As Far as You Can Go (24 page)

“The American mother,” said Henry Washburn, “is
marvellous
in many ways, Harold, but sometimes she can be just a little too marvellous.”

Harold couldn’t make up his mind whether or not he
disliked
Washburn. Offering to sell him the picture behind his mother’s back was not going to appeal to Diane much, and it didn’t altogether appeal to Harold, either. But instead of the prancing queer he had been led to expect, Washburn seemed very ordinary and rather sad, even if he did have his eyes open for ways of fooling his mother. He loved her, he said, and yet he was prepared to make money out of her love for him. Perhaps it was his way of getting quietly back at her for what she had made him. And perhaps he was just putting on a performance for Harold’s benefit—here he was, still in his office clothes, looking very ordinary and American and charming, but there was last night, and there was Pedro, and anyone who knew Eddie had to be treated with considerable reserve.

As they made their way back to the porch, Harold
wondered
what Diane was going to say. It wasn’t as though there was anything illegal or even underhand about Washburn’s suggestion. In a way, it was the obvious solution to Harold’s difficulty. If the old girl wouldn’t sell on her own, and yet she was prepared to give the miniature to her son, to do what he liked with it, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong. She would be upset if she knew, no doubt, what her son planned to do with it. But was hiding that from her really so bad? He felt uneasy. He was glad he hadn’t yet mentioned any particular sum of money. He didn’t want to haggle, and he didn’t want Henry to have a chance to ponder a given figure: things could get dangerously close to blackmail. Henry could still go to his mother and say that Harold had come to him with the suggestion, and that would put an end to everything. Henry was really in a very strong position. The only advantage Harold still held was Dangerfield’s money.

Diane didn’t look up when they came out again. She was gazing across the street at an old Buick out of which children were climbing, their parents failing to exert any control over them. There were five children, between ten and three, Harold judged. Diane watched them with a curious smile on her face, half-sad, half-happy.

“Aw, c’mon, Mom,” said the eldest child, a girl. “What are you doing? I want to go to the bathroom.”

“Wait, can’t you?” said her mother. “Bill, for Christ’s sake let Jean in before she goes in the street.”

“I can’t,” said the father, “I’ve lost the key.”

“Jesus and Mary,” said the mother.

“Come
on,
Mom.”

It wasn’t exactly an inspiring scene, but Diane seemed to be enjoying it. She looked at Harold, and smiled, the same half-sad smile.

They had another drink, then Harold said they must go. Eddie came with them.

“It was nice meeting you,” said Henry. “So long, Diane, honey. Tell Mother hello, will you?”

“Sure, Uncle Henry.”

“I’ll get in touch with you,” said Harold. “What’s your phone number?”

“It’s in the book. Yes, call me when you feel like it.”

They got into the car, waved good-bye and Harold said, “Where do you want to go, anyone?”

“There’s a far-out club down on the beach here,” said Eddie, “a kind of bar. You pay to go in, but once you’re in, Jesus.”

“I don’t think so,” said Harold, firmly.

“It’s a little early,” said Eddie. “Where are you people eating?”

“I don’t want much,” said Diane. “Let’s go to a drive-in.”

They found a place where the waitresses wore long black stockings and little aprons, hardly bigger than cache-sexes,
and that was about all, except for bikini-type brassieres. They clattered around on five-inch heels.

They had roast chicken on trays that clamped to the windows of the car, and Coca-Cola and ice-cream. Music came from a hidden amplifier, Mantovani and his
interminable
strings. In the next car, a yellow convertible with the roof down, a boy and a girl were eating most of their food from each other’s lips, and listening to a baseball game at the same time. There was a lot to be said both for and against it as a place to eat.

“I have an idea for a new radio station,” said Harold, suddenly. “You know the way they’re all called KNX or KFI and so on out here? Why not one that plays nothing but rock and roll and is called KRAP?”

Eddie laughed. “They’re all like that, anyway,” he said.

“Gee,” said Diane. “And KIDY for children. This is your programme, kiddies, KIDY, the voice of childhood.”

“And KANT for the highbrows,” said Harold, getting enthusiastic. “And KULT. And KUYP for painters. And KOAX for Greek plays. Nothing but Greek plays, day after day.”

