Boys & Girls Together (97 page)

“Well, if you must know, yes.”

Aaron was about to tell her when Branch screamed.

Branch had screamed once already that day.

Late afternoon, and he had been alone in the apartment. Aaron was off at some movie revival and along about half past five Branch had felt drowsy. He had taken off his shoes and sprawled across the bed and, in a moment, he was dreaming.

The dream he had had before.

All his life, it seemed.

He was a prisoner, standing helpless, great snakes knotted tight around his hands and feet. In front of him was his captor, a bloodless white maggot, bigger than the sun. The maggot was capable of unbelievable cruelties and there was, in all the universe, only one thing it feared.

The beautiful black prince.

Branch’s black prince. The beautiful black prince with the silver sword that could cut any body, any thing. And now, from halfway across the world, the black prince was coming. And the white maggot knew it and it knew that if it was ever going to have its victim it would have to move, fast, else the black prince would come with his silver sword.

The maggot began to move.

Branch struggled, but the snakes tightened their knots, tightened them until his hands and feet were blue and dying and nothing could loosen them except the silver sword and the maggot picked up speed, coming closer and closer, and its mouth seemed full of claws and the snakes cut into Branch’s skin and from halfway around the world the black prince was coming, the beautiful black prince was coming, but so was the white maggot, like the wind, and the maggot had never been this close before, and where was the black prince? The maggot was so close now than Branch could see it had a breast, two breasts, great hanging things, and its claw mouth opened and started coming down, covering his face, and then there was a
crack
! as the jaws snapped shut and his head was gone and Branch rose up from the bed, wet, wide-eyed and screaming. For a moment he stood trembling in the middle of his bedroom. Then he fell back on the bed, not daring to close his eyes.

The black prince had left him. The black prince was gone.

Branch was down.

“Your touch

In our small hutch

Would make me cry:

Heaven.”

Branch sipped his Polish vodka and looked at all the people. How pretty some of them were. Across the room Aaron had a lovely brunette in conversation, and although usually he, Branch, would have found tonight his element, now it was all he could do to smile whenever he thought Aaron might possibly be looking at him. He had to keep his feelings from Aaron. His true feelings.

Branch was down.

After twenty years his black prince was leaving him alone at the mercy of the white maggot. And Rose was scandalized by
Madonna with Child
. It was a mistake, sending her a copy, he knew it at the time, but she had to read it. If she was going to back it, the least he could do was let her read what she was backing. Of course, he had no intention of making her put up the money. He would certainly try to raise it elsewhere first. But lacking success, Rose would have to angel. And loathing the play the way she did ... Naturally he had argued with her, had told her what a lovely thing it was, Aaron’s
Madonna
.

Had, in other words, lied.

The play was wretched.

The January night that Aaron had outlined it, it seemed potentially fine. But on paper, on paper ...

“Your touch

Makes me clutch

My heart ...

Aaron was so proud of it too. That was one of the difficult things: Aaron actually thought it was
good
. Branch shook his head. Sooner or later he was going to have to send the play out, let people read it, try and get some money somehow. But so far Rose was the only one to have read it and Branch intended keeping things that way, for just as long as he could. He was not looking forward to any literary criticism, not about
Madonna with Child
. Of course, he knew he could always change his mind and pitch the project. Except if he did, Rose would drag him home forever. She would take two stubby fingers and pinch his ears and drag him across Pennsylvania to Ohio and—Branch suddenly wondered if Aaron might be looking at him.

Taking no chances, he smiled.

He grinned from ear to ear, cursing his cowardice. I loathe the public me, Branch thought. The private me, he’s not so bad; he’s sweet and gentle and I try to make him kind. He’s really all right. Not perfect, but decent enough. The public me, though, fawns and cringes and sometimes he stutters and I find him despicable. Letting the smile die, he quickly downed his Polish vodka.

“I’ll need no crutch

For your touch

Makes me strong ...

Branch moved to the window and stared unblinking out at Central Park.

“Archie, hi.”

“Hello there, Betty Jane Fiske.”

Branch glanced at the man talking with the exceptionally pretty woman.

“Just get here?” the man said.

