Ordinary People (7 page)

He says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t mean to sound so rah-rah, either. And I really did want to see you. Only I was sort of afraid. You seemed so down, over the phone.”

“I’m not down,” he says quickly. “Hey, everything’s going great. I’m back in school, I’m swimming—”

“Oh, really? I’m glad.”

“Well, we haven’t had any meets yet. I could end up on the bench all year.”

“Oh, no, you’ll do fine, I’m sure.”

The man returns. He is small and undernourished-looking. Sour. In silence, Conrad slides out of the booth to pay him. He looks at the coins suspiciously; turns away without a word.

Conrad shakes his head. “Hostile.”

She giggles. “Definitely a low-self-image day.” And they relax. She, the seasoned veteran, out six months to his three, asks, “Are you seeing anybody?”

“A doctor? Yeah, are you?”

She shakes her head and, obscurely, he feels ashamed. Another black mark against him.

“Dr. Crawford gave me a name,” she says, “and I went for a while, but then I finally decided it wasn’t doing me any good. I mean, he wasn’t telling me anything I couldn’t figure out for myself. Really, the only one who can help you is you. Well, you and God.” She stops, but it is only to take a breath. “Anyway, that’s what Dad says, and I know he’s right. It’s what they told us in the hospital, too, didn’t they? That you have to learn to help yourself, and this guy was over in Elk Grove Village and expensive as hell.” She looks at him and smiles. “That isn’t why I stopped going, though. And I don’t mean that there isn’t any value in it, if you need it. I mean, for some people it could be just the right thing—” She looks to him for help, afraid that she has wounded him.

To reassure her, he says, “Well, I don’t know how long I’ll keep it up, either. I got shoved into it, sort of. My father—I don’t think he’s got that much confidence in me. He’s pretty nervous about it all. Anyway I only go to get my mind flushed out. After an hour with this guy, you’re not too sure about him, but you know you’re okay.”

Berger, and his visits with him, have gotten to be something that he looks forward to; a chance to feel better twice a week, even if the feeling doesn’t have much carry-over yet. Now, on top of the shame, is disgust with himself for his slandering words. Not just Berger, but his father, too.
Christ Jarrett but you’re a two-faced bastard.

She says, “Things were so different in the hospital. People were, you know, turned on all the time. And you just can’t live like that. You can’t live with all that emotion floating around, looking for a place to land. It’s too exhausting. It takes so much energy, just to get through a day, even without all that soul-searching we used to do—”

“Hey,” he says. “Remember Crawford, how he was always telling you to go with the things that made you laugh? Yesterday I heard a guy on the radio talking about how to take care of your trees. If you water after five, be sure to water only every other root. ‘In other words,’ he says, ‘the U.S. Department of Agriculture requests that you use alternate roots after five o’clock. ’ ”

She is laughing at him at last. “Con, you made that up!”

“No, the guy said it, I swear. I laughed for five minutes. It made me feel good. To know the nuts still have a chance to take over the world.”

In the hospital, he was the only one who could make her laugh. His heart swells with pleasure and gratitude. Calmly, so as not to alarm her, he says, “You know, losing a whole year out of your life is turning out to be sort of a disadvantage, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think about it,” she says. “You shouldn’t either. Just keep going, get into things, forget about that. Try to be less intense.”

Well, that’s what he was asking for, wasn’t it? Then why do the words irritate him so? With an imaginary pencil he writes in the palm of his hand. “Just a minute, ‘less intense,’ let me get this all down, gee, you sure do make it sound simple, Dr. Aldrich.”

She frowns and looks away. “It isn’t simple. And I’m not saying everything’s perfect. But at least I try.”

“I’m trying,” he says. He makes a face, teasing her. “Don’t I act like I’m trying?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really know you, Con.”

This hurts. And then she looks at her watch, and this hurts, too. “I’m late. I’ve got to go.”

“So, okay. Go.” He spreads his hands, palms down on the table.

She hesitates. “Listen, call me again. I’d like to see you. Really. I mean it. Will you?”

“Sure.” Call me, I’d like to see you. But just not real soon.
I might be crazy but I’m not dumb. I read.

She gathers her coat about her shoulders. “The thing is,” she says, “we should both be careful about who we see. It isn’t good for either of us to get down.”

