Marjorie Morningstar (4 page)

The solitude did not have a good effect on either horse or rider. Marjorie stiffened.
Prince Charming, without a rear view of other horses to draw him on, seemed to lose
interest in his work. His trot slowed, became bumpy, and subsided into a walk. He
began to look here and there. Marjorie said in her fiercest voice, “You get going
now,” and spanked his neck with the reins. Prince Charming yawned. He wandered off
the path, stopped and contemplated a clump of yellow forsythia with the look of a
nature lover, and began to eat it. Tears of vexation came to Marjorie’s eyes. She
beat the horse’s neck with her fist.

She heard thudding hooves at about the same time Prince Charming did. The horse glanced
around, took one more wrench at the forsythia, and ambled back on to the path, chewing.
Sandy reined in, wheeled, and came beside her. “Having trouble?”

“Some.”

“Kick him.”

“I’ve kicked him.”

Sandy surveyed the horse, wrinkling his nose. “Never been out with this one before.
Mostly I think kids ride him. Here, try this.” He passed his tan leather riding crop
to Marjorie.

He should have noticed the terrible flattening of the animal’s ears, but he was too
busy looking at Marjorie’s flushed pretty face.

“Thanks,” Marjorie said. She flourished the crop and smacked it clumsily on the horse’s
flank. Prince Charming jumped, snorted, neighed; then he gathered himself up like
a fist, and bounded away in a wild gallop, throwing up a boil of black dust all around
Sandy.

After the first crazy moment of the bolt Marjorie found herself clinging to the saddle
with no idea of how she had managed to remain on the horse. The reins were dangling
free, she had lost her stirrups, and there she was, thundering along the path like
a jockey, with trees, grass, and other riders swimming by her in a greenish blur.
In a few seconds, hardly aware of what was happening, she overtook Vera, and one after
another she passed the rest of the party as though they were standing still. Dimly
she heard a shout from Jeff over the tattoo of Prince Charming��s hooves and the splatter
of flying dirt, “… rid of that goddamn
crop
! He’s crop-shy! Never…” But it meant nothing to her. She went drumming down a clear
track with the air whistling in her ears, pulling at her hair, bringing tears to her
eyes. Her hat was gone, of course. The stirrups thumped and clanked gaily against
the saddle girths. Marjorie noticed that, oddly enough, a maniacal gallop was the
easiest of all gaits to sit to. It was like resting in a gently rocking chair, except
for the noise of wind and hooves, and the quantities of scenery flying by. She was
aware of no fear at all, but rather a silly mildly surprised pleasure. A cold wind
on her teeth indicated that she was smiling. On the whole she was idiotically enjoying
the fast ride.

Prince Charming came to the reservoir, turned sharp right, and went galloping up the
curved path. At the moment that he turned he parted company with Marjorie, for she
continued travelling in a straight line, flying off his back, landing on the path,
rolling over and over through dirt and puddles, and coming to rest face down, sprawled
on sweet-smelling new grass. There she lay, hearing far-off peaceful traffic sounds.

All at once she was surrounded by stamping horses, and girls were screeching and men
were shouting and somebody gave her her hat, and a policeman was dismounting and taking
out a notebook.

Jeff and Sandy helped her to her feet and set about cleaning her off with handkerchiefs
and stray pieces of newspaper. She was smeared with mud and her jacket was ripped
at the elbows. One of her ankles was throbbing peculiarly inside the boot, but nothing
else seemed to be wrong with her. Exhilarated and quite gay at the center of the fuss,
she answered the policeman’s questions clearly and calmly. Jeff explained about Prince
Charming’s fear of crops. Sandy kept apologizing for not noticing the animal’s terror.
Marjorie said it was all her fault, she should have been able to control the horse
anyway. The policeman said he was damned if he knew why more damned Sunday riders
weren’t killed. He shut up his book and remounted his tremendous brown horse, adding
he was damned if he could see why people rode horses for pleasure at all, seeing that
saddles were damned uncomfortable, and all horses were damned idiots.

Meantime another policeman appeared leading Prince Charming by the bridle. The animal
was streaked black with sweat, and his head drooped meekly. Marjorie at once stepped
out of the chattering circle around her, took the reins from the policeman’s hands,
and with a limber spring that surprised herself got back into the saddle. Her ankle
gave her an angry twinge when she jumped.

“Hey,” said Jeff, staring at her and scratching his head. The others peered around
at her.

Marjorie said, “I’m all right. Let’s get going.”

“You sure, miss?” Jeff said. “Maybe we better get you a cab, call it a day.”

“Didn’t you ever fall off a horse?”

“Forty times, miss, but—”

“Well, you’re still in one piece. So am I. Just shorten my stirrups, please. Sorry
I held up the party.”