“Just.”

“Charley?”

“Hanging up coats.”

“Lemme getcha a drink.” They moved off.

I could just tell him right now, Branch thought. I could just say, “Aaron, it stinks” and then I could go call Rose and tell her the same thing and that I wasn’t coming home. I could do that. I could free myself. There would be no more snakes knotting at my wrists. I could be free of any and all maggots with great swaying breasts and jaws that go click! and I wouldn’t suffer so at the hands of that cruel skeleton. I could kill the public me! I could kill! I have that power! I have—

“Oh dear,” Branch said out loud.

His eyes were wet. With tears of despair.

It was sad but it was true, so it was funny. Here he thought grand murderous thoughts and all the while his eyes were filling with tiny tears and if Aaron saw them he would be altogether merciless. Branch got out his handkerchief and made a show of wiping his forehead. Then he turned, spotted Aaron, turned away and quickly dried his eyes. Then he wiped his forehead again, said, “It’s really hot in here,” out loud, and headed for the bar.

Aaron was muttering something about a national anthem, his arm around some girl’s shoulder.

“Having any fun?”

“Getting any lovin’?”

“What a pretty jacket,” and the words “A gift from an admirer” trailed after him as he continued on to the bar. Branch tried very hard not to think about the jacket. It had cost twice too much and he had bought it in desperation after he had finished reading
Madonna with Child
. He had bundled Aaron up and they had zoomed down in a taxi to Brooks and they had got the jacket and Aaron had worn it with such obvious pride that, as he paid for it, Branch almost managed to convince himself that buying it had been a good idea.

Why did you buy it, fool?

I was afraid. I was afraid.

Of what?

Of ...

Of what
?

“Vodka, please,” Branch said. The bartender filled his glass. Branch leaned down on his elbows and cupped his glass between his hands. Then he closed his eyes.

“Charley ...” It was the voice of the exceptionally pretty woman.

Branch opened his eyes.

“Charley, Rudy—over here.”

Branch glanced toward the two men. The one called Charley he ignored. The one called Rudy made him weak.

Branch screamed.

His black prince stood in the doorway.

Branch had the sense to drop his glass. It shattered. Then Aaron was beside him. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“You screamed. Why?”

“No reason.”

A crowd was growing around them. Aaron supported Branch as best he could but neither was Branch light nor Aaron strong. “Are you all right?”

“Lie ... down.”

“Help me, then.” Aaron draped Branch’s arm around his shoulder and started to move. The crowd was bigger now, everyone was watching, so Aaron said, “A little too much too fast, O.K.? Clear the way, huh? That’s right. Thank you,” and they moved from the bar down a wide hall into a bedroom filled with rented coat racks. Aaron shoved the racks aside and lowered Branch gently to the bed.

“Thank you,” Branch whispered.

“You going to be all right?”

“Fine.”

“Haven’t you any idea what happened?”

“Just ... got dizzy.”

“Well, Jesus, Scudder, you’re my producer; you can’t go folding up on me.”

Branch smiled, closed his eyes.

“Want me to stay with you?”

“No ... I’ll join you in a little ... don’t let me spoil the party ... just close the door ... and thank you, Aaron.”

“Take it easy,” Aaron said, closing the door behind him.

Alone, Branch waited a moment. Then he whirled off the bed, eyes bright, arms out, turning, turning, circling the room, dancing a wild dance. “Any way I can get it,” he replied.

Half hidden by a doorway, Branch held his breath and stared at the three people surrounding the boy with the hearing aid—an exceptionally pretty woman, a large handsome man, another man who looked a lot like Robert Mitchum. They were talking, the quartet, and Branch was very careful to look at only the other three. Then the black prince glanced away. Branch stared at him. The black prince glanced back. Branch looked away.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” Aaron said, coming up from behind.

“Yes.”

“You look flushed.”

Branch held up his glass. “Just water now. Too much drinking. I’m fine.”

Aaron nodded and started away, saying, “I think I’ll go bait the piano player.”

