Boys & Girls Together (113 page)

“Comin home ...

Comin’ home ...

Branch is comin’ home ...

Mother’s there ...

Gramma too ...

All the friends we knew ...

When the automatic elevator finally came, Sid bowed Esther into it, entered himself, pushed the button marked “Main.” They rode down in silence, and when they were almost ready to get out Esther said, “Murderer!”

Sid, lost in thought, didn’t hear her quite.

“Murderer!”

“What are you talking about, Tootsie?”

“Murderer!
Murderer!
”

“Esther—”

“
You killed my son!
”

Sid pulled her through the lobby. “Get you to the hotel,” he said. “Fast.”

On the street, Esther hollered,
“MURDERER!”

“You don’t know what you’re saying, shut up—”

“Oh God,” Esther said, and she moved in on him. “You killed my Rudy. I know it. I know it. You made him die.”

“Esther, for crissake—”

“I have never
dreamed
I could hate you the way I hate you now!”

“We’ve all had a helluva shock, Es—”

“I love it. I love it. I love it,
MURDERER!”

Sid started walking away up the street.

“MURDERER! MURDERER!”

Sid whirled. “You want to get us both arrested?”

“You and your goddam Dolly. You and your goddam girlfriend, you can kiss her goodbye, Sid. I’ll never leave you, Sid. Never for an instant. Never. I’ll be with you always,
MURDERER!”

“You’re crazy.” Starting to panic, Sid backed away.

Esther ran at him, eyes bright. “I’ll never leave you. Never leave your side. Oh God, Sid, I’m so happy—” Esther clapped her hands, and for a moment, as she reached out for her husband, she looked almost young. She took his arm, locked it in hers. “Isn’t it wonderful?” Esther crowed. “I’ve got something to live for at last!”

I
WAS BORN FOR CAVIAR
, Aaron decided.

It was the twelfth of August and he stood in a corner of Stagpole’s stateroom, piling a cracker indecently high with fresh Beluga caviar. He downed it, quickly filled a slender glass with iced champagne, downed that too. Delicately, Aaron wiped his mouth. Glancing around the room, he counted a grand total of eleven people, ten of them famous. Well, Aaron thought, give me time.

In the center of the room, Stagpole inserted a cigarette into his holder, then looked at Aaron.

Aaron hesitated, trying not to redden. Hurrying forward, he lit Stagpole’s cigarette. As he moved he was conscious of all the other men’s eyes.

“Thank you, dear boy,” Stagpole said, inhaling.

Aaron said nothing, moving quickly back to his place in the corner by the food. Again he was aware that everyone was watching him, probably comparing him with previous “secretaries” of Stagpole’s. And, the snotty bastards, they were laughing at him too. Aaron knew that. Every burst of laughter was in one way or another directed at him.

“Dear boy,” Stagpole called out, “do you think it might be time for more champagne?”

Aaron flushed deeper, silently cursing himself for reddening. They were all watching him again, so he casually picked up a bottle of champagne and took a very long time to study the label. The words meant nothing to him. I must learn about such things, Aaron decided. I must become
une frigging connoisseur
. Then he toured the room as fast as he could, filling a few glasses before returning to his place in the corner.

“Thank you, dear boy,” Stagpole said to him, smiling.

That makes forty-two “dear boys” today so far, Buster, and for every one of them, buddy old pal, you are going to
pay
. He smiled back at Stagpole, wishing that the boat would sail, that everyone would get the hell out and stop smirking at him.

A uniformed flunky appeared in the doorway. “Packages for Mr. Stagpole,” he said.

Stagpole interrupted his conversation with a wavy-haired symphony conductor, a bearded choreographer and a dirty-fingernailed young Broadway lyricist long enough to snap his fingers at Aaron.

Eyes down, Aaron hurried to the door, listening as a derisive burst of laughter exploded behind him. Finger snaps count as five “dear boys,” Aaron thought, and that makes forty-seven I owe you. “I’m Mr. Stagpole’s secretary,” he said to the uniformed flunky. Aaron looked at the pile of boxes stacked in the corridor. “All for Mr. Stagpole?”

