As Far as You Can Go (31 page)

“Jesus Christ,” said Harold.

“It was Pete,” said Chuck. “I just know it was Pete. Pete and his gang. They did that to him because he kept on with Lou. I told Eddie not to hang around there any more, but he would keep going back to see her. It was the meanest thing——” He stopped.

Harold went and refilled their glasses, stronger this time. He was appalled.

Chuck was sitting in his chair, tears streaming down his face, when he came back with the drinks.

“You know what, Harold? You know what I did, when I left that place? I went down to the crash, I went to see what was there. It was right by the side of the Freeway, the mess. The cars had leaped over the fence and were halfway down the bank. I guess that’s Sawtelle Boulevard, the street that runs along next to the Freeway there. The six kids had been in an old Chevvy. The cars were about a hundred feet apart. They must have crashed head on. I guess it was then I knew Eddie had done it on purpose.”

“Yes,” said Harold. “He wouldn’t see much point in living after he’d lost his balls, would he?”

“But he was wrong,” said Chuck, looking up, the tears silently falling, not affecting his voice at all, just falling and falling, “I didn’t love him for his balls, for Christ’s sake. He knew that. It wouldn’t have mattered to me.”

“Were you and Eddie very close?” said Harold.

“I loved him, was all,” said Chuck. “He didn’t love
anyone
, I guess. But he always came back to me. He’d be gone six months, a year, then one day he’d be back. I cooked for him, and I gave him what money I had. There’s good money being a waiter here. We could have lived real well, if he’d’ve ever done a stroke of work. But he wouldn’t work. I didn’t care. I was glad to work for him. I’d’ve done anything for him. But he never stayed home for long. He was always off, chasing some chick, or some kid, then he’d be back again for a while, then off again. I didn’t like it, but I put up with it. I’d’ve put up with more, a lot more. I loved the guy, was all. And if he ever came near to loving anyone himself, I guess it was me.”

Harold wondered how many people there were, in how many parts of the world, how many girls, how many men, who felt the same. He said, “He did say something about you once, about how he woke up one morning and felt he’d like to wake up every morning with you beside him. But that made him feel he was getting old. I don’t think he liked the thought of getting old.”

“You’re not kidding,” said Chuck. “Gee, I’m sorry to be telling you all this. You want to get to bed. Do you have a handkerchief? I feel I could use one.”

While Harold was getting the handkerchief he remembered the poem. He took it out of the drawer where he had placed it and brought it with him into the sitting-room.

“Here you are,” he said, handing Chuck the handkerchief.

Chuck blew his nose and wiped his face and said, “Thanks.”

“Chuck, you know that poem Eddie wrote about the Watts Towers? You said you’d read it.”

“Yeah, I know it.”

“Eddie gave it to me this morning when we were out there. He said he meant to give it to you, but since I’d liked it, he
gave it to me instead. But I think it was really for you, if it was for anyone. Why don’t you take it?”

Chuck took the sheets of paper and began to read the poem, then he stopped and handed them back to Harold.

“You keep it,” he said. “I don’t need any poem. I guess if he’d really wanted me to have it, he’d have given it me. But he gave it to you, so you keep it.”

“I’d rather you took it,” said Harold.

“I’d rather you kept it,” said Chuck. “It’s no use me
pretending
he liked me more than he liked anyone else. I was useful to him, was all. I fed him and bought him clothes. He liked me, sure. But he didn’t love anyone. I wouldn’t want the poem unless he really wanted me to have it. He showed it to me. I read it. I thought it was kind of good. I don’t understand about poems. I guess if he really meant it for me, he’d have given it me then. Perhaps he thought you
understood
about them, that’s why he gave it you.”

“Perhaps. I don’t think so.”

“It doesn’t matter. You keep it.”

“All right.”

“I guess I ought to go. Do I look terrible?”

“Not too good. Stay a while. Finish your drink.”

“O.K. Not long, though. I’m on duty. I just thought you’d like to know. And I had to tell someone. Eddie liked you.”

