Boys & Girls Together (34 page)

“Do you love me?”

“I refuse to answer on the grounds—”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes—madly.”

“Get your own cigarettes.”

“I have got to be part masochist. That’s the only explanation.” She pushed herself out of the booth.

“Hey.” Walt took her hand tenderly.

“What hey?”

“Last night,” Walt whispered, looking in her eyes. “Last night, when I said ‘I love you, Blake,’ I wasn’t talking about William Blake.”

She smiled at him.

“I was talking about Francis Blake.”

She stopped smiling. “Who the hell is Francis Blake?”

“The Spanish Armada, fool. Fifteen eighty-eight. He saved England.”

“That was Drake. Francis Drake.”

“That’s what I said. Francis Blake. I have a speech impediment.”

“Whoever told you you were funny—”

“Yeah-yeah-yeah, a vast disservice.” He ducked as she swiped at the top of his head, starting to laugh, the laugh contracting into a smile as he watched her move down the aisle toward the cigarette machine. She moved well. About that there was no question. She wasn’t pretty, but she moved well. Why wasn’t she pretty? Walt shrugged. She had nice black hair and bright eyes and a straight nose and the mouth was fine, but she just wasn’t pretty. Not bad. Not remotely a dog. Just not pretty. Damn attractive, though. Her body was fine, slender yet full, but that wasn’t what made her attractive. Probably it was the way she moved. Walt nodded. Her movements were graceful yet, at the same time, almost awkward; her movements were sudden yet, at the same time, almost languid; her movements were ... Face it, Walt thought, she’s sexy. That’s all. She is a sexy girl. Of course, her name was terrible. Blake Simmons. How phony can you get? But she was smart as hell and sexy every inch of the way. Walt remembered Christmas vacation when she had visited him in St. Louis and how his brother Arnold had watched her when she walked. Walt had seen it, Arnold’s lust, and once, when P.T. was watching her, Walt thought momentarily that even his father had a couple of ideas of his own.

As she reached the cigarette machine she glanced back at him and stuck out her tongue. Walt smiled. A moment later she was intently studying the selections in the machine, one eye closed. She always did that, closed one eye, her left, whenever she was faced with a decision. In the beginning he had teased her about it, but only when they were alone. That was one of the big differences between them: she had no feelings whatever about embarrassing him in public, and when she attacked she was merciless. If it developed into a fight, then fine; she loved public combat. Private brawls, too. Fighting in general was all right with her. Walt wished she were calmer, wished she could relax, but whenever he broached the subject she shut him up quick. She was good at that. Quick and flip and always alert for openings. But never, never dull.

Blake started back down the aisle toward him. In her own way she was a good girl, as good as he was ever going to find. Bitchy, sure, and smug, at least on occasion, and spoiled, she was that, too. But just the same he was going to marry her. He had decided that morning that he was going to propose to her that evening, and it was evening now. Walt dried his hands on his gray flannels. She was a great girl, Blake Simmons, phony name or no phony name, and if he got her he was lucky, so there was no reason for his hands to start perspiring on him. No; that wasn’t totally true. There was one reason. Small, but still a reason. He was not remotely sure that he loved her. He thought he did. He hoped he did. But he was not remotely sure. And that uncertainty gave him more than pause from time to time.

“Your name,” Walt said as she sat down, “stinks.”

“Egbert Kirkaby don’t ring bells, buddy.”

“You are smug, bitchy and spoiled.”

“You’re absolutely right. I’m a typical American girl. I also hate cooking, dread having children, intend cheating on my husband and own my own diaphragm. What else do you want to know?”

“Why do you talk like that? You don’t own one of those things.”

“It would rock your foundations if I did, wouldn’t it, buddy? Here, gimme,” and she grabbed his open hand. “Very interesting,” she said, studying his palm. “Your name is Walt Kirkaby and you wear glasses. You’re a senior in college and getting duller every day. By the time you’re thirty you’ll think golf is the nuts, followed only slightly by gin rummy. By the time you’re forty you’ll be potbellied and you’ll talk like Casanova in the men’s locker room but you’ll still be scared green every time you drop in the hay with a female.”

Walt tried to pull his hand away.