“KRAM, the radio station that helps you pass your exams,” said Diane.

“KRUX, where God goes over the airwaves.”

“Or KOPE, for the High Church listener.”

“KAMP for the queers,” said Eddie.

Somehow it seemed to end the conversation, though Harold still had KASH for financiers, nothing but market reports, and running commentaries from the floor of the stock
exchange
, and KLAP, a station devoted to the propagation of mental and physical illness.

“You know something,” said Eddie. “I want to found a religion. Something really new, and far out.”

“Join the club,” said Diane. “In L.A. there’s a new religion
born every day. Another one dies, of course. You wouldn’t be noticed in the throng.”

“I would, though. It’d be called the First Church of Christ Atomic Scientist. You wouldn’t have to believe in anything but
e
being equal to
mc
squared. That is the
definition
of god. And instead of sermons and crap about prayer, you’d do things. Like holding services underground, and having everyone naked, and cutting out the light to have just energy and mass. Energy and mass is sex. The speed of light would be like the Holy Ghost, kind of difficult to grasp. See, there’s a trinity, like in Christianity. You’d have the
underground
sex services, then you’d come out into the light and have a real wow once a week. The Holy Ghost only knocks on Sundays. How about that?”

“You ought to put yourself away before someone comes after you with a strait-jacket,” said Diane, but she laughed.

“I have another idea, too,” said Eddie. “You know how funerals are so awful? People crying and all that?”

“I like them,” said Harold.

“Then you’re sick,” said Eddie. “No healthy person likes funerals, because they remind him he’s gotta die himself. No one likes that. No one wants to die.”

“But you have to die.”

“Sure, you have to die. But that’s no reason to go and make everyone else miserable. No. In my new church there’s going to be no funerals. I’ve got it all worked out. It’s called a drive-in crematorium. It also solves the problem of what to do with used cars. You get put in your car, see, on a slope, and someone gives it a push and you roll through these doors into a sort of garage. Only it’s not a garage, it’s a furnace, real hot. And when you come out, there’s nothing but a lump of melted-down metal, with you all inside it somewhere. And you can have it cast into some kind of far-out statue, like Michelangelo’s David. Or one of those crazy modern things. You could be a mobile. I’d be a mobile.”

“Really, Eddie,” said Harold, “your mind is diseased.’’

“Drive your own hearse,” said Eddie. “Have you been to Forest Lawn yet, Harold?”

“No, but I’ve read
The
Loved
One
.”

“You oughta go. Isn’t that right, Diane?”

“I don’t see why. My grandpa’s in there somewhere. We have a kind of vault, six inches by four.”

“I don’t want to go,” said Harold firmly.

“I guess you’re frightened of death, Harold,” said Eddie. “I’m not. I got it all planned. When I go, I’m going to go big.”

“What are you going to do when you get to be thirty-five, Eddie?” said Harold. “I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“I don’t know,” said Eddie. “I have a few years yet. Maybe I’ll kill myself. Something spectacular. Like cutting my throat on the floor of the Senate. I want everyone to know about it.”

“Do you believe in an after-life?” said Diane.

“Kind of. I guess we don’t ever get away. Next time round I want to be a woman. Yes, sure I believe in an after-life. We’re all still looking for our twins, like I told you. When you get to find him, I don’t know what happens. Maybe you don’t die. I’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

“Jesus,” said Diane. “I think you’re the farthest-out nut I’ve ever met. What happened to you when you were a child? Someone give you a friendly crack with a hammer?”

“Nothing happened,” said Eddie. “Childhood’s a waste of time. And it takes so long, too. That’s what gets me down. It takes you till you’re thirteen or fourteen before you know there’s such a thing as sex. About a fifth of your life wasted.”

“Well, that’s a new angle,” said Diane.

Harold said, “Where shall we go next, darling?” He wanted to get rid of Eddie. “It’s very early still.”

“I guess I’ll go home, honey. I don’t feel too good. It happens to girls sometimes.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you say before?”

“‘Gosh’,” she mimicked. “I love you English boys. You know something, Eddie? No Englishman has ever seen a naked woman till his marriage night. Harold told me. It’s a native superstition.”

