Boys & Girls Together (33 page)

And what if he couldn’t perform?

He had heard stories about that. One concerned a Princeton boy who had pursued a Barnard girl for three years, always hoping, and then, then, the night she relented, that moment as she lay naked beside him,
he couldn’t perform
. Aaron sipped his water, put it down, picked up his drink, finished it off and ordered another. If he couldn’t perform, then Shelly might tell Tony and Tony might tell Hugh and Hugh wouldn’t tell but Tony might date other boys, Shelly too, and they would tell the other boys and then everyone would know and then everyone would laugh and I’m scared, Aaron thought. I’m just so scared.

What if I can’t?

What if I can’t?

Please, God.

As dinner went on, Aaron began telling tales about his mother, Charlotte Stories, most of them imaginary, and everyone laughed and Shelly was smiling at him almost all the time and he returned it, talking and laughing, and when dinner was done he excused himself and fled to the men’s room, where he carefully washed his face, taking his time, pressing cool water against his fevered skin.

“You really are shy around girls,” Hugh said, standing behind him, smiling. “One thing about you, Aaron, is you have absolutely no way with women.”

“You know how it is,” Aaron said casually.

“Just keep your hands off my date,” Hugh said. “I want to tell you that rarely have I met a creep so reeking with charm.”

“She does like me, doesn’t she?” Aaron said.

“No, she hates you.” Hugh slugged Aaron on the arm. “Creep.” Together they walked back to the girls, then made their way to Hugh’s eating club on Prospect. There was a dance that night, and Aaron watched as Hugh took Tony in his arms and danced away. Aaron paused, then took Shelly in his arms. He had learned to dance from his sister, who used him to practice with when no one else was available, and he danced well enough. Shelly’s body was heavy against his. Pressing. After one dance Aaron asked if they might sit, explaining about his legs, how they sometimes hurt. Shelly was immediately sympathetic, so they sat in a corner of the room, watching the others. Shelly was quite drunk and Aaron forced himself to listen as she explained that she really didn’t love her father because what he was was a no-good bastard and her mother wasn’t much more than that and she talked on and on and then Hugh was beside them, suggesting to Aaron that they take a little trip to Aaron’s house. Aaron stood. Slowly they climbed the hill from Prospect to Nassau Street, Hugh and Tony in front, Aaron and Shelly a few steps behind. Maybe his mother had come back early. Sometimes she did that. Once. Once she had done it. Perhaps tonight would be the second time. The lights would be on and she would be sitting in the living room, knitting something for Deborah’s child. A sweater or a pair of socks or—

The house was dark.

They walked inside. “Nobody’s home, I guess,” Aaron said. “How’s that for luck?”

They sat in the living room a while, talking. Aaron asked if anyone wanted a drink and Shelly said she wouldn’t mind a wee one, so he went to the kitchen and slowly made two highballs. When he returned they talked some more. Tony was all over Hugh now, running her hands along his body, kissing his neck. Then Hugh stood. “Excuse us a while,” he said. He and Tony disappeared into Deborah’s old room. The door closed.

“We’re all alone,” Shelly said.

Aaron made a smile. What if I can’t? What if I can’t?
Please
,
God
. “Drink O.K.?”

“Fine.”

Aaron took a long swallow. “I could use a little freshener,” he said, and he stood.

She drained the glass. “As long as you’re headed in that general direction ...”

Aaron went to the kitchen. Slowly he got out an ice tray. He reached for the bottle of whisky and poured the drinks.

Then Shelly was in the doorway. “I got lonesome,” she said.

“With you in a sec,” Aaron said, fiddling with a long spoon, trying to stir the highballs. He could feel her standing close behind him now, moving in. Her arms went around his chest. Aaron waited.

“You must swear never to let me get lonesome again,” Shelly said. “On your sacred word of honor. I’ll never release you until you do.”

“I swear,” Aaron whispered.

She relaxed her hold and he spun around, eyes closed, blindly reaching out for her, pulling her body in toward him. He kissed her brutally, holding the kiss for as long as he could before breaking it, burying his face in her neck, kissing her hair. He kissed her ear and then her cheek before attacking her mouth again. Her arms were tight around him and they battled with their tongues. This time she was the one who broke, throwing her head back, smiling up at him.

