Marjorie Morningstar (40 page)

Marjorie was dancing with her eyes closed, pleasantly giddy, close to tears, thinking
what a rare moment this was, so simple and yet so hard to come by, just a waltz with
the Uncle, to a tinkling tune that would always remind her of him.

“Whoosh!” He stopped. She opened her eyes. He was looking around, smiling wanly. “People,
I tell you, at my age give me instead dishes to vash. Is easier.” He waddled to a
chair, sat amid handclapping and laughter, and comically fanned himself with his hands.
Leaping from the piano, Noel pulled a bottle of champagne from the tin tub of ice,
swiftly wiped it, and placed it in Samson-Aaron’s lap. “First prize! To the winner
of the waltz contest—Sam Feder—dishwasher, bullfighter, good sport extraordinary,
with the affectionate thanks of the staff of South Wind.”

The applause was swift and loud. Even Greech slapped his flashlight noisily. The Uncle
looked here and there with glistening eyes, his mustache spread and straggling over
a wide grin, his hands fumbling at the bottle. “Vell, so now the young people valtz,
no? I showed you how.”

The rehearsal pianist sat at the stool, banged a few chords, and swung smoothly into
the song. Waltzing couples filled the stage. Noel took Marjorie’s hand without a word,
and they danced. She saw Wally leaning on the piano, watching her expressionlessly,
then she shut her eyes. The magic warmth came streaming as always from Noel’s hands
into her body. “It’s a beautiful song, Noel,” she murmured. “Really, it is.”

“The words are nothing,” she heard him say. Her face was against the rough black wool.
“Wrote them as fast as I could move the pencil. The tune has a bit of feeling, I hope.
It’s for you.”

She pressed his hand, and he held her a little closer. Her heart was full of a happy
warm ache. It was only because another couple bumped them that she opened her eyes,
and saw Samson-Aaron quietly drop the champagne bottle back in the ice tub and walk
toward the stage door. She broke out of the dance and, holding Noel by one hand, ran
after him. “Uncle, wait, wait.”

He turned, flabbily stooped, and his fatigue-shadowed eyes had a somewhat startled
look. Before she could say a word he straightened, and life and good humor flowed
into his face. He said, “Enough for the old man. I go to sleep. You drink my champagne
from the valtz, you and Mr. Airman. I’m very thirsty. I get a glass real cold vater
in the kitchen. Then I go to sleep.”

Noel said, “We’ll have sandwiches in fifteen minutes, Sam. You’re not going to pass
up a chance to eat?”

“Mr. Airman, I ate enough tonight. For a good glass cold vater I vould give a hundred
dollars, lucky it’s for free. That yellow stuff, it’s like salt. Good night. Dance,
dance, have a good time.”

Marjorie said, “I’m going to walk with you to the kitchen. I feel like having some
air anyway, and—”

He pushed her shoulder so rudely that she lurched against Noel. “Vot’s the matter,
I’m a baby? Don’t be like your mama. I go by myself. Thanks.” Then his tone softened.
“Good night, my darling. The Uncle is going to sleep, so vot? You dance. Dance vit
her, Mr. Airman.” He went down the gloomy steps, and out the stage door.

A few minutes later Noel and Marjorie were out on the terrace, alone in a far corner
in blue moonlight, kissing. She had completely forgotten the Uncle. Noel said after
a while, “I regret to tell you that I’ve decided I really like you. Really.” He was
very ardent. His eyes shone.

“Wally says I’ve made a big pest of myself at rehearsals. That you’re embarrassed
by me, and would like nothing better than to get rid of me.”

“Forget Wally, please. Come here.” She was bending back in his arms, avoiding his
kiss. “What’s this, mutiny?”

“Don’t you want to get rid of me?”

“Clearly not.”

“Well, it’s too bad then, because you’re going to.”

“Going to what?”

“Get rid of me.”

“Really?”

“I’m leaving South Wind. Probably tomorrow. I’m going for a trip out West.”

His hold loosened. “Out West?”

“Yes.”

He looked at her in silence, his mouth beginning to curl with amusement. She said,
meeting his eyes defiantly, “I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon.”

“I know. You’ve talked of nothing else all summer.”

“Don’t be sarcastic. I do want to see it, and now I’ve got a chance, and I’m going.”

“Are you serious?”

“Perfectly.”