“I bet they’ve seen naked men, though,” said Eddie. “I’d sure like to have been at one of your public schools.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” said Harold. “The speed of light, for instance.”

“I forgot,” said Eddie. “You’re a lucky girl, Diane. You have the only guy in L.A. who’s not interested in queers.”

“And I’m not sorry,” said Diane.

“Nor am I,” said Harold.

They unclamped their trays and paid for the meal.

“You really want to go straight home?” said Harold.

“Yes please,” she said. She squeezed his shoulder and kissed his ear.

When they reached the turning-circle at the head of the canyon, Harold said, “Eddie, how about you taking a short walk?”

“I’d rather watch,” he said. “Or you can have a swell arrangement with three.”

“Get out,” said Harold. “I’ll sound the horn when you can come back.”

“Killjoy,” said Eddie. But he got out and strolled to the edge of the hill and disappeared.

“I’m sorry, darling,” said Harold. “I couldn’t see how to get rid of him.”

“He’s wild, isn’t he? Real gone. I mean, a
nut
.”

He kissed her and said, “I can’t think how a respectable ordinary man like me ever got to know such a weirdo. Is that the right word?”

“It’ll do,” she said.

“Well, I’d better tell you about your Uncle Henry. He says he can get me the picture. His loving mother will give it to him if he asks. And he’ll sell it to me. How about that?”

“Oh, God,” said Diane. “I knew it would be something awful, like that. Oh, Harold. Why did he have to go and say that?”

“Darling, I told you, I’m tough now. You’re my only weakness.” He leaned over and kissed her again. “I wish they’d invent a car with a collapsible steering-wheel.”

“It’s not right,” she said. “I’m not sure why it’s not right, but it isn’t. I don’t see why Grandma should be deceived like that. I don’t like Uncle Henry, and I don’t want him cheating on Grandma.”

“I thought you’d feel that,” said Harold. “But all the same, there’s nothing exactly wrong about it, is there? I mean, she’s said she’ll leave the miniature to him. It’s only getting an advance on his inheritance, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s more than that. I don’t care what Grandma does with her things when she dies. She can leave everything to him for all it matters to me. But she shouldn’t be cheated. It would be—like a confidence trick, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Harold, “it would, in a way. I’ve told him I’d let him know what you thought.”

She looked at him gratefully and said, “You do love me, Harold, don’t you?”

“Yes. But I also intend to tell your uncle to go ahead and try. But it’s up to you whether you tell your grandmother or not. I hope you won’t.”

“I guess I shall,” she said.

“It probably won’t make any difference, anyway. She’s almost certain to suspect something. After all, it’s not very subtle of your uncle, is it?”

“No. She’ll probably suspect, all right.”

“So—it would please me very much if you didn’t tell her. It’s not going to make it easier for me, either way—whether you tell her or whether she gets suspicious for herself. But there’s a very slight chance she won’t suspect, and she’ll let Uncle Henry have the miniature.”

“I get your train of thought.”

“It’s not very much to ask, is it?”

“It’s everything,” she said. “You make me choose. I’m not feeling well, Harold. Things have been dizzy all day, really dizzy and sort of mentally dizzy, too.”

“I’m sorry, darling.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. When you hit me I—I guess I came out of the dizziness. But I feel all dazed again now.”

“Why don’t you sleep on it?”

“I’ll try.” She turned to him suddenly, and took his lapels in her hands and said, “You’ve got to try and see things my way, too, Harold. Maybe if you’d had a father and mother who never gave a goddam about you, you might understand. If you’d only known home with an old woman. If you’d been happy enough—not very happy, sure—but happy enough, till a strange man came along and told you he loved you, and slapped your face till you thought you loved him, too, and told you you had to choose between him and the old woman—maybe you’d see why I have to tell her. I don’t have to abandon her, do I?”

“It may come to that,” said Harold.

“I don’t think I can. Not at the moment, anyway. Maybe, later, when we’re forced to decide—but we’re not forced now, are we? Do I have to choose between you and Grandma now?”

Harold thought about it. He wasn’t sure. Now might be as good a time as any. But then an absolute choice like that—wasn’t it, perhaps, dramatizing things unnecessarily, making difficulties for no purpose?

“You sleep on it,” he said.

“I just don’t
know
.”