Authors: William Goldman
Control (16 page)
“
What?
”
Charlotte stared at her husband, standing by the foot of her bed, clad in his robe and, she knew, little else.
“
And what is that paper in your hand?
”
Quickly she said,
“
I didn
’
t want to bother you about it but I
’
ve been in such a quandary.
”
“
Tell me.
”
“
I will,
”
Charlotte said, and she touched the side of her bed.
“
Here.
”
He sat where she indicated.
“
It
’
s
…
”
and then her words drained away.
“
What?
”
“
Don
’
t be upset with what I have to say.
”
She dropped the paper on her bed table.
“
Please. We
’
ll talk about it later. But not now.
”
She threw the sheets back and showed her naked body.
“
I want you too much now.
”
He took off his robe and she reached for him and he mounted, ready, and then there came two surprises: she was moist and he did not come too quickly. She began to rock her hips and he did not seem upset with her because he kissed her, which there often hadn
’
t been time for in the past, and when he did come, later, he cried out as he orgasmed, certainly a first. Then instead of putting on his robe and bidding her adieu, he lay alongside and stroked her body.
“
Now your quandary.
”
“
Quandary?
”
He pointed to the handwritten paper on the bed table.
She handed it to him, suggested he read it.
“
It
’
s a poem.
”
“
Read it and then we
’
ll talk.
”
“
I know nothing of poetry. I have no interest in poetry. I have never understood the gain involved in studying poetry.
”
“
Well I
’
m certainly no expert, Nelson, besides the obvious ones, the romantic ones, Shelley and the others. Byron and Keats and you know.
”
“
I
’
ve already told you I don
’
t know.
”
“
And I
’
ve already asked you please to give it your attention.
”
He did that then.
“
Here
’
s my quandary, Nelson—
”
“
—why are you fidgeting?—why are you nervous?—
”
“
—if you
’
ll
stop interrupting—
”
She pulled the sheet over her.
“
Touch me as you just were doing. I liked that.
”
“
If I
’
d known you liked it, I would have done it, I assure you, more frequently.
’’
“
Well, you know now and our future certainly lies ahead of us so we
’
ll have lots of touching then, won
’
t we?
”
She was talking too quickly, far too quickly, and she told herself to slow down. Everything depended on her slowing down.
“
Well, as I was on my way out the door earlier today, Theo practically pounced on me —he startled me, Nelson, he truly j
’
ave me
such
a surprise—
”
“
—why are you talking so fast? You
are
nervous.
”
“
Perhaps I am, it
’
s this quandary in which you find me.
”
“
A very long quandary it seems. And getting longer and longer.
”
“
I
’
m sorry. As I say, there Theo came pouncing with this paper in his hand. A poem he
’
d written, he said. I said how wonderful, we all knew of his poetic ambitions, but I had to get to Tiffany
’
s. Take this with you and read it please, he said. I asked why and this is what Theo said: Tm teaching the boys poetry now, they have good minds and I thought that, instead of teaching them a dead poet, what if I taught them a few of mine? Because they couldn
’
t very well ask Shelley what he meant in
“
Ozymandias
”
they could certainly ask
me
what
I
meant since
I
was right there in the room with them.
’”
He read the poem again, reached for his robe.
“
Anyway, to finish, Nelson—he didn
’
t want to vary from the curriculum without
our
knowing it. In other words, he was paid to help them with their schoolwork and since this was not their schoolwork, he wanted my approval. Or
our.
approval, I should say. He wanted us to say yes to the poem before he gave it to the boys.
”
Nelson Stewart put his feet on the floor, sat and rubbed his eyes.
“
It
’
s one of the worst things I
’
ve ever read,
”
he said finally.
“
Isn
’
t it, though,
”
Charlotte agreed.
“
One doesn
’
t have to be a professional garbage man to know refuse when he sees it. My God, Charlotte, the thing doesn
’
t even rhyme.
”
“
Now you see my quandary. How do I tell Theodore we don
’
t approve of his teaching this to the boys? How do I do it without offending him. Or what if he quits?
”
“
He
’
ll be leaving soon enough, I suspect,
”
W. Nelson Stewart said, standing now.
“
Oh? Has he given his notice?
”
“
I had planned on his departure at the end of the school year. But after ffe
”
-~ he slapped the back of his fingers against the poem—
”
well, no need to pitch the lad on the street, he is possibly a cousin and all. And certainly brilliant—
”
“
—the boys like him,
”
Charlotte said.
‘
They
’
ve each said that to me. Independently of the other.
”
“
He may not be all that beneficial to the boys, if you understand me.
”
Charlotte didn
’
t.
“
Well dear God look at these words:
‘
crimson petals
’
and
‘
fireflies
’
and sweet lilies folding up and do I have to go on?
”
Charlotte asked that he please do.
“
I would never accuse another without proof. I am not so constructed. But these are rather
feminine
words, don
’
t you think? Not exactly bursting with rugged vitality, wouldn
’
t you agree?
”
Charlotte wished he would reach his conclusion and said so.
“
I don
’
t think Theo is liable to marry a woman,
”
Nelson Stewart said, pausing ever so briefly after the word
marry.
