The Joys of Love (27 page)

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Authors: Madeleine L'engle

BOOK: The Joys of Love
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“I don't know,” Ben said. “I feel like I've been in the theatre so long I don't know how people on the outside look at such things. But to my way of thinking, whether or not it was wrong depends on
why
you went to his room.”
“I don't know why,” Elizabeth told him.
“I mean, what did you expect?”
“I—I expected him to kiss me. But he'd kissed me out on the boardwalk. I didn't think it would be any different in his room than it had been out on the boardwalk. At least I don't think I did. But it was.”
“Well,” Ben said reasonably, “that's something you have to find out for yourself, isn't it?”
“Is it? That's what I don't know. It seems to me I should
have known. I should have known that talking to you and John Peter up in our room was different than going to Kurt's room.”
“Well, now you know,” Ben said.
“But I feel so dirty, Ben. I feel ugly and cheap.”
“Listen, Liz, I told you you had to learn to walk in the mud and not get your feet dirty if you wanted to work in the theatre.”
“But I feel as though I
had
got my feet dirty.”
“Maybe your shoes,” Ben said, “but not your feet. And you can always change your shoes.”
“I shouldn't have bothered you with all this,” Elizabeth said. “I should have worked it out for myself.”
“You
are
working it out for yourself.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Oh, Ben, I'm not. That makes it all the worse. It seems to me that everybody knows about it. Oh—they don't know I went to Kurt's room or anything, but they know I'm upset about him, that I was a fool about him. I suppose that's just false pride on my part, being bothered because people know. And I'm a fool to let it get me down now—I mean the fact that it was all spoiled, that I don't love him anymore. I don't even hate him. I just feel—drab—about him. Me, I'm such a romantic idiot. I always thought that the first time you fell in love nothing could spoil it, that you treasured it for the rest of your life, the way you keep pretty stones in a box to look at when you're small. But I don't want to treasure this. I don't want ever to have to look at it again. I'm glad I'm not staying after this week. It would be awful just to go on seeing Kurt every day and act as though nothing had happened.”
She had not intended to speak in this manner, but once the first few words were out, the rest followed, one stumbling over the other, rushing out like a small waterfall.
“You could do it if you had to,” Ben told her rather fiercely.
Elizabeth shook her head from side to side the way an ill person moves his head restlessly against the pillow which gives no comfort no matter how many times it is smoothed and turned to the cool side. “Oh—I guess I could. But it gives me one really good reason to be glad I have to go back to Jordan. And Ben—”
“What, Liz?”
“You see, there's another awful thing: it's made me feel differently about the theatre. Not just Kurt alone but Kurt and—and—and Dottie—and the way the kids drooled over Sarah Courtmont and the way they apple-polish Miss Andersen without really caring or understanding what a great actress she is—oh, you know what I mean. I've always thought about the theatre like a Christmas tree, all shining and bright with beautiful ornaments. But now it seems like a Christmas tree with the tinsel all tarnished and the colored balls all fallen off and broken. That's a corny way of saying it, but you know what I mean.”
“Sure, I know what you mean, Liz. And it's both ways. If you can be corny I can be, too. Some of the ornaments fall and break and some stay clear and bright. Some of the tinsel gets tarnished and some stays shining and beautiful like the night before Christmas. Nothing's ever all one way. You know that. It's all mixed up and you've just got to find the part that's right for you. Now isn't my corn as good as your corn?”
“Yes, Ben, I guess it is.” Elizabeth stood up and her limbs
were stiff from sitting so long crouched on Joe's three-legged stool. She walked about the stage for a moment, rather aimlessly, then returned to the stool. “Ben, I'm terribly sorry.”
“What about?”
“Talking like this. To you, of all people.”
“What do you mean, to me of all people? If you can't talk to the man who's going to be your husband someday, who the hell can you talk to? I don't mean to sound sure of myself, but we're too right for each other not to get together eventually. And all this—well, everything is experience, Liz. Anything you feel really deeply will help you as an actress.”
Elizabeth said, struggling to hold back her tears, “I'm such a damned fool!”
“Sure you are. And you shouldn't swear.”
“You're right. I'll stop. I'm sorry.”
Ben reached over and patted her knee with infinite tenderness. “Let's go over to Lukie's and have some ice cream. I'll treat you.”
She didn't even argue with him but said, “Okay, Ben. Thanks.”
They walked down the boardwalk in silence. When they got to Lukie's, brilliant light came from the windows and pushed away the night. Music from the jukebox, loud voices, the indiscriminate smells of beer and cigarette smoke overpowered the fresh ocean air.
“Let's sit outside,” Elizabeth said.
Ben nodded, and they went to one of the empty tables lining the verandah that was crazily added to one side of the rickety building. Lukie's was built crudely over a pier that stuck
out from the boardwalk into the water on insecure, barnacled legs, so that, even more than in the theatre, one had the feeling of being at sea. The tables on the verandah were empty after sundown except on the hottest nights, because they were damp and dirty, and spray from the ocean blew over them, and nothing but ice cream and soft drinks could be had there, and those only by self-service. After the storm the night before, the air was windy and chill, and Elizabeth shivered in her light cotton evening dress.
