no point in trying to move—not for a while. He could not command his brain sufficiently to order his limbs into action. Aaron lay stretched, without thought, without movement, lifeless, alive. Some time later he heard a sound that frightened him, an animal sound, a rhythmic gasping and it took him a while but he finally deduced he was hearing himself and that spurred him into action.

He moved his hand.

Not much, not far, simply from the back to the palm, flip-flop. The cost of the movement was enormous—motionless, he had forgotten the pain; now he remembered it—but it made him proud. See? I can move my hand. Flip-flop. Flip-flop. Hey, everybody, looka me. I can move my hand.

The rain, long promised, finally arrived after an endless prelude of thunder. A deadly bolt of lightning lit the night and then the first drops ticked down, gentle and soft—incongruous following such an introduction. The gentle drops stopped. Nothing. Then with a hiss the rain started, sheet after sheet, cold. Aaron licked the wet pavement with his tongue. The rain picked up tempo, drumming. Puddles began to form, filling the irregularities in the pavement. Aaron called for his right arm and after a moment it drew in under his body. He rested, letting the rain beat down. Then his left arm began to move, not stopping until it too was tucked beneath him. He rested. A bolt of lightning followed a clap of thunder and Aaron strained, pushing himself up on his elbows. Puddles were all around him now and as he looked down, another bolt of lightning exploded and for just an instant Aaron saw himself in water. And seeing, gaped in disbelief. You? Here? Like this? On the ground? At night? Crying in the rain?

Crying? Am I crying?

He was. Big boys didn’t, they weren’t supposed to, but there he was, a big boy crying, for the first time in ever so long, crying, filling the night with regret, and though he tried to stop—Aaron thrashing, thrashing in the rain—he could not, and at last his long body subsided, and he closed his eyes, and he gave himself up to his tears.

In the morning, shortly after dawn, two small boys entered the playground, bouncing a basketball back and forth between them. They were chattering, but when they saw the gaunt object lying stretched and still, they stopped, advancing on it slowly, standing over it, looking from it to each other, back and forth.

“Hey, mistuh,” the first boy said.

Aaron gazed at him.

“You O.K., mistuh?” the second boy said.

Aaron transferred his gaze.

“You bettah go home, mistuh,” the first boy said.

Aaron went home.

Aaron sat stiffly in the chair. At the desk, the doctor smiled at him—an encouraging smile. Aaron took out a cigarette and put it in the corner of his mouth but he had difficulty lighting it. Three matches were needed. “I’m nervous,” Aaron said.

Gunther nodded.