“Hey, lover,” Shelly said.

He smiled back at her and he rubbed his hands across her full body and he bit her neck but he felt nothing. No excitement, nothing at all, and he knew unless he could feel he would never be able to perform and he told himself that everything would be fine if he would just give himself time, time, but even in that moment he knew he had never been so frightened in his life, nor would he ever be again. But he was wrong. His fear was just beginning.

Because slowly, arms tight around him, she began to lead him to the bedroom.

She undressed in the dark and as she did he periodically attacked her body, caressing her breasts, her thighs, her gently rounded stomach. When she was naked he took off his clothes and then they embraced, standing by the bed. Aaron bit her lip and she winced, pulling back a moment before dragging him down on the sheets. Horizontal, the combat continued. Viciously, Aaron kissed her. Again and again he touched her breasts and fingered her soft thighs. Then, when he knew he was going to scream, he jammed his mouth down on hers and held it there until the scream died inside him.

“You’re pretty,” Aaron whispered then. Please, God. “You are. You’re so pretty. You’re pretty.” Please, God.

He felt nothing. Nothing. Aaron kissed her breasts. They felt like clay. In the darkness he could see her looking at him. In the darkness he could sense her starting to pull away. Ferociously Aaron attacked her, rolling across the bed, kicking and biting, groaning for her benefit, saying her name, “Shelly, Shelly,” over and over. Mechanically his hands journeyed along her body, and he continued whispering her name, louder, and he groaned and panted and sucked in air. But he felt nothing. Nothing. Nothing at—

Quite without warning he began to feel.

His eyes shut so tightly they hurt, Aaron shrieked as the excitement grew inside him, swelling like a blister, filling his body. He kissed lips—but in his mind, not her lips. He touched flesh—but in his mind, flesh other than hers.

Hugh!

It was Hugh he was touching. Hugh was beside him. Hugh was the one who was breathing his name. Aaron knelt over the other figure.

In rhythm, their bodies rocked.

“
OSRIC!” WALT SAID.
“Me play Osric? I auditioned to play Hamlet.” He turned to the girl at his side. “Say something.”

“Something,” Blake said.

“You’re a scream, you are. Maybe it’s a mistake, do you think it’s a mistake?” and he turned back to the bulletin board, turned faster than was necessary because although he thought he was probably too funny-looking to play the title role in the Oberlin College production
of Hamlet
, he had still worked very hard on the part and had given the best audition of his life, so he hoped he had a chance but now, the way things turned out, he was embarrassed and humiliated and afraid Blake might see. And if she did, he knew she would never be able to resist embarrassing him still further. Pushing his glasses up snug against the bridge of his nose with his left thumb, he squinted at the notice:

HAMLET
... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Dennis McBride

CLAUDIUS ... ... ... ... ...
Edward Neisser

The final listing, at the very bottom of the page, said:

OSRIC
... ... ... ...
Walt Kirgaby

An additional half page, tacked to the bottom, was filled entirely by Hilton’s curlicued signature:
B. Henry Hilton,
PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH.

“That lousy Hilton,” Walt murmured. “He even spelled my name wrong.”

“Come along, Osric,” Blake said, tugging at his arm. “Buy me a hamburger and a milk shake.”

Walt stayed where he was, staring at the bulletin board, shaking his head.

“Hey, you’re upset,” Blake said.

“Nope.”

“Yes, you are, you are too.”

“I’m
not
upset. It’s just that I’m a senior and this is my last play and Osric—well, let’s face it, Osric’s just about the smallest part in the play—I mean, Osric! He’s got about six stinkin’ lines. Six
lines
. Well, I just won’t play it, that’s all, I mean, who does Hilton think he’s dealing with, some freshman? I’m not remotely upset, but if you want to know the truth, when you audition to play Hamlet and get stuck with the smallest part in the play it’s a little bit upsetting, especially when you’ve played more leads than anybody else has over the last four years, isn’t that right? Who starred in
Charley’s Aunt
this fall?”

“That was a comedy, Egbert. You do comedy. Hamlet ain’t supposed to be funny. And now I want
two
hamburgers and a milk shake.”