“I’m not down!” It is definitely not the thing to be. More calmly, he repeats it. “I’m not down.”

“Well, it’s contagious, you know that.” Her voice is flat, accusing. “We can’t risk it.”

“Okay.”

Nothing more to say. He glances across the aisle at the rack of paperbacks, reading the titles in despair:
What to Wear and How to Wear It; How to Make the Most of What You’ve Got; Twenty-five Ways to Better Love-Making.
Oh, God, he did not come here to drain strength away from her he would not do that to anyone least of all her. They are friends aren’t they?

She gets to her feet. “I’m sorry. I wish I could stay longer. You look great, Con. You really do.”

“Yeah, thanks. You too.”

“And you will call me?”

“Yeah, sure.”

And then she is gone. He sits awhile longer, palming the empty Coke glass back and forth between his hands. He had thought, this morning, that he would ask her to one of the swim meets. How stupid even to think that she would go for that. Dull stuff anyway, compared to
A Thousand Clowns. Ah come on Jarrett don’t be a shit she is a nice girl and she is right it’s a dangerous business how would you like it if some screwed-up bastard kept coming around asking you for help asking you to make him feel Necessary?

There is a sign over the door: NO LOITERING. The counterman / waiter keeps glancing over, getting ready to catch him in the act. He carefully folds his straw into a small rectangle and drops it into his glass. Getting to his feet, he puts on his jacket.
Okay Karen we’ll see you around who needs you anyway who the fuck needs anybody?

This Saturday he has repaired a broken doorknob, watched Michigan beat Navy on television, played two sets of tennis with Al Cahill, his next-door neighbor. A familiar and comforting pattern of triviality; the things that move time. First, sitting in the den with his feet up, a glass of beer beside him; then the tennis. He was even pleased about the doorknob; it gave the day that tiny period of purpose, and protected his soul from the sin of idleness.

He pours himself a scotch and water. This first drink of a Saturday evening, made for himself, and drunk in his own company is another pleasure. Later on, he may become bored and drink too much. Or else he will enjoy himself, relax, and drink too much. Another familiar pattern. He has noted this about himself lately: that he drinks too much when they go out. Because drinking helps. It has gotten him through many evenings, either deadening the pain or raising him above it to where small events seem pleasurable and worth recording. It isn’t likely that this will happen tonight. Tonight will not be memorable. He will have to take care not to get blitzed.

Waiting for Beth, he wanders into the den. Conrad lounges on the couch in Levi’s and a T-shirt, hands in his pockets, legs stuck out in front of him, his boot heels digging into the carpet.

“Your basic teen-ager,” Cal observes.

Conrad eyes the gray slacks, black turtleneck, gray plaid sportcoat. “Your basic suburban lawyer.”

He sits down beside him on the couch. “What’re you watching?”

“Dunno. Just got here.”

From the television set comes the fervent announcement: “Watch the
Pete Pepper Show!
Share the joys of family living!”

“Who the hell is Pete Pepper?” he asks.

Conrad laughs. “You got me.”

“Where were you today? I needed a tennis partner.”

“Over in Skokie.”

“Oh? Doing what?”

“Seeing somebody I know.”

“Anybody I know?”

“No.”

Period. A long way to go for friendship. All the way to Skokie. What happened to the people closer to home?

“What’re you doing tonight?”

“Studying. Got a history mid-term on Tuesday.”

Mid-terms already. He hopes Con is not uptight about the tests. Should he tell him not to worry? No, he will think it means something. Will think he, Cal, is worried. “How’s Joe?” he asks. “You see much of him?”

“Every morning on the way to school. At practice. On the way home.”

Not an answer, really, but it is conversation. Cal wants to keep it flowing between them. How to do this? Sometimes it is so difficult, feeling his way with this mysterious stranger, his son. He asks, “Why don’t you call him and see what he’s doing tonight?”

“I think I ought to study.”

“Can’t you study tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’m planning on it.” His eyes have not left the set. “It’s a
mid-term,
Dad.”

“Okay. I guess it takes time to get back in the swing of it again, huh?”

Conrad looks over at him and grins. “You been hanging around with Grandfather again?”