“Is there anything I can do? Do you have enough money for a funeral and things?”

“Sure, I have money. But Eddie didn’t like funerals. I guess I’ll have him cremated or something.”

“Does he have no family? He told me once, the first time I met him, that he had some kids.”

“No one he ever talked about. He did say he came from Bellingham, up in Washington. But I guess he didn’t like his family. He never went to see them that I know of. And kids—he had some, I guess. But their mothers won’t want to
know anything about him, good or bad. He didn’t like pregnant women. Or kids.”

“You know, Chuck, a friend of mine, in London, once said something about Eddie which was really rather good. He said he was a man who was against.”

“Yeah,” said Chuck. “That is good, kind of. Maybe I’ll have him cremated, and then I’ll put up a tombstone, no name or nothing, just that: The Man Who Was Against. Eddie would’ve liked that. He’d’ve liked that a lot. That’s a great idea. I’ll do that.”

“Are you sure I can’t do anything for you?”

“You know what?” said Chuck. “I’d kind of like to go and see those Towers he wrote about. I never went. He always used to go off by himself, and then he’d come back and talk to me about it. He never knew about the Towers till three or four months ago. Every time he went to see them he came back and stayed home for a couple of days, working at that poem. It didn’t change much, though. It was the same at the beginning as it was at the end, I thought, I’d really like to go and take a look at them, see what it was excited him so much.

“I’ll take you there,” said Harold.

“I have a car,” said Chuck.

“Why did Eddie always steal cars, then? Couldn’t he have borrowed yours?”

“Sure he could; I guess he felt that would tie him to me. He didn’t like to feel tied to anyone. You know why he was always chasing girls? He didn’t really like girls. But that made it easy for him. He didn’t like them, so he could sleep with them and not care. But he used to find himself caring about the boys. He used to care about me. That’s why he’d go away. That’s why he never used my car. He didn’t like to care for anyone, it made him feel dependent. And he didn’t like that.”

“So Lou was just an evasion?”

“Sure. Lou and a hundred others. He must have slept with more people than anyone since Don Juan. He was always talking about Don Juan. He said he was never happy, Don Juan, that is.”

“I never heard him talk about that,” said Harold.

“Well, he didn’t talk about everything to everyone. He had so much to say he couldn’t do it. He wanted to, though.”

“And you didn’t mind, all this sleeping around?”

“No, I didn’t mind. That’s what makes me so mad now. I wouldn’t have cared about what Pete and the gang did to him. It wouldn’t have mattered to me.”

“It wouldn’t have been the same Eddie, though,” said Harold.

“Ah,” said Chuck, “he wasn’t much of a lover.”

Harold looked at him in astonishment.

Chuck stood up and said, “I shouldn’t ever have said that. D’you think you can forget it?”

“I’ll try,” said Harold. But he wouldn’t be able to forget it, ever. It was too astonishing.

“I guess I’d better go now,” said Chuck. “I’m sorry I stayed so long. But maybe we’ll go out to these Towers together one of these days, O.K.?”

“Certainly,” said Harold. “Any day except tomorrow.”

“Right. And thanks. I just had to tell someone. And you knew Eddie. And Eddie liked you, he really did.” Chuck said it as though it was the highest of compliments, and Harold took it as such.

“I may be leaving soon, Chuck,” he said. “I’d like it if you were to drop by and talk any time you feel like it.”

“Thanks,” said Chuck. “I guess I’ll be all right now. Night duty’s kind of peaceful most of the time. I guess I’ll just sit around and think. I guess I’ll recover.”

“Good night, Chuck,” said Harold. He couldn’t say any of the conventional phrases of condolence. He felt he had shared Chuck’s sorrow and no phrase was wanted.

“Good night, Harold,” said Chuck. He went to the door. Then he said, “You know, that’s a real good idea for the headstone. Eddie would have liked that.”

Then he opened the door and went out.

