Boys & Girls Together (96 page)

“Lesbians,” Branch said. “Jesus.”

“Sensational?”

“Go on.”

“Now he wants me to go on. Before he was all lip, but now he’s interested. Maybe I don’t feel like going on, Scudder. Get me a drink.”

Branch hurried up and got Aaron a drink.

Aaron took it and laughed.

“Shut up. Go on, go on.”

“
Curtain up on the three ladies sitting!
It’s weeks later. Doorbell rings. In comes the richie. Claire and the old lady leave Loretta alone with him. She tells him. She’s pregnant and he better do something and at first he’s stunned, then he starts to argue that not enough time has gone by and, besides that, is she sure she’s pregnant and is she sure it’s him because he’s a very careful fella and Loretta isn’t doing any too great when
in comes the cavalry
, Claire and the old lady, both spitting fire, and they roll over the richie like an avalanche and just before the blackout he mumbles that he’ll marry her. Lights up and they’re hot to trot to city hall. Loretta’s ready and so’s the old lady and the richie’s at his place getting ready too and Claire gets on stage alone and she picks up the phone and dials and then she says, in a crazy, strange voice, ‘She lies. She lies. It isn’t your baby.
It isn’t your baby!
’ ”

“God,” Branch said. “What a thing to do. Where’d you ever get—”

“I told you, I’m a writer, shut up. Because what happens now is the other two come in and sit down and wait. And wait. And the lights dim and then come up bright and then dim and time is passing, time is passing, and the richie hasn’t come and the mother keeps trying to joke it off but terrible things are beginning to show on her face and the lights keep dimming and getting bright and then finally a telegram comes from the richie and Loretta reads it out loud and it says that he’s never coming because it isn’t his baby and Loretta puts the wire down and says ‘I’m almost glad’ and the mother snaps, ‘Glad! Glad! You goddam whorechild!’ and she takes off in a frenzy, control gone, and Loretta just sits there and takes it because she’s too tired to move and the vituperation builds and builds and the mother goes out screaming that if Loretta’s there when she comes back she’ll kill her dead and invite the flies in for a feast and we black out for a second, but then we’re bright again and Loretta has a suitcase in her hand and is looking around like a little lost sheep when in comes old Clubfoot Claire, all packed too, and Loretta says ‘Where are you going?’ and Claire says ‘With you’ and Loretta says ‘Why?’ and Claire says ‘Because the child will need a father, love,’ and Loretta just gapes and Claire says ‘Come to me, love,’ and Loretta bolts for the door and her hand’s on the knob when Claire cries ‘
You’ll die out there alone!
’ Loretta freezes and Claire starts to talk in this crazy whisper about loneliness and how some people die of it and how Loretta’s one of those people, and it’s true, and Loretta just stands there while Claire goes on about being alone and pregnant in the city and slowly dying and then she talks about how strong her love is, and how long it’s lasted already and how it would always last, always, always, and finally she comes to a stop and just says one more word: ‘Well?’ Loretta stands there. She looks at Claire. She shakes her head. Then, almost as if she can’t control it, her hand goes out. She looks at the hand almost in disbelief. Claire reaches for that hand. Claire takes it. They turn toward each other, hands touching. They almost smile. They walk together out the door. Curtain.” Aaron emptied his glass. “Well?”

For a long time Branch was silent. Then he turned and walked away.

“Where you going?” Aaron said.

“To get someone off my back,” Branch said, picking up the phone, calling Ohio. “Rosie?” he said when she came on the line. “Rosie, it’s happened!”

“Branch?”

“That thing I told you that was on the fire? That terrific thing? Did I wake you? I had to—you had to know. It’s happened, Rosie. I’ve got a play. I’ve just read it and it’s absolutely fantastic.”

“You got a play?”

“Aren’t you excited?”

“Yes, yes, you know I am, you woke me is the thing. Who wrote it?”

“This young writer, Aaron Fire.”

“
Brilliant
young writer,” Aaron whispered.

“He’s brilliant,” Branch said.

“What’s it called?”

“It’s called ...” He put his hand over the receiver and whispered, “What’s the title?”

“Beats the shit out of me.” Aaron said.