He nodded slowly, smiling. “Of course. Inevitable, at that. You’re being snatched
out of the fell clutches of Saul Ehrmann, aren’t you?”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll see you in the fall.”

“Queer, though. I could have sworn your mother liked me.”

“She does like you. Look, she’s not sending me out West. Nobody sends me anywhere.
I’m going.”

“You want to go?”

“Yes.”

He took her by the arms and studied her face. “What is this, now? Are you feeling
neglected, or something? I know I’ve been too wrapped up in the fiesta, but—”

“Noel, believe me, I simply want to go out West. What’s so hard to believe about that?
Wouldn’t you go, if you could?”

“Margie, for heaven’s sake, don’t play games with me, will you? You’re up against
the Masked Marvel. I eat little girls like you. This western trip comes out of nowhere,
a few hours after your folks have been here and gone, so don’t give me those wide
eyes and tell me you’ve been planning it since you were fifteen. What did your mother
say? Does she know my family very well?”

“Oh, what are you going on and on about it for? It’s just for a few weeks, Noel, it’s
August already. Don’t you want me to go? Do you care at all?”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She said, taking her mouth from his, “That
isn’t enough.”

“Marjorie, why are you being so small, so obvious? What words are you trying to wring
out of me?”

“I don’t want to wring anything from you. Don’t say anything, just let me alone—let
go of me—”

“Marjorie, I love you. If you want to be really clever, don’t be clever. Give me time.
Give me rope, that’s all you have to do—”

They were twined in each other’s arms. “Oh, God, Noel, why did I ever meet you? Why
did I come with Marsha that night across the lake? I ruined myself.”

“Don’t go out West, sweet. Don’t go.”

“Oh, damn you!” Her hands curved up behind him and she thrust them into his hair.
She sighed and shuddered. “Do you think I can refuse you anything? You may be lying
when you say you love me. I’ll probably never know. But I love you so much I don’t
know what I’m eating, what I’m wearing, what I’m doing, what I’m thinking. It’s all
been a fog, all summer. The only thing I’m afraid of is waking up. It seems to me
I would die.”

“Marjorie, darling, listen to me. You know—God knows—you’re not the first girl in
my life nor the second, but I swear to you this is new. The reason you’re so crazily
in love is that I am, too. There’s no other reason. It happens once in a lifetime
to everyone, and I swear to God I’m beginning to think it’s happened for us.”

“You called it a shipboard romance—”

“I know, I’ve been so damned clever and superior and sure-footed about it, haven’t
I? Don’t press me, Margie darling, don’t try to pin me down, whatever you do. That
doesn’t work with me.” He was leaning against the rail of the porch, holding her close.

She felt her will dissolving. “I won’t go out West. I’ll stay here. I’ll do anything
you want me to do. I don’t care about anything except being with you. You know that.
You’ve known it ever since the first time you kissed me.”

A small part of her mind stood apart and watched curiously while they kissed again,
with new passion. The rest of her was drowning. She realized dimly that Noel had never
tried to woo her before, and now was doing it. She could not protest. She did not
want to. The sweetness of his lips on hers, the sweetness flooding her body, passed
all her experience. Her innocence vanished. In a moment, in a blink of an eye, the
barrier was gone, and she was seeking adult satisfaction of an adult desire.

“All right,” Noel muttered. “This won’t do at all, you see. Let’s go.” He had to push
her away, tenderly and firmly, laughing a little in a hoarse low tone.

“Where?”

“My place.”

“They’ll be missing us.”

Noel laughed.

She said, “Not your place.”

“Why not?”

“Someplace else.”

“Why? Don’t be childish.”

“Wally. He—it’s just a partition. He’s on the other side, under the same roof.”

“He’s drunk, and anyway he sleeps like a stone.”

She yielded to the tug of his hand and came a few steps. “Noel.” She stopped. Her
senses had been narrowed to their two selves. Now she saw the moon and the stars and
the blue moonlit mirror of the lake, heard the lapping of the water under the terrace
and, faintly, the music of the backstage party. “Noel, I love you. I don’t care about
anything else. My whole life will go by and nothing will change it. I love you, Noel.”

They kissed quietly, apart, bending toward each other like a couple in a public place.
Arm in arm, they walked down the terrace steps and across the lawn.