D
IANE LOOKED VERY SMALL
and trim at the bus-stop, and as he drew up beside her he thought how extraordinary it was that he should have possessed that cool, trim body, have felt it yield to him, have, in the biblical sense, known it.

“I love you,” he said, as she got in.

“Hi,” she said.

“Is that all?”

“It’s a long way, honey. Let’s get started.”

It did take a long time to get out of Los Angeles, even speeding along the Santa Ana Freeway. At Anaheim he decided to take the inland, and slightly longer, route, through Corona.

“There’s no hurry, is there?” he said.

“It’d be nice if we got there for lunch,” she said.

“But we’ve never been in the country together,” he said.

“Let’s go the quick way,” she said.

“No,” said Harold, “let’s not. We’ll want to come back the quick way. It’s a matter of principle. One should never use the same route both ways.”

“I’d have thought you were pretty much a one-track man,” said Diane. “Once you’ve decided on a track, that is.”

“Not driving,” said Harold.

So they went the longer way, leaving the Santa Ana mountains on their right.

Diane was quiet this morning, Harold thought. He
wondered
if anything was wrong, and took her hand.

“Been thinking?” he said.

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking.”

“Well, what have you thought about?”

“About you and Grandma and everything. Harold, you couldn’t just settle here for a while, could you? I mean—well, it’s Grandma, really. I don’t see how I can leave her, not just walk out with you and say good-bye. Not after
everything
, I mean, I just can’t.”

“Have you been talking to her?”

“Yes. She was waiting for me last night. She just looked at me and said she knew what I’d been doing. God knows how. So I said it was none of her business. And she said, O.K., so it was none of her business, and she called me a whore, and——”

“The old bitch,” said Harold.

“But that wasn’t the worst, Harold, not really. I mean, she’s always calling me names. No, it was what she said later. How I was betraying her with you. How I was going to leave an old woman to fend for herself. How I had a duty to look after her—all that sort of stuff.”

“Corny,” said Harold. “To use a word of your own.”

“Oh, sure, it was corny. But the awful thing, Harold, the terrible thing, is that she’s right. And even if she wasn’t right, there’s something else. It takes two to make an affair, doesn’t it? And right, we’re having an affair. I like it, I like you, and sleeping with you, yesterday, that was great. I’ve not often been as happy as I’ve been with you these last couple of days, Harold. But I don’t love you. I mean, if love means putting one person above everything and everyone in the world—well, I don’t love you.”

Harold said nothing.

“So, that’s why I want you to stay. It’s all been too fast, Harold. Maybe I will love you. It could easily turn out that way. But at the moment, well, I’m not prepared to put you before Grandma. I like you a lot more than I like Grandma. But there are obligations you feel to your family, and you can’t ignore them on the off-chance you may fall in love.”

“Everyone should have the sensation of committing suicide,” said Harold.

“What?”

“It was something a man—Mr Dangerfield, actually—once said to me. He said you didn’t value life till you’ve done something for no reason except to see how far you can go. I never did make up my mind whether or not he was right.”

“That may be all right for a man,” said Diane. “Men like seeing how brave they are. There’s a part of every man that stays a child all his life. But women aren’t like that. Women are much more practical, whatever men may say. Women know what really matters—they’ll do anything to protect their family, rob and steal and murder. Because they see what really matters to
them.
Men spend a lot of time thinking about society, and how they stand in it. Oh, I don’t mean like how new is your car—that’s silly. I mean, they want to feel better than the other men at things which mean nothing to a woman. At being brave, for instance. Women don’t care about being brave.”

“I know,” said Harold. “And men are just little kids. Women have always said so. Don’t talk crap, Diane.”

“I’m not going to see what it feels like to commit suicide for you, Harold. That’s all.”

“But it wouldn’t be suicide. That’s ridiculous.”

“Oh, no? So I go off with you, and after a couple of years I know I don’t love you, and that I never did, and for the rest of my life I know I’ve made Grandma miserable for no reason at all. As well as myself.”

“So it was me against her all along, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And I’ve lost?”

“Yes.”