Blake held tight. “And she won’t always be your wife, this female. Your second wife, I should say, because you’ll be on your second wife and your third kid by then, and your second wife won’t be any better than the first one was, because you never wanted a woman in the first place, you wanted a servant, someone to darn—”

“Cut it.”

“So you’ll get divorced and marry someone absolutely totally one hundred percent different except she’ll be exactly the same only you won’t know it until it’s too late and by that time you’ll have figured out that all you really wanted all your life was to bed down with your mommy—”

“I said cut it,” Walt began, and he was about to say more, a lot more, but when she suddenly lowered her head, eyes closed, and kissed his palm again and again he could only stare, then blink, then quickly, quickly, look away.

At 11:31 that evening, Walt proposed. The rain had stopped and they were hurrying through the cold to Blake’s dorm, after spending several hours whispering in the library, discussing the revue. After the library came a cup of coffee in the snack bar, and following that, on the way to Harkness, Walt looked at his watch, nodded and said it.

“Will you marry me?”

“What’s the punch line?”

“Huh?”

“Well, obviously that’s a joke. I just wondered what the punch line was.”

Walt stopped. “It so happens, bright eyes, that I meant what I said.”

Blake kept on walking. “Why in the world should I marry you?”

“Because,” Walt began, running after her, “because you are without question a dog and nobody else is ever going to ask you.”

“That may well be, buddy, but
you
? I mean,
you
? I mean, have you taken a peek in the mirror lately?”

“It so happens,” Walt shouted, hurrying alongside, “it so happens—slow down, dammit—happens that I am one helluva neat guy.”

“Your glasses are fogging up,” Blake said.

“Right in the kisser if you’re not careful, buddy old buddy.” He shook a fist in front of her.

“I am literally freezing,” Blake said. “Let’s run.”

Walt grabbed her. “What about it?”

“What about what?”

“Getting married.”

“Oh, that.”

“I’ll kill you so help me. I’ll kill you.”

Blake started running.

Walt overtook her and grabbed her from behind and they stumbled off the path against a tree. “Marry me!”

“I can’t. I’m really a boy. See, I went to Sweden last summer and I had this operation and—” She broke loose and started running again. “Besides,” she shouted over her shoulder, “I’m already married.”

“You’re really gonna get it now,” Walt yelled, chasing her down, grabbing her again, spinning her into his arms.

“I’m already married. I am, I am. And I will not commit bigamy. Dutch and I—”

“Dutch! Who’s Dutch?”

“Dutch Cleanser. He’s a nice Jewish boy.” She stepped down hard on Walt’s loafer and took off again.

“That hurt.”

“Tough.”

“See you tomorrow,” Walt called.

Blake stopped. “Aren’t you going to chase me?”

“No.”

Blake came back to him. “It’s no fun if you’re not going to chase me.” They started walking again. “Now what was it we were talking about?”

“I think it had to do with marriage.” Walt shrugged.

“Yes. That’s right. You were proposing.”

“I was?”

“I think so. I don’t know. Maybe I was proposing. Anyway, somebody was proposing, I’m quite sure of that.”

“Was I down on one knee?”

“No.”

“Then it couldn’t have been me. I always get down on one knee when I propose.”

“Well then I must have been the one, except I don’t understand why I should have been proposing to you. You’re such a meatball.”

“True.”

“Scrawny and pint-sized.”

“Five-eight. The national average.”

“I can’t think of anything salvageable about you. Except you do terrific imitations.”

Walt stopped.

“And I’ve always wanted to marry a man who did terrific imitations.”

Walt took her hand and started to run.

“Where are we going?”

“Someplace dark.” They raced across the street, Walt leading, and when they reached Peters Hall they dashed up the steps into the archway and Walt was about to embrace her when he heard another couple behind them, so he whirled and in his most menacing Sidney Greenstreet voice snarled, “You infants better get out of here unless you want trouble,” and, in the darkness, a girl gasped and suddenly the other couple was gone, running down the steps and away. “Freshmen,” Walt said, and then he groped for Blake in the darkness, found her, kissed her mouth. “Hey,” he whispered. “We’re engaged.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t say ‘yeah’ at a time like this. You’re verbal. Be verbal.”