“It’s more or less untitled at present,” Branch said to his mother.

“
Madonna with Child
,” Aaron said then.

“
Madonna with Child
,” Branch repeated.

“Sounds religious,” Rose said. “What’s it about?”

“The playwright says it’s about love, Mother.”

“What else?” Rosie said.

“What else?” Branch looked at Aaron.

“What else is there?” Aaron answered.

A
ARON WAS UP.

In the first place, it was a good party. He stood still in the center of the enormous living room and let the people swirl around him. The living room was in the Dakota, at 72nd and Central Park West. Aaron glanced out at the park and smiled. I am going to live in the Dakota, he decided. When I have sufficient
argent
, home will be here. He was reminded of the fiddler who only played one note on one string and, when asked why, replied, “Everybody else is looking for the right place; I’ve found it.” So the setting was perfect, the April night at least as fine, the women and the whisky beyond reproach, the women being bundled in either Bonwit’s, Bergdorf’s or Bendel’s, the whisky being Chivas Regal, Wild Turkey, Coates Plymouth Gin, plus some authentic imported Polish vodka if you felt the need for being “in.”

The girl he had been talking to said something, and Aaron, not listening, nodded and smiled. She was a religion major from Southern Methodist. University and totally pretty, if you could stand the Dallas accent. Her escort was somewhere across the room and that was fine with Aaron because he liked the way people looked at them, first at her, then at him, then at her again, then a farewell glance at him, usually accompanied by a shrug and a shake of the head.

I deserve her, you bastards, I’m pretty tonight too. “Do you find me ravishing?” he said to the girl.

“Pardon?” the girl said in three syllables.

“Just say yes.”

“Yes,” she said in two.

“How flawless your taste,” he told her. Of course, as he glanced around, he realized again that he was the only man at the party not in a suit, but that only reminded him of Princeton and his yellow corduroy. His trousers were pressed reasonably well and his shoes were shined (Branch had shined them) and his dark brown jacket was of the finest

633 tweed. The jacket thrilled him. It was his first Brooks Brothers item. Branch had got it for him. As a surprise gift. For finishing the play.

And that, of course, was the real reason for his mood. The play. Talking it aloud to Branch, winging it—that had been one thing. Writing it was a horse of a different et cetera, and now that it was done, now that his labors were completed, he could only smile. He had swept the stables clean, and brilliantly. The play, the first thing he had written in years, was the best thing he had written, ever.

Aaron was up.

“Are you an actor or a writer or what?” the girl asked him. “Everybody here seems to be one or the other.”

“Neither,” Aaron told her. Then he began to laugh.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Aaron said. “I was just thinking of this funny thing that happened to me back in rabbinical school.”

“You’re a
rabbi
?”

Aaron stuck a cigarette in the far corner of his mouth. “Reform,” he said.

“Good for you,” the girl said.

“I try not to think of it as being noble. A job is a job. May I get you a drink?”

She held up her glass. “It’s just ginger ale. I’m a Baptist.”

“Good for you,” Aaron said. “Excuse me.” He started for the bar. The room was crowded and he made his way slowly, pausing for a moment by the piano. The piano player, handsome but turning to flesh, was singing what must have been an original composition:

“Your touch

Is just too much

For such as I ...

“This party is a drag,” the girl sitting by the piano player said. She pointed to a fat balding figure lurking behind the curve of the piano. “That’s my boyfriend. He’s afraid to come out. He’s a worse drag than this party is.” The piano player nodded and went on singing:

“Your touch

In our small hutch

Would make me cry:

Heaven.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” a girl sportswriter wandering by said.

“The hell it doesn’t,” the piano player told her.

“A ‘hutch’ is a box or coop for confining a small animal. Why are you putting your sweetheart in a coop? It just doesn’t make any sense. That’s a lousy song.”

“You know what you can do, dontcha?” the piano player said.

“Sticks and stones,” the girl sportswriter told him, walking away.

Aaron continued on to the bar. He held up his glass, said “Scotch” to the bartender, then waited, looking around. There must have been several hundred people in the various rooms, many of them with famous faces. Across from the bar half a dozen uniformed domestics were busily setting up a buffet of turkey and great slabs of roast beef and glazed ham and salvers of relishes and salads and bowls of fruit and melon balls and thick wedges of imported cheese. “My thanks,” Aaron said to the bartender, taking his filled glass.