“So she’s beaten me twice. I’ve lost you, and I’ve lost the miniature. Right?”

“Yes.”

She stared straight ahead through the windshield. Her profile was set like stone.

Harold braked the car and started to turn round in the road.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going home,” he said.

“No you’re not,” said Diane. “Don’t be absurd, Harold.”

“Why should I stay?”

Her face was pale, but hard. “Look, Harold. You think it’s been easy, all this? Telling you this? Making up my mind? I’m not throwing you over, you know. I’m just being honest with you. Give me a couple of months—that’s all. You’ve asked too much of me. You think that because you slapped my face and slept with me, and I found I could enjoy making love, you think that because of that I’m yours. You don’t treat me as a human being. I’m just part of your life, like this car. Something you want to own—like the miniature.”

“That’s not true,” said Harold. “I love you, damn it. I think about you all the time. I dream about you. I feel restless whenever I’m not with you. Of course I want you. Of course love is jealous and possessive. What other kind of love do you want?”

“One that will make allowances for other people.”

“You mean one that will leave room for your grandmother to go on tyrannizing you and anyone you come in touch with. If I’m selfish, what is she?”

“She has a right to expect me to look after her. She has first claim on me. Being in love doesn’t cut you off from the rest of life. Because you have plenty of money and nothing to do, you think everything is easy. If you had a job to do, if you had to worry about food and the laundry, you might have some idea of what I’m talking about. You’re living in a very cosy vacuum, Harold Barlow.”

There was enough truth in it to make him both angry and slightly ashamed. He put the car back on the road and started driving towards San Diego again.

“I still don’t see why I should sit around waiting for you to make up your mind,” he said. “It’s so humiliating, for one thing, sitting at your feet like a dog asking to be taken for a walk.”

“I can’t offer you anything else,” she said.

They drove on in silence. Around them swelled the
country
, the mountains calm against the permanent blue sky, the wide valley stretching calmly before them. Harold felt curiously calm himself.

After a while he said, “I suppose I
am
mad. It has all been very quick, hasn’t it? Will you tell me honestly, Diane, whether you think I’m deceiving myself? Are you frightened that I may be just carried away, that I’ll forget all about you in the same time it’s taken to think I’m in love with you?”

“It’s possible,” she said. “I haven’t thought of that. I trust you a lot. I’ve been thinking about myself. It’s been lonely living with Grandma. And she can be a bitch. I know all that. But when no one else in the family cares—well, call it what you like, but we’re bound together. And it isn’t for ever. I feel I owe her my—attention, at least, for the
remainder
of her life. I don’t think I would ever be easy in my mind if I didn’t stay with her.”

“But it’s Uncle Henry that she loves.”

“Oh, sure. But you think he’s going to look after her? You think he’s going to devote himself to her?”

“I can understand your feelings in theory,” said Harold. “But in practice I find them hard to take. Your grandmother is so awful.”

“That’s family life,” said Diane, very simply. “You stick together, whatever happens, whether you love or hate. You break with your family, and you never get settled again. It’s too basic. It’s what’s wrong with your friend Eddie Jackson. Either you live like a human being, related to other human beings, or you wander, like an animal.”

He did not tell her about Eddie’s death. Its horror was
irrelevant, and the arbitrariness of his life, as well as of his death, was something he did not want to think about.
Besides
, Diane sounded plausible, and he didn’t want to give her more evidence for her case.

“You make it hard for me not to go home,” he said.

“I know that.”

“I know I’ve talked glibly about getting a job here. But I have to have a reason to stay, Diane. I’m not sure if you’re not just trying to postpone things, procrastinate. I don’t think you want to have to make up your mind. I don’t think you’ll ever let yourself fall in love with anyone while your
grandmother
is still alive.”

“Hey,” she said. “I’m the one that majored in psychology, remember. Listen, honey, I’m sorry. You don’t know how sorry I am. Maybe I do want to postpone things, maybe I don’t like having to make choices. But I’ve made one now, haven’t I? And there’s one thing. I’m being straight with you. I’m not trying to keep you on the hook. Would you rather I did?”