“
And I don
’
t think I want him much around my boys.
”
He left the room then and no action was taken immediately. Because the next morning came the news of the sudden indisposition of his beloved Aunt Beth, which meant, of course, he had to
go
to Boston
…
It was a bitter February afternoon with winds that would scare a child. Charlotte stood in his bedroom, watching him pack. Nelson liked to pack himself. There was really precious little in this world Nelson didn
’
t prefer doing for himself. And this was to be a quick journey, one night, perhaps two. He packed lightly. In the event of trouble, he still had clothes at Aunt Beth
’
s place.
Closing the clasps, he picked up the leather bag, hurried down the stairs, Charlotte in pursuit. By the front door Theo waited, respectfully behind the boys. Nelson hugged his sons good-bye, only to discover they insisted on accompanying him outside
to
where his driver stood waiting.
Pleased with their decision, he opened the door, shooed them out, kissed Charlotte discreetly.
“
And don
’
t let me hear any sto
ries about you chasing after unattached ladies,
”
he said suddenly to Theo, and before the tutor could reply, Nelson went on:
“
You
’
ve got to watch your reputation as a womanizer, Theo.
”
With that and a laugh, he was out the door and gone.
Theo walked quietly up the stairs to the large window, watching the children accompany their father. The driver tried helping with the luggage, was quickly rebuffed, so he contented himself with opening the door. W. Nelson Stewart got inside.
“
What was that last about?
”
Theo wondered to Charlotte, as she moved close behind him.
“
Who can be certain with him?
”
Charlotte said.
And standing framed in the large second-story window, she wrapped her arms tight around Theo, and he struggled, told her sharply that the boys might see (and they did, they did, they saw their mother
’
s arms), but none of it mattered. Nothing he said mattered. Because they sent a message to each other quite past words. He told her she was worthy, she told him he was male, they were locked.
Like No Other Store in the World
No more than five minutes after triumphantly leaving Doyle Ackerman, smiling to herself but humming out loud, Edith entered Bloomingdale
’
s. The beatific feeling of revenge that filled her when she bid farewell to Doyle in the coffee shop had been replaced now by an urge toward creativity: Edith was trying her hand at a limerick:
There once was a Yalie named Ackerman
Who lured lots of girls to the sack—erman.
His eyes were quite bright.
His teeth were quite white.
But his brains were those of a Packer—man.
Horrible,
Edith decided as she wandered along the aisles. Not only did
“
sack—erman
”
stink, the word
“
Packer-man
”
wasn
’
t what she meant at all—she meant one who played for the Green Bay Packers. A goon. A
“
duhhhhh
”
type. Still, she consoled herself,
“
Ackerman
”
wasn
’
t the easiest word to limerick around with. Now if his name had been Doyle
Dane,
she could have made a last line out of Milne, a man of
“
Very Little
Brain
“
or along those lines, which though hardly Shakespearean was at least a step up the literary ladder.
It was a bit warm in the store so she took off her navy blue coat. She was wearing a frumpy dress from her old Peck and Peck days, beige with a little frilled collar. She tossed her coat over an arm and consoled herself still further with the thought that she was, after all, not a writer but a painter. Maybe not yet very good but with a chance. More than a chance, Sa
l
ly said, and Sally Levinson
was as tough a critic as any of them any day. Very good was in the bag, Sally said. The jury was out on the next rung though, according to Sally.
God, Edith thought, what an incredible thing it must be to give pleasure. To sweat at a canvas, to feel so helpless most of the time, so invincible on rare occasions; but then, years later, to have a stranger say, perhaps,
“
Oh yes, that
’
s a Mazursky, isn
’
t she wonderful.
”
She always thought of herself, when she thought of herself as a painter at all, as
“
Mazursky.
”
She hoped Phillip wouldn
’
t mind. A bunch of art critics would be studying a room of Mazurskys now. In the Museum of Modern Art on 53rd.
“
I would rate her with Cassatt
”
one of them would say.
“
Above Cassatt, certainly, but below O
’
Keeffe,
”
another would argue.
“
Ridiculous,
”
a third would say,
“
Below Cassatt but above O
’
Keeffe.
”
And then a fourth would say,
“
Does it matter? Must we rank greatness? Can
’
t we just say how blessed we are that they were born, Mazursky, Cassatt, and O
’
Keeffe?
’
Edith got out her list now, sighed at all the things the girls needed, then put the list quickly into her purse because there,
there
ahead of her Bloomingdale
’
s was selling cashmere scarves. Long cashmere scarves. On
sale.
Edith stopped by the cashmere counter. Revenge and a sale on the same day, I must be on the cusp of something.
She fingered a green scarf, because Phillip loved green with her reddish hair, and in truth it was a good color for her. But because of that, she kept buying greenies and never experimented.
“
May I have the muted brown one there, please,
”
Edith said to the shopgirl, and charged it, telling the girl not to bother wrapping it, she
’
d wear it home. Tossing the muted brown scarf loosely around her shoulders, she headed for the men
’
s shop, more specifically, the necktie department.