“Don’t look now but I’m back,” the religion major said to him. She gestured to a corner. “That’s my escort. He’s talking about the Chicago Bears. Whenever he finds anybody who’ll talk about the Chicago Bears he completely ignores me.”

Aaron followed her gesture. “He’s got yellow teeth and he doesn’t look at who he’s talking to.”

The religion major nodded. “Sometimes I spend an entire evening just staring at the whites of his eyes. Otherwise, he’s very nice.” She glanced at the buffet. “My, my, will you look at that food.”

“Who’s giving this party?”

“Oh, somebody. My escort told me but I forget.”

“Lee Strasberg!” an aficionado of the Actors’ Studio was saying to the girl who had been sitting by the piano player. “Lee Strasberg is the most important single force in the American theater today.”

“What about Gadge?” the girl said.

“Gadge,” the aficionado said. “Gadge. Jesus, you might just as well say Josh, for crissakes.”

“Josh! Josh! Josh!” the girl said. “You’re a worse drag than my boyfriend.” She went back to the piano.

“Your touch

Makes me clutch

My heart ...

If you leave

I’ll be in dutch

With my heart ...

“Now you
know
what
happens
when you
drink martinis
,” the wife of a saxophone player said to her husband, smiling while she said it. “And
that’s
your
fourth
.”

“But it’s free booze,” the saxophone player said.

“All right,” his wife said. “All right. But let’s just not try for any sympathy in the morning. We’ve been warned, after all, so let’s just not beg for any back rubs or temple massages or along those lines.”

The saxophone player sighed. “Girls never understand about free booze,” he said.

“I’ll need no crutch

For your touch

Makes me strong ...

“You must get invited to a lot of parties, being a rabbi,” the religion major said.

Aaron smiled. “Hundreds.”

“You must like them, then.”

“I’m a very jovial rabbi,” he admitted. “I was voted that. Back at school. Most jovial. I was the gay blade of Hebrew Union College.”

“Oh, oh, oh,” the girl whispered, “will you just look.”

Aaron turned. A famous fifty-year-old action-movie star had just entered the room, a dazzling young girl on his arm.

“He’s handsomer even than in the movies, don’t you think? My mother’s crazy for him too. Oh, isn’t he virile-looking, though.”

Aaron smiled. “He’s a fag.”

“He is?”

“He is.”

“But he’s married.”

“Of course he’s married. It’s just a smoke screen. That only proves it.”

“It does?”

“It does.”

“But he’s been married three times.”

“That just shows how desperate he is.”

“But he’s all the time having affairs with beautiful young starlets.”

“Some men will go to any lengths to keep a secret.”

“They will?”

“They will.”

“But he loves big-game hunting.”

“Obviously.”

“You mean that proves it too?”

“Don’t you know about big-game hunters?”

“He used to play professional football, though.”

“Oh, you are young,” Aaron said.

“But he’s got
seven children
.”

Aaron smiled. “It’s such an obvious case of protesting too much. Who else but a fag would have seven children?”

The girl looked at him.

Aaron laughed, put his arm around her. “We have just sung our national anthem,” he said.

Branch walked by on his way to the bar. “Having any fun?”

“Getting any lovin’?” Aaron answered.

Branch laughed. “What a pretty jacket,” he said.

“A gift from an admirer.”

Branch nodded, smiled, continued on toward the bar.

For a moment Aaron watched him. They had not fought or even argued in weeks, since he’d finished the play. At first Scudder’s good humor was a little tough to take, but now he had come almost to enjoy it. Aaron fingered the soft tweed.

“It is a lovely jacket,” the girl said.

“My wife gave it to me,” Aaron explained.

“Oh, you’re—”

“Before she died,” Aaron said softly.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Yes, she died last week,” Aaron went on. “Horribly and—”

“
Last week?
”

“You’re wondering how I can be out like this tonight, aren’t you, laughing and drinking and smiling at the world? You’re wondering what possible reason I can have for gadding about with my wife barely chill in the ground.”