“No,” said Harold.

“Well, let’s go on as we’ve been. The next choice is yours.”

“It looks like it.”

“Well, take your time.”

“I can’t. My job is over. My money will stop coming in. I shall start having to worry about the laundry.” He trod on the accelerator with a sudden pang of hatred and despair, hatred for laundry and the thought of Craxton Street which it brought, despair that he would inevitably be back in the world of the kitchen sink again, whatever happened. “I think I hate laundry more than anything in the world,” he said.

“More than Grandma?” said Diane, lightly.

“Oh, yes, much more. Eddie was right about one thing. Things are worse than people. You can hate people and get some satisfaction from it. But hating things—you end up hating yourself.”

“O.K.,” she said. “Now can we try and pretend that nothing’s happened? I want you to like Mom, Harold.”

“I’ll try,” he said. “It’s getting harder every minute to forgive her for leaving you to the mercies of that old woman, though. But I’ll try.”

“I forgave her long ago,” said Diane. She gazed at the mountains. “She did what you said, Harold. She knows what it’s like to have committed suicide. She was married to my father. I can forgive her almost anything.”

They drove on through the calm dry country, past dry lakes, burnt-up grass, towns called Elsinore and Wildomar, then on to the main road, to Escondido. They talked little, but they sat close together, and Harold found himself content simply to be near, to be touching. Dangerfield had talked about living for the present. Well, he was doing that, he was certainly doing that.

San Diego was swelteringly hot. The Campanellas had been delighted to see them, and Tony, Diane’s stepfather, insisted on taking Harold out to Fort Rosecrans to see the view of the harbour with the naval dockyards, over to Coronado, with its magnificent and enormous old frame hotel. They stood on top of a cliff, and Harold wished he was at the bottom, swimming in the water, hiding from the sun beneath the swells. Diane had stayed with her mother to help with the kids and have a comfortable chat.

Tony was a swarthy laughing man, who looked as though he liked to eat and drink well and often. Two large hairy hands waved in the air, then settled on his paunch. They patted the paunch affectionately when they weren’t making gestures. He put an arm round Harold’s shoulders and said, “Hey, but it’s good up here. That stinking city, you can’t breathe there. But here,” and the free hand made a wide sweep of the harbour and ocean, “you can breathe.” He breathed in and out exaggeratedly two or three times, while Harold wondered at the expansion of his chest.

“You’re one lucky boy, Harold,” he said. He spoke with an absolutely American accent, but his grammar was
somehow
still immigrant. “Diane’s a swell girl. You’re a really lucky boy.”

“I’m just a good friend of Diane’s,” said Harold. “I may be going home to England soon.”

“You should stay,” said Tony. “This is a great country. What do you want to go home for?”

It was too complicated to say. Harold didn’t really know himself. It just seemed that there was no point in staying, that he had tried and failed to bend America to his wishes, that America was too strong for him, and made him feel inadequate, that he wasn’t up to it.

“I have my family,” he said, as though his family had anything to do with it.

“Ah, your family,” said Tony. “Well, it is a hard thing to leave your family. My father, when he came to the United States, he wished only to make some dough, then go home. But he died before he had made enough dough, and by that time I was an American kid. But I write still to my aunts and uncles and cousins in Regina, though I have never seen them. And I send them a little money when I can afford it. They send me photographs of all my relations that I have never seen.”

“I think that’s wonderful,” said Harold.

“It’s all right,” said Tony. “But will my children do the same? They cannot even speak Italian. When we go to an Italian restaurant, I have to translate the menu for them. They are Americans. My wife is an American. I am an American. It is only because of my father that I write still to Italy.”

“Well, it has to happen some time,” said Harold.

“That’s right,” said Tony, clapping him on the shoulder. “It does not take long to become an American. You could become one very soon. There is no difficulty with the quota
for the English. For the Italians, it is hard. You wait, wait, wait. And then you are allowed to enter the country. It was different when my father came here.”