The floodlights and the colored spotlights of the fountain had been turned off since
midnight. The gloom of the lawn was relieved here and there by a lamp on a rough log
post, in a mist of darting insects. It was very quiet. The plashing of the fountain
sounded loud and musical, like a waterfall.

They were halfway across the lawn, not speaking, moving in one rhythm, quietly happy.
Marjorie never knew what it was that she saw, out of the corner of her eye, that made
her glance toward the fountain. Even looking straight at it, she saw nothing: a patch
of white, or yellowish white, a little different from the foaming white of the water,
in the dim lamplight. Then she saw that the surface of the water in the fountain was
tumbling irregularly. She said, “There’s something in the fountain. Some fool dropped
something big in the—Oh God.” She dug her nails into Noel’s hand. The yellow was the
yellow of an old Palm Beach suit, and she thought she saw a hump of that yellow under
a swirl of water.

“What is it?” Noel said. He looked where she was looking, and said, in a sudden frightful
shout that tore through the stillness, “
MY GOD!
”

She ran, and he ran.

Samson-Aaron lay in the long wide shallow basin of the fountain, face up. His mouth
and eyes were open. Water was cascading across his face so that the features were
blurry. His body was slightly out of the water, for it was only a couple of feet deep,
but his head was submerged. Noel seized him by the shoulders and dragged him into
a sitting position in the water, his back against the rim. Samson-Aaron’s head lolled.
His eyes rolled opaquely.

“Uncle! Uncle! Oh my God, Uncle!” Her arms were around him, feeling into his streaming
clothes. Her mouth was on the wet face. “Noel, he’s cold, he’s terribly cold.”

“I’ll get the doctor.” Noel bounded away, dripping. Marjorie crumpled over the fat
wet slumped form, soaking her dress. “Uncle, Uncle. Oh my God, Samson-Aaron! Uncle!
Uncle!” She rocked his head on her breast. “Uncle, it’s Marjorie.” She was crying
bitterly. “Come back, Uncle! Uncle!”

He did not respond. She felt for his pulse. She had a moment of serious panic at the
deadness of his wrist, but then she thought she felt dim throbs. She could not tell
whether he was breathing. There was no rise and fall of his huge chest or perhaps
a very, very slight motion. His lips, she noticed, were warm, warmer than the rest
of his face. Though tears kept pouring down her cheeks, her first shock passed rapidly.
She was fairly calm when the commotion started up in the gloom of the men’s side:
voices, the running of feet, the glow of lights, the lancing of flashlight beams.
She was sharply aware of everything about her—the smell of the trampled grass, the
half-moon glittering almost overhead, the stars, the moonlit glassy lake, and the
loud splashing of the fountain. Everything was very normal and familiar, except that
Samson-Aaron was sitting up to his waist in water in the bowl of the fountain, slumped
in her arms, soaking wet.

The doctor, a plump almost bald young man, came running in his pajamas, carrying a
black bag. Two waiters, naked except for underwear shorts, ran with him. The hair
of all three was mussed, and they looked sleepy and scared. “Let’s get him out of
the water,” the doctor said, seizing the Uncle’s arm.

One of the waiters jumped splashing into the fountain and took the feet, the other
took an arm. They lifted him out on the grass and laid him on his back. The doctor
pushed up Samson-Aaron’s eyelid and shone a flashlight into it. He shone the light
on his lips, pulled open his mouth and flashed the light inside. He felt his pulse
and listened to the heart with a stethoscope.

“Is he going to be all right?” Marjorie said. She watched the doctor’s face closely.

“How long ago did it happen, do you know?” he said, rapidly and carefully preparing
a hypodermic needle.

“How about artificial respiration?” said a waiter.

“Yes, go ahead,” said the doctor.

Marjorie, searching her mind for the time sequence, tried to remember how long she
and Noel had been on the terrace. “Maybe twenty minutes ago he left the party, more
or less—no, no more, it isn’t even twenty minutes.”

The doctor pushed up the Uncle’s left sleeve and injected the arm with the needle.
Noel came with Greech and the people of the staff while the waiters were pumping the
Uncle’s arms and pressing his sides. The doctor kneeled beside Samson-Aaron’s face,
which was turned to a side, expressionless, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, water
trickling from his hair. Nobody said anything. After a little time, the doctor said,
“Quit it. There’s no water coming out and there’s a free passage of air. He isn’t
drowned.”