Cal laughs. He will be eighteen in January, but he looks younger than that, and vulnerable; yet older at the same time. Tired. His face is drawn. He has an urge to shield him, but how? There is no way. No way at all. He wants to give him a present of some kind, something to keep the currents of sound moving between them. He says, “Your mother and I were talking about going to London sometime.”

“Not for Christmas?” There is an odd look on his face that Cal cannot identify. Fear? Anger? It is gone before he can be sure.

“We haven’t decided when,” he says. “I thought maybe in the spring. No, this Christmas I thought we’d just stay around here.”

“Yeah, that’d be fine. Unless—if everybody else wants to go for Christmas, I’ll go, that’s okay. I don’t want to spoil things. I mean, if she wants to go, I’ll go.”

Beth is in the doorway. “I’m ready, Cal.”

“Okay. In a second.”

“We’re late.” She moves down the hallway to get her coat.

He is on his feet, but he doesn’t want to leave yet. Conrad is looking up at him. There is nothing to worry about; he knows that. He has to get over this feeling of panic every time he leaves him alone in the house. He’s a big boy. He will be eighteen years old in January. Remember it.

“We’ll be over at the Murrays’, did I tell you that?”

“No. Fine.”

“The number’s in the book. Philip Murray, on Anhinga Boulevard.”

“Okay.” And he knows what Conrad is thinking: What would I need to call you for?

 

 

In the car, she says to him, “I told you he’d go if you asked him.”

“He doesn’t want to, though.”

She shrugs. “Well, it’s too late now, anyway.”

She gave up on this, suddenly and simply. It was not like her. He hasn’t realized until this minute that it has been several weeks since the subject of London was mentioned. Now he feels at once relief and guilt.

“We’ll go in the spring,” he says. “I promise.”

She doesn’t answer.

“Who’s going to be there tonight?” Testing. Her tone when she answers will tell him if she is angry.

“Well, the Murrays. It’s their house.” She slides over next to him. Happily grateful, he squeezes her hand. Wonderful, unpredictable girl. “And Mac and Ann Kline. Ed and Marty Genthe. And us.”

“Why us? We hardly know the Murrays.”

“That’s why. That’s why you have people over, darling. To get to know them better.”

He does not want to know Phil Murray any better. He has played golf with him three times. He knows him well enough. The first time, he was told Phil’s reasons for joining the golf club. “I’m an insurance salesman, Cal. A damn good one, too.” He had laughed and said that he had all the insurance he needed. “That’s what you think.” Phil grinned at him. On discovering what Cal did for a living, he spent the rest of the round telling jokes about crooked lawyers. During the second round, Cal confirmed his earlier suspicion that he cheated on the golf course, saw his ball land with a thud in the trap; when they arrived at the shot, it hung, miraculously, on the lush green edge. Worse, Phil was fakily delighted. “Hey, what a break! That was close, huh?” Cal thought he was the only one who noticed, but afterward, in the locker room, Mac Kline shook his head, “Who does he think he’s kidding?” and at lunch someone cracked a joke about the best traps being the ones with the thickest lips.

He says, “Let’s go to the movies, instead.”

“Don’t be negative.” She squeezes his hand.

“Then, let’s not stay too late.”

She is looking at herself in the rear-view mirror. “Already ? You don’t usually say that until we pull in the driveway. Anyway, you’ve never even been to their house before. How do you know you won’t have fun?”

“I can read my mind. It says, Stay home tonight, read
The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich,
do something constructive with your life.”

“Everybody has to eat,” she says.

 

 

They live only blocks away, in a wide, square-pillared house at the top of a gentle slope known as Anhinga Hill. The contractor, a Floridian transplant, named the streets after a host of Everglades birds—Bittern, Egret, Cormorant, Anhinga. Their own, Heron Drive. Eight basic designs of houses; twenty-four elevations. Each one carefully, artfully different. The subdivision has won prizes. Neatness, originality, aptness-of-thought.

“Here they arel” Sara Murray sweeps them inside. “How’s that? Three blocks away, and the last ones to arrive! It’s positively insulting. Here are the coats, darling.” She ushers them into the large, elegantly furnished living room, done in shades of champagne and white. As is the hostess. A long, silky gown with a deep neckline. She is a tiny woman; nearly a head shorter than Beth. “Ed, move over, will you? Make room for Beth.”