“I mean, if you were casting
Hamlet
, would you have me play Osric?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, neither would I, so how come that crummy Hilton—”

“Personally, I think you’d make a great Ophelia.”

“Will you shut up, please?”

“Let’s be honest, you’re too young to play the Queen.”

“Y’know, whoever told you you were funny did us all a vast disservice.”

“I want two hamburgers and a milk shake and a plate of French fries.”

“I did one of those soliloquies for you. I wasn’t bad. I wasn’t. Say that.”

“That.”

“Why have I dated you all year?”

“I think you keep hoping I’ll put out.”

“C’mon,” Walt muttered and he started abruptly for the door.

Blake caught him. “Now don’t get mad.”

“I’m sorry, but I just don’t like that kind of talk. I must have told you at least fifty thousand times that I don’t happen to find it hilarious, so why do you keep doing it?”

“When you get angry it proves you care. It proves you love me.”

“Who said I loved you?”

“You did, buddy.”

“Will you quit with the ‘buddy’ business? I mean, we’ve all read Salinger. Most of us have managed to outgrow him.”

“Oh, ’fess up, secretly you think you’re Holden Caulfield. Ask me where the ducks go in the winter.”

“When did I say I loved you?”

“Last night. In front of the dorm. At precisely eleven fifty-two
P.M.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You said, ‘I love you, Blake.’ ”

“Oh,
now
I remember. Sure. I was talking about William Blake, the poet. I just love William Blake’s poetry. And you thought I was talking about
you
? Pardon me while I chuckle.”

She nipped his ear.

“Hey—”

“I told you I was hungry.”

Walt opened the door and held it while they adjusted their raincoats. Outside, the campus was intermittently visible through the gray afternoon drizzle. “What I’ll miss most about Oberlin is the climate,” Walt said, letting the door slam behind him. They hurried across campus toward the town. “I
should have played Hamlet
!” Walt shouted. “
I’m an actor
.”

Blake snickered. “My own little Dame May Whitty,” she said.

“What’s so crazy about it? I think it’s a terrific idea.” Walt banged his spoon against the tabletop for emphasis.

“Put on our own revue? Where’ll we get the material?”

“Write it. And what we can’t write, we’ll steal from Sid Caesar. I know about twenty sketches he and Coca’ve done that’d be great.” He leaned back in the booth, smiling. “And you know what else we’ll do? We’ll run it the same week as
Hamlet
. We’ll steal their audiences. Bankrupt the Dramat. Nobody casts me as Osric and gets away with it.”

“Revues have songs, buddy.”

“Well, you make up poems, don’t you? You play the piano, right? Aren’t you always blabbing about how creative you are? Write some songs.”

“I have never, in my entire life, blabbed.”

“Will you just write some songs, please? Better make them funny.”

“Aye, aye, sir, right away, sir, funny songs coming right up. Can we get Kazan to direct, do you think?”

“
I’ll
direct the show, if you don’t mind.”

“Ho-ho-ho.”

“Why do you always have to knock me? It so happens I am one helluva director.”

“You’ve never directed anything in your whole life.”

“I have too.”

“What?”

“Plenty of things.”

“Name one.”

“That’s not the point, don’t you see? The point is, I’ve always wanted to be a director. I’ve thought about it, I’ve read about it, I know I can do it.”

“I thought you were an actor.”

“Acting,” Walt said. “Who needs acting? As a matter of fact, if you want to know the truth, acting is a drag. It’s not creative. You can’t express yourself. All you do is spiel off something somebody else put down. But directing. That’s something. In the immortal words of Peter Lorre—”

“If you start with your imitations, I’ll throw up all over you.”

“You don’t like my imitations?”

“I loathe your imitations.”

“It so happens I do terrific imitations.”

“It so happens you think you do terrific imitations.”

“It so happens you are asking for a belt right in the snoot, sister.”

“It so happens I’m out of cigarettes.” She reached across the table for Walt’s pack.

Walt grabbed his cigarettes and put them in his pocket.

“Could I have one of your cigarettes?”

“Say please.”

“Could I please have one of your cigarettes?”

“No.”

“Will you get me a pack?”

“Will you give me the money?”

“Here,” and she slapped a quarter on the table.