“Attagirl, Margie,” said Billy Ehrmann.

“Well, okay.” Jeff sprang to the stirrups. “That’s the spirit, miss. You’ll be a rider
yet. Mr. Goldstone, you better ride with her from here on.”

“With pleasure.” Sandy reined his horse alongside Prince Charming.

The blonde gave her horse a hard kick in the ribs as she went ahead past Marjorie
and Sandy. “Quel cretin,” she was heard to murmur.

Marjorie’s hands and legs were trembling, and sweat was cold on her forehead. But
she was less afraid than she had been at the start of the ride. The worst had happened,
and here she was, back on the horse. Without realizing it she was sitting more naturally
in the saddle, holding the reins better collected.

“Well, now you’re an experienced horsewoman,” Sandy said as they rode beside the reservoir,
trotting over a golden layer of tree pollen on the black path.

Marjorie laughed. “It’ll take more than one fall, I’m afraid. At least I fulfilled
my own expectation this morning. I made a fool of myself. I can hardly ride, you know.
That’s the truth.”

“Why did you come, Margie? You didn’t have to say yes just to be polite.”

She looked him serenely in the eye, smiling. He grew red and stopped talking, and
they trotted on in silence.

Paced by Sandy’s horse, Prince Charming went along like a machine. Back at the stable
Marjorie managed not to limp, though the ankle was bothering her more and more. She
didn’t intend to be parted from Sandy Goldstone at this point because of a little
pain.

When the party came to the Tavern on the Green, Marjorie was very glad she had come
along despite the throbbing ankle. How gay it was to sit down to white napery and
silver on a sunlit stone terrace under the open sky, in a green park bordered by jagged
skyscrapers! Marjorie had never done it before. A stiff brushing at the stable had
cleaned all the dried mud from her habit. She didn’t mind the ripped elbows; she felt
they gave her a raffish Long Island horsy-set touch. She had combed her hair and freshened
her makeup. She thought she rather resembled an illustration in a fashion magazine.
She was proud of the way she had muddled through the ride and the fall, and pleased
at certain small attentions Sandy had been paying her.

“Bacon and scrambled eggs for everybody, I guess?” Sandy said.

“Leave the bacon off mine. Just eggs,” Marjorie said, after hesitating a moment.

Vera raised one eyebrow at her. “What’s the matter, dear, are you religious?”

“Just habit,” Marjorie muttered, embarrassed. She was convinced that the Jewish food
prohibitions were mere primitive taboos, but her upbringing was stronger than logic.
Once or twice she had tried to eat bacon and had failed; the red and yellow strips
made her gorge rise.

“Well, I guess you’ll go to heaven and we won’t,” Vera said. “I couldn’t live without
my bacon in the morning.”

Sandy yawned, “Let her alone. What do you know about it, anyway? Some people think
that all the equipment you need to discuss religion is a mouth.”

Marjorie blinked at this unexpected support.

“Dear me,” Vera said to Marjorie with a grin, “have I stepped on your toes? I’m sorry,
I’m sure.”

“Live and let live,” Sandy said.

Marjorie felt she had been successfully snubbed by the blonde. She resolved, as she
had several times before, to practice eating bacon sometime by herself. Some of the
fun went out of the brunch for her.

The waitress was just beginning to serve the food when Marjorie’s mouth twisted in
an involuntary grimace. A thrill of pain had shot up hotly from her ankle to her knee.
“What’s the matter with you?” Sandy said.

“Nothing, nothing.” Everybody looked at her. The waitress was passing Phil’s bacon
and eggs under her nose. Marjorie couldn’t help it; she put her head on her arms on
the table, feeling faint and very sick. “I’m sorry, it’s my ankle. It hurts like hell.
I—I think I’d better go home—”

There was a flurry of sympathy and suggestions. Sandy Goldstone cut it short by tossing
his car keys on the table and picking Marjorie up easily in his arms. “She shouldn’t
walk on it. I’ll carry her to a cab and get her to her house, Billy. If I’m not back
in half an hour you drive the others home. I’ll phone you, Vera, about three o’clock.”

“Well, all right. No later,” said the blonde.

Marjorie submitted limply to being carried, aware of little besides the stabbing pain.
She did notice that Sandy’s rough red-checked shirt, against which her cheek rested,
smelled strongly of horses. Somehow it was not a bad smell at all in a young man’s
wool shirt.

It was the pressure of the gradual swelling inside the boot that had caused the agony,
the doctor said. He made one tentative effort to pull off the boot. The girl shrieked.
Without ceremony he took a sharp instrument from his bag and cut the beautiful new
boot to pieces. “There,” he said, carefully removing the shredded leather and the
rags of stocking, “feels better now, doesn’t it?”