“Well, you’ll do for a first husband. How’s that?”

Walt kissed her again, his hands fumbling with her raincoat, finally getting it unbuttoned. His fingers touched her cashmere sweater and he pressed down harder with his lips as his fingers crept under the sweater, starting the slow move up her firm body, something he had done only once before, in St. Louis, at Christmastime, and they were lying together on his bed, naked, touching each other, and if P.T. hadn’t suddenly called for him, sending them scampering wildly into their clothes, God knows what would have happened.

“Remove your hands from my bosom,” Blake said.

“Huh?”

“Your hands. Remove them.” She stood very still, her arms at her sides.

“We’re engaged. I’m entitled.”

“I don’t want you discovering I wear falsies until after everything has been officially announced.”

“I
know
you don’t wear falsies. I found out in St. Louis. Remember?”

“I borrowed those breasts for the occasion.”

“Blake—”

“If you do not remove your hands from my bosom by the count of three, I shall scream ‘rape.’ ”

“Willya please—”

“One—”

“Quit this now.”

“Two—”

“Blake, I’m your flan—”

“RAPE!”

Walt scurried down the steps, his hands in his pockets. After a moment he heard her following. Then she fell in step beside him.

“Hi,” Blake said.

“Nobody likes a smart-ass,” Walt told her. “Bear that in mind.”

“Sometimes I’m so cute and unbelievably adorably attractive I just can’t stand myself.”

“Yeah-yeah-yeah.”

“Mrs. Egbert Kirkaby. Ye gods.”

Walt kissed her. “Poetry.” He kissed her again. “Hey, you know what?”

“What?”

“Nobody mentioned love.”

“Clichés,” Blake said. “To hell with ’em.”

“Walt? You in there? It’s me.”

Walt lay in bed reading. “Door’s open,” he called, looking up as Branch Scudder, balding and pudgy, hurried in.

“Are you going to do it?” Branch asked. “Put on a revue?”

“I hope so; I’m gonna try.”

“Well ... uh ... what I wondered is could I help?”

“Gee, Branch, we’re doing it the same week as
Hamlet
. You stage-manage the Dramat. How can you do two shows at once?”

“Under certain conditions I would ... uh ... resign from the ... uh ... Dramat.”

“What conditions?”

“If you would let me ... uh ... puh ... produce your show.”

“It’s just gonna be a little revue, Branch, It’s nice of you, but I don’t think there’s that much to be done. I thought I’d produce it.”

“There are lots of little ... uh ... details and things.”

“I really think I can handle it, Branch.”

“Fine. Fine. Uh ... don’t tell anybody, please, I mentioned resigning from the Dramat, O.K.?”

“My heart is crossed.”

Branch took a step toward Walt and lowered his voice. “You should have played Hamlet,” he said. “That’s what I think anyway.” Then he was gone.

ANNOUNCING

DROP THE SOAP

A NEW REVUE

Written, Directed, Produced and Starring

Modest Walt Kirkaby

Since it is obvious that if you had talent you would not be at Oberlin, we are looking for YOU. We need no talents. We crave
NO TALENTS
. The success of our show depends 100% on

NO TALENTS

THEREFORE:
If you are tone deaf, sing in the show.

If you are clumsy, dance.

COME ONE

COME ALL

AUDITION’S MONDAY                        4 P.M.

Walt stared off into space. “I don’t get it,” he mumbled. “I put those signs up myself. Noon today. Ten signs. All over campus. I just don’t get it.” Sadly he shook his head.

“A Communist plot, do you think?” Blake said.

Walt ignored her. “I really worked on those signs. I thought they were great. If you’d seen those signs, wouldn’t
you
have auditioned?” He moved to the doorway and stared out through the drizzle at Tappan Square. The building was an old one-story affair, once the property of the Geology Department but unused for many years. The Dean himself had given Walt the key, on Walt’s promising that no duplicates would be made and that no “skulduggery”—the Dean’s word—would take place when the lights were out. “Nuts,” Walt said.

“It probably would have been a crummy revue,” Blake told him. “You can console yourself with that.”

“Sometimes you thrill me less than other times.”

Blake curtsied.

“Nuts,” Walt muttered again as he stared out at the rain.