What Is All This? (39 page)

“Answer it, Warren,” she yelled through the partly opened bathroom door. “Warren, you there? Answer the phone and tell whoever it is I'm busy and I'll call back.”

Warren was in his bedroom down the hall. He ran to his parents' room, picked up the receiver and said hello.

“Hey, there, fella, how are you?”

“Daddy, that you?”

That's me, sure, who else?”

“Where are you?”

“In a hotel. Away. How's everything home? Your mother?”

“Fine. Today we went to the park and I fell off the swings, I didn't get hurt, but Mommy said she won't let me go on them anymore.”

“She's probably right. You're getting too big and fat for those things. If the clothes don't fit—I mean the shoes, don't buy them, which I suppose can be applied to you and your swings in some far-off way. Say, Warren, you want to get your mother on the phone for me?”

“She's in the bathroom and says whoever it is she'll call back.”

“Tell her if she calls back it'll cost her two dollars station to station. Tell her that now.”

Warren dropped the receiver on the bed, ran across the room, stood, pressed up against the full-length bathroom door mirror and breathed heavily on it, leaving several moist clouds on the glass. He knocked on the door, yelled through the opened part of it when he got no response, his voice high above the shower splashing, “
Mom
. Dad's on the phone and says to hurry or it'll cost you dollars to call him back.” He fingered a wavy streak through the runny mirror blotches. “Mom? I said Dad's on the phone and he wants for you to hurry.”

She turned the shower off. “Tell him I'll be there in a minute. I have to dry myself.”

He took two large hops and made a bellywhop on the bed. The receiver jumped up when he landed and fell to the floor. He walked two fingers across and down the bedspread to grab it, while his father was saying “Hey? What in God's name is going on there?”

“I dropped the phone. I'm sorry.”

“Where's your mother?”

“Getting dried. Where you calling from, Dad?”

“San Francisco.”

“Where's that?”

“Where's San Francisco? What do they teach you in school? In California. In America.”

“How far's California?”

“A long way—too far to walk. About three thousand miles from you, but you'll learn all about that when you get up to geography.”

“I'm in geography.”

Then maybe you haven't come to it yet or you learned it and forgot. What's holding up your mother?”

“She said a minute. When you coming home? Mommy said she didn't know.”

“Soon, probably—depends on a lot of things. Look, do me a favor and ask your mother to really hustle.”

“I think she's coming.” He ran to the bathroom door, listened, ran back. “Yeah, I can hear her putting on something. How come you didn't day goodbye when you left? I didn't see you.”

“No time. You know me when I have to make one of my flights. Rush-rush. Besides, what are you talking about?—you were sleeping. You've been good, though—not giving your mother any backtalk?”

“No.”

“Good.” Silence. Warren wanted to end it in some way, to speak of something interesting that had happened to him the last few days, but he couldn't think of anything that his father wouldn't get angry at or think too dumb to even be worth talking about. He heard him light a cigarette–that snap-snap-snap of his old silver army regiment lighter he'd said was almost no use to him for all the trouble it gave but which he'd never give up because of the great memories it brought back. Warren felt rescued when his mother came out of the bathroom. She was in a bathrobe and had a towel around her head.

“He's three thousand miles away,” he said, handing her the receiver.

“In San Francisco.”

“Ken?” she said.

“I'm fine and dandy, thanks, and you?”

“Oh, just wonderful. Never better. Where are you?”

“San Francisco. Didn't Warren just tell you?”

That where you headed the morning you snuck out, or did you make a stop in Vegas first?”

“Who snuck out where? And why would I go to Vegas? I put some duds in my bag and sort of stole out of the room so you wouldn't wake up. Considerate, in my abstract silent way, you can say.”

“Listen, did you call to be the funnyman or tell me your travel plans, or what?”

“I called—and notice how serious my voice is now—to find out how you are, and of course Warren too. And then, when I get the true picture of our latest falling-out, and also the business side of my trip out of the way, I thought I could better make up my mind about the whole thing.”

“What do you mean
true picture
?” She looked at Warren, who was sprawled on the bed, listening to her part of the conversation and whatever he could pick up from his dad's.

“Excuse me, Ken. Warren, could you leave the room?”

“What for?”

“Don't give me the ‘what for.' Just do as I say.”

He shrugged, as if her last words had sounded more reasonable, and shut the door behind him.

“Warren was listening,” she said. “It isn't good for him—learning all about our difficulties this way.”

“Don't worry so much about him. He's capable of accepting these things much better than you think.”

That still doesn't make it right. Jesus, he's only eight.”

Then maybe it's inevitable that he knows. And maybe, also, if you'd listen a little more closely like him—”

“All right, what is it you really called to say?”

“Part, I told you. Also, that I probably wouldn't've rushed out like that or even be here, for that matter—because the business could've waited—if it wasn't for you. You know, in the things you do that burn me up so much and what you say and all.”

“Come off it.”

There you go again—you see? I knew this call wouldn't be worth a plug nickel for all I'd get out of it.”

“Because you're not making sense, that's why. If you used your brains first before you said something, you'd get somewhere.”

“And somewhere I haven't got by using my brains?”

“I'm talking about the phone.”

That nice apartment and car and all your clothes and your fur piece and my job and your forty to fifty pairs of slacks and everything else I got just by sitting around on my ass?”

“You know I wasn't referring to your work…or that you're not a good provider. You are. That's not what I meant.”

“It's pretty clear what you meant. But look, I called up with a nice gesture—to make things right. But if you have other ideas…I'm saying, if you don't want things right again, or you don't think things can ever work out between us again after that last fight, then fine. That's just fine. That's really fine and dandy with me.”