Branch resumed his vigil. The party was getting louder now as more and more people entered the enormous apartment. Still hidden, Branch stared as the deaf boy looked away, looked away as the deaf boy glanced in his direction. Then the exceptionally pretty woman smiled and excused herself and crossed out of sight. Branch followed her, watched as she entered the powder room, waited a few moments until she came out, fresh lipstick on her perfect mouth. “There you are,” Branch said then. “I’ve been wanting to apologize to you. I’m Branch Scudder.”

She looked at him.

Branch laughed. “I’m the one who practically fell apart on top of you back there by the bar. Too much drinking.” He held up his glass. “Just water now. Feel a lot better. I really owe you an apology, Mrs. ...”

“Betty Jane Fiske. I didn’t place you at first.”

“Mrs. Betty Jane Fiske. Isn’t this a marvelous apartment? I love the Dakota. You must let me show you the view.” He escorted her to a window. “I really do apologize, Mrs. Fiske.”

Betty Jane laughed. “You do it very nicely.”

“Thank you. Your husband, is he an actor? He looks perhaps like he might be one.”

Betty Jane laughed again. “No, he’s an editor. At Kingsway Publishers.”

“That’s wonderful. I do admire people ignoring their handicaps, if you’ll pardon my saying that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The last thing that happened before my scandalous exhibition of a little bit ago was you calling to those two men and I just
assumed
—he is deaf, your husband?”

“No; that’s Rudy Miller. He’s a writer friend of Charley’s.”

Branch smiled. “How silly of me. Well, then, how wonderful of Mr. Miller, ignoring
his
handicap, writing all those mysteries the way he does.”

“Rudy doesn’t write mysteries,” Betty Jane said. “He’s just written one book—”

“I’m just getting everything wrong tonight. I would have sworn—well, perhaps it’s because it’s such a common name, Miller.”

“Rudy’s R. V. Miller. V for Valentino. It’s really very easy to remember.”

“I’m just horrible with names,” Branch told her. “Would you believe me? I’ve forgotten it already.”

“ ... still, it must be fascinating, working with writers the way you do, Mr. Wesker. Would you like a slice of ham?”

“Call me Archie. Yeah, I’d like a hunk, thanks.” They moved slowly through the buffet line. “You’re Branch, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, I’ll tell you about writers, Branch. Basically—should I shovel you some turkey?”

“Please.”

“Basically, writers are the most ungrateful sons of bitches on the face of the earth. It’s the editor that makes the book, and you’d think just
once
a goddam writer would have the decency to admit it. Will you look at that roast beef? I’ll bust.”

“I think I’ll have some too.” Branch forked a slab of rare beef onto his plate, then one onto Archie’s. “I suppose once they make all that money and move into those big country houses—”

“They don’t all live like that, lemme tell you.”

“Where do they live, I wonder?”

“Depends. All over.”

“I think I’ll have to pass up the lobster. For example, are there any writers here? Where do they live? If you’ll take my ham, I can have some crabmeat.”

“Done. Sam Dunnaway lives at Eightieth and West End, Rudy Miller at Orchard off Rivington, Ed—hey, you’re spilling—”

“Sometimes I’m clumsy,” Branch told him.

“ ... basically, it has to do with sacrifices for your art,” Branch said as Charley gave his glass to the bartender. “And when I happened to be talking to your lovely wife earlier, and she happened to mention that you were an editor, well, I just had to talk to you.”

“My pleasure,” Charley said.

“Well, now, I’m a producer, and that’s sort of in the arts, and certainly your writers are artists, and you see, I think it’s best—until one is established—not to get married and have a family. It applies too many pressures. What do you think?”

“Don’t you think it depends on the individual?” Charley said.

“Well, for example, if a man is a writer, and he only has himself to support, he can write whatever he wants. If he has a wife and family, then there’s pressure. Terrible pressure. Are most of your writers married?”

“That’s kind of impossible to answer.”

“Then let’s take a specific. Your lovely wife mentioned that the deaf boy was a writer.”

“Rudy’s single,” Charley said.

“Is he engaged?” Branch said, too quickly.

Charley looked at him.

Branch laughed. “I mean, is he, for example—well, you see, to support my thesis—well, if someone were living with a young lady, that would be the same as ... being married; it would apply pressure and—”