“Much.”

He squeezed and prodded the red-blue swelling, and made her move the foot and wriggle
her toes. She was embarrassed because Sandy could see her bare leg. The doctor began
to tape the ankle. “You’ll be all right in a few days. Just a sprain.”

Mrs. Morgenstern picked up the ruined boot and Marjorie’s torn jacket, which lay crumpled
on a chair. “You had to go riding in the park after three lessons. You had to wear
the new outfit. You had to climb back on the horse with a sprained ankle. Hooray for
you.”

Sandy said, “It was my fault completely, ma’am. She rides very well. If not for that
riding crop—”

“I’m glad she got back on the horse. That’s the only good thing about the story,”
said the father. He was as pale as his daughter. He had not previously uttered a word.

Mrs. Morgenstern gave Sandy a bleak glance. “You said your name is what��Goldstein?”

“Goldstone, ma’am,” Sandy said with his easy good-natured smile.

“Goldstone… Your mother isn’t by any chance Eva Goldstone?”

“She’s my aunt, ma’am. My mother is Mary Goldstone.”

The mother straightened, smiled, and dropped the torn clothes on a chair. “Well, and
a lovely lady, too. Isn’t she the vice-president of Manhattan Hadassah?”

“Yes, Mother keeps pretty busy with those things.”

“Well, and you didn’t have your lunch—I mean your brunch, as Margie calls it. You’ll
stay and have it with us, of course.”

“Well, ma’am, thank you, but I guess I better go and—”

“How long will it take to fix some eggs? After all, you must be starved, and you took
such good care of our girl—”

Sandy glanced at Marjorie and raised his eyebrows slightly. She shrugged slightly.
“Thanks a lot, I’ll be glad to stay if it isn’t too much trouble—”

“Trouble!” exclaimed the mother, vanishing. She called them into the dining room in
ten minutes. “Just a snack, naturally, there’s no time to fix anything.” Platters
of smoked salmon, smoked whitefish, kippered herrings, lettuce and tomatoes, scrambled
eggs, french-fried potatoes, rolls, toast, Danish pastry, and coffee cake covered
the table.

“Holy cow,” Sandy said. Mr. Morgenstern stared at the table and at his wife.

Sandy, eating continuously and heartily, told them of his comic misadventures with
horses in Arizona. It became a very jolly meal. Marjorie’s eyes were brightly fixed
on Sandy; the mother was enchanted by him; Mr. Morgenstern warmed to him and began
laughing. They were having their second cups of coffee when the house phone rang in
the kitchen. Mrs. Morgenstern went to answer it. She returned in a moment looking
very disturbed, and whispered in Marjorie’s ear. The girl seemed startled; then she
glanced at Sandy, and her lips curved in a confident smile. “Of course, Mom. George
said he might drop by.”

“What’ll I tell him?” muttered the mother.

“What? Why, tell him to come up of course, Mom dear.”

George Drobes and Marjorie Morgenstern had been keeping steady company for the better
part of two years.

George was a victim of the depression. By training and ambition a bacteriologist,
he had completed half his studies toward his master’s degree before being compelled
to go to work in his father’s little auto accessories store in the Bronx. George wasn’t
happy about spending his days in the dusty gloom of Southern Boulevard under the booming
rattling El, selling fan belts and hub caps to gray-faced Bronxites, when his mind
was full of marvels like amoebas and spirochetes. But there was no help for it. He
grimly saved a fragment of his allowance each week (he was getting no salary for helping
to keep the large Drobes family alive); for he was resolved to go back and finish
his training in bacteriology, even at the age of fifty.

He was by no means the first boy who had dated Marjorie. She had gone to well-chaperoned
schoolgirlish dances and parties since her twelfth year. Around her fifteenth birthday,
with official if reluctant parental approval, Marjorie had arrayed herself in lipstick,
rouge, perfume, eyebrow-black, brassiere, girdle, silk stockings, and stylish clothes,
and plunged out once for all into the sea of dating. Mrs. Morgenstern fought off this
debut with great energy to the very end. At first, when Marjorie was a little over
fourteen, she objected to rouge. Then she gave in on rouge and objected to lipstick.
Then she yielded on lipstick and declared war on the eyebrow pencil. She kept up a
fierce rear-guard action for a long time against any kind of clothes that looked grown-up,
the only kind Marjorie was interested in. But the mother’s resistance collapsed when
Marjorie reached fifteen. Any further fight was hopeless. Whatever Marjorie’s deficiencies
in experience and common sense, she looked as womanly as her mother did. Mrs. Morgenstern
turned Marjorie loose, hoping for the best. It was the way things were done nowadays.