“Oh, stop with all this defensive nonsense why you called. I'll tell you once and for all why you called and save you the trouble. First of all—”

“Now cut it right there, Bobbie, I'm warning you.”

“You're warning me what? Reason number one is you want me to apologize for our last battle as I've always done in the past, right?”

“Wrong. I called because—”

“Reason two is—”

“Will you give me a chance to speak?”

“—after I get you off the hook by saying it was my fault and I want you to come home, you'll want me to phone your mother—just so the dear woman should worry none, know what I mean?—and tell her everything's hunky-dory between us again, as I finally realized, sweet sensible repentant Barbara finally realized she was in the wrong. Number three–”

“Enough with your stupid numbers. Are you going to listen to reason or not?”

“Whose? Yours? That's not reason. I don't know what it is. It's doubletalk. Because I'm sick and tired of kowtowing to you every time you're in the wrong and refuse to admit it or you're feeling sorry for yourself because you're in the wrong and refuse to admit it. This row you'll have to smooth over by yourself—and that's with both your mother and me—because I've taken all I can from you.”

“Who the hell's asking you to call my mother? Why are you blowing this thing so out of proportion for?”

“Because I can see it. Your standing there acting like you always do—like a spoiled pouting child waiting for an apology.”

“When, always? Name one time before.”

“August 2
^nd
, 1969, at eight-fifteen in the afternoon. How the hell do I know, but there were plenty. My point is you never admit when you're wrong, and I do.”

“Now that's a lot of crap if I ever heard any.”

“Now that's a lot of crap if I ever heard any,” then thinking how ridiculous it was mimicking him and how silly she must have sounded. She set the receiver down and ran her hands up and down her face.

“What'd you say, goddamnit?” his voice muffled in the bedspread.

“Bobbie?”

“Excuse me a minute. Ken, I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Can't it wait?” but she placed the receiver on the bed and went into the bathroom. She splashed water on her face, stepped on the scale, stepped off it and threw her robe and the head towel over the sink, and stepped on the scale again. She stared down and waited for the arrow to stop jiggling. Oh, give it up, she thought, her weight still fluctuating between 105 and 110. She put on the robe and went to the phone.

“Sorry, it was urgent,” she said.

“Urgent? You could've had two drinks at the 21 and gone to the John there for what your little urgency just cost me.”

That's right, you're calling from San Francisco, aren't you.”

“Yes. And it's not eight at night here and special low-evening long distance rates, either.”

That's right. I believe there's a three-hour difference in our time zones, which means you still probably have light. What can you see from your window?”

“Other windows.”

“No great big beautiful bay and mountains and ocean and ships going to Tokyo and Bangkok and places?”

“Windows. Actually, a curtain. I drew the curtain because of all those other windows. Come on, Bobbie, what do you say we cut out all this sarcasm and biting remarks for a while, okay? Let's just say we're both in the wrong as we were for our last squabble, and begin something from there.”

“So now we're both in the wrong. My, we are making progress. I'm sorry, Ken, but I'm not accepting any compromises.”

“Okay, so I admit I was compromising—but only to get you off the hook this time.”

“Just try unhooking yourself for a change, all right?”

“Do me a favor? Forget I called?”

“Whatever you say,” and she hung up. She went into the bathroom to dry her hair.

The phone rang. Warren, reading a comicbook on his bed, waited for it to ring five times before he ran to her bedroom to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hello, sweetheart, how come you didn't answer sooner?”

“Hi, Granny. Mom's in the bathroom with that hair dryer going on. I'll get her. Ma?” he shouted. “Grandma Ruth's on the phone.”

“How is everything at home?”

“Fine. Dad called. He's in San Francisco. Ma?” he said, interrupting her next question, “Grandma Ruth wants to speak to you.”

“I said, Warren, your father called? How long ago?”

“I'm not sure; not long. Ma?”

“Did he mention anything about when he's coming home—or your mother? Warren, are you listening to me?”

Just then his mother pushed open the bathroom door and took the receiver out of his hand.

“Hello, Ruth, what can I do for you?”

“My God, Barbara, right away I can hear how angry you are.”

“It might sound like that, but I'm not. How are you?”

“But I can hear.”

“All right, you can hear, you can hear, but how are things with you?”

“Wonderful, thanks, but I'd like to know what's this I hear about Kenneth and you. I haven't the exact story, of course, but whatever it is, it can't be more than a little fuss.”

“It's much more.” She waved Warren out of the room. He gestured he'd sit on the bed and wouldn't speak or listen to anything said on the phone, but she continued to shake her head for him to leave, and he stamped out.

“Why is it more than that?” Ruth went on. “A spat, like everyone has spats, and then it's over. Be smart—make up. I know something about how a wife should act. She thinks she's in the right—and even if she is, she should forget it or maybe just believe she's right but not say so. For if it makes them happy and builds up their ego, why shouldn't you give in sometimes, am I right?”

“No.”

“Don't be a little girl, Barbara, angry for nothing, holding malice till it hurts. Do what I say and everything will work out fine.”

“You honestly believe that?”

“Answer it yourself, dear: what else could happen?”

“Well, there's always what I think of myself after that lie—there's always that. And then tell me one thing that's gotten better between us after I've given in to him because you said I should, my own folks said I should, just about everyone I know said it.”

“If everyone's said it, then it must be the right thing to do.”

“Oh, artfully answered, Ruth, but I can't believe you believe that deep down. Haven't you been reading the papers? We're wearing our own fashions, breaking down all the discriminatory practices. Women shouldn't sell out to men anymore.”

“Please, you can't change him. That's how he is, was, and will always be, so accept it.”

Then it's never going to be good again between Ken and me till he does change—and you can tell him that when he phones you.”