Ben perched on the rickety rail. “What kind of ice cream do you want?”
“Butter pecan. Thanks, Ben.”
“That's okay.” He jumped down and pushed his way into the crowded building, looked over his shoulder as he disappeared, and said, “By the way, I love you. In case I forgot to mention it before.”
Now Elizabeth could not help smiling at him, and then she curled up on the hard bench to wait for him and to try to reconstruct in her mind Valborg Andersen's brilliant performance, to hear again Shakespeare's words become alive and powerful as she had never known they could be.
It was almost half an hour before Ben came back with the ice cream. “Sorry I took so long. Golly, Liz, aren't you frozen?”
Suddenly she shivered. “Yes, I guess I am.”
“For heaven's sake, put on my coat.”
“Don't you need it?”
“I've got on a sweater.” Ben pulled off his coat and held it out for her. “Here.”
“Thanks, Ben. It's lovely and warm.” Then she said, “Ben, I—I can tell you how I feel about—about everything. I think you're the best friend I've ever had. I—I'd lie down and die for you if you wanted me to.”
“Honey,” Ben said. “When I get you to lie down for me it won't be to die.”
“Don't laugh at me.”
“Why not?”
She looked at him somberly for a moment and then she began to laugh. “You're right as usual. Why not?” She smiled across the table at him. “Why not laugh? Why not see what happens in New York?” She took a spoonful of ice cream. “This is good. Lots of nuts. What on earth are you doing with your teeth?”
“Pushing them in. They keep coming out.”
“What?”
“They stick out.”
“You idiot.”
Ben winked at her. “Here comes Bibi the heebie-jeebie.”
Bibi came trotting down the boardwalk, peered in the door, caught sight of Elizabeth and Ben sitting outside, and came over to them.
Elizabeth squinched up her eyes, trying to see her. “Ben! I left my glasses in the theatre. We have to go get them!” she exclaimed tragically.
“Calm down,” Ben said. “You aren't missing anything. You've seen it all before. We'll stop by on our way back.”
Bibi waved at them. “Hi. What are you all doing?”
“Playing Russian Bank,” Ben said. “Can't you see the cards? Listen, Bibi, will you answer me something truthfully?”
“Sure.”
“Do you want to ‘go on the stage'?”
“Of course. What do you think I'm at a summer theatre for?”
“Well, there has been some difference of opinion,” Ben said.
“What do you mean?” Bibi asked indignantly.
Elizabeth shook her head at Ben gently, but he winked and ignored her and Elizabeth turned away to face toward the ocean, listening with only half an ear. The stars were soft and blurred, but she knew that since they were at least visible to her they must be sharp and clear against the darkness of the sky. The lights of Lukie's were reflected on the water and moved under the swell; and if she blotted out with her mind the jukebox and the voices from Lukie's, she could hear the waves lapping against the piles of the pier and the muted breathing of the ocean sighing, deeply at rest after last night's storm.
“Wouldn't you like to get married?” Ben asked Bibi.
“Naturally.”
“Well, I think you'd better get married, then.”
“But marriage doesn't need to interfere with my Career!” Bibi said career with a capital C.
“When did you decide you wanted a Career, tootsie pie?” Ben asked.
“This winter.”
Ben thumped his fist down on the rotting boards of the table and demanded, “What decided you?”
“I did Nora in
A Doll's House
at school if it's any of your business,” Bibi said.
“And everyone thought you were wonderful and ought to be an actress?”
“Well, I
was
good. And I bought Stanislavsky.”
“Did you read him?”
“Well … not yet. But I'm going to. It's such a big book. I don't see why you're asking me all these questions all of a sudden. You want to be an actor, don't you?”
“Want some ice cream, Bibi?” Elizabeth asked, taking pity on her.
“No. I'm going inside to see who's there. Kurt said something about meeting him somewhere, but maybe it was Irving's.”
“Listen, little one,” Ben said, sounding a hundred years old, “you're going to get an awful kick in the pants someday unless you learn that the theatre isn't an arty prep-school production.”
“It wasn't prep school, it was college, and anyhow I don't see what it's got to do with you. I don't understand why your crowd is always so mean to me,” Bibi complained. “The actors in the professional company are nice to me. Kurt asked me to go on a double date tomorrow night with him and Dottie and Jud Hancock.”
“We're not mean to you, sugar,” Ben said. “You're just riding for a fall and I'm trying to give you a word of warning.”
“Who's Jud Hancock?” Elizabeth asked.
“He came up with Mervyn Melrose for next week's show and he's just darling.”
“Well, isn't that too, too ducky,” Ben said.
“I'm going inside. I'm certainly not going to stay out here with you two.” Bibi turned on her heel, her little nose up in the air, and disappeared into the crowded interior of Lukie's.
“Ben, you were awful,” Elizabeth said sternly, turning away from the ocean and looking at the pleasant pink blur that was Ben's face to her without her glasses.
Ben scraped his ice cream dish. “Was I?”
“You know you were.”
“Well, if you must know, she made a few nasty cracks about you this evening and I was sore at her. Little slitch. She couldn't wait to get that in about Kurt.”
“She's at perfect liberty to go out with whomever she chooses,” Elizabeth said rather pompously.
“Maybe she is, but she hasn't any right to make cracks about you.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Oh, well.”
Ben put his spoon back in the dish. “I've finished my ice cream. Want some more?”
“No, thanks.” Inside Ben's coat Elizabeth shivered as a soft mist of spray wet her cheeks.
“Mind if I do?”
“Of course not.”
“I'll try not to be too long. I'll get you some more anyhow and if you don't want it I'll eat it. Warm enough?”

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