The flunky nodded.

“Well, bring them in, bring them in,” Aaron said, snapping his fingers, pointing toward the corner of the room already containing Stagpole’s luggage. When the boxes were neatly piled, Aaron said “You may go” as haughtily as he could, considering everyone was watching him and laughing at him and he was the one man out of eleven who wasn’t famous.

The warning whistle blew for the third time and, in a moment, a slow general movement began toward the stateroom door. “Oh, must you?” Stagpole said. He sighed. “I suppose you must. That or come along,” and he gave a light laugh, moving to the doorway then, nodding and smiling, gripping each passing hand, giving each a meaningful little squeeze. “Dear heart ... take care ... you too ... goodbye ... we must ... by all means ... you know I will ... don’t you dare ... so good of you ...” and the men filing out said “Goodbye” or “Nonsense” or “Till Bimini, then” or “Remember me to Nadia.” When they were gone Stagpole closed the door and leaned against it.

Stagpole smiled at Aaron.

Aaron turned his back, piled another cracker high with caviar, took his time about eating it because, in truth, he was a bit flustered since, through his own skillful maneuverings, he had managed never to be alone with Stagpole before.

“The first time we’ve really been alone,” Stagpole said.

Aaron turned. “Is it?”

Stagpole nodded. “I wanted it that way. I wanted our initial venture to take place on water. Don’t ask me why.”

“Repression is the better part of valor,” Aaron said.

Stagpole laughed. “May I use that? Thank you. Why don’t you like my friends?”

“Same reason I don’t like you: natural good taste.”

Stagpole stopped laughing. “Please. Don’t be nervous.”

“Nervous?” Aaron laughed. “May I use that? Thank you.”

Stagpole smiled, went to the windows, drew the curtains. “I feel like I’ve been standing up for hours,” he said, lying on one of the twin beds. “Massage my feet, would you, Aaron?”

“Who was your nigger last year? You can massage your own feet.”

“Please?”

“Look,” Aaron said, pouring himself another glass of champagne. “You needed a secretary, I know how to type—”

“Massaging my feet is not such an incredible request.”

“I signed on as secretary, not a goddam masseur.”

“Surely you didn’t think answering mail and such would be your only duties?”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your jollies every now and again.”

Stagpole shook his head. “You’re a stern young man,” he said. “Very stern.” He got up and moved to the corner where the boxes were. “You remember my having your measurements taken?” he said. “Sit down, Aaron. Please.”

Aaron sat on the other bed.

Stagpole began opening boxes. He opened them and threw the contents on the bed, starting with silk underwear and cashmere socks, a dozen pairs, and Aaron grabbed them, but then he had to let them go because Stagpole put down a dozen silk shirts and after the shirts came three lizard belts and bench-made shoes and trousers of imported woolens and cashmere jackets, one brown, one white, and Aaron began putting clothes half on, throwing them off, donning something else more splendid, and when Stagpole opened the cashmere overcoat of darkest blue Aaron almost wept as he paraded before the full-length mirror. He ran back and jumped onto the bed and threw the clothes up in the air and when they landed, threw them again and then he returned to the mirror and Stagpole, watching, only smiled.

“Am I not breathtaking?” Aaron yelled. “Am I not divine?” He whirled on Stagpole. “Why? I love it, but why?”

Stagpole lay back down, his hands beneath his fiery hair. “People like us, we have no heirs to leave our money to. We need only satisfy the government; the rest is for our whims. You—” and he pointed at Aaron—“are my very dearest whim.”

“I’m gonna enter the goddam Miss America contest,” Aaron said. He paraded before the mirror. “Miss America, that’s me,” and he made smiling faces toward the mirror till Stagpole spoke again.

“Please massage my feet, Aaron.”

Aaron took off the cashmere coat, dropped it to the stateroom floor, kicked it in Stagpole’s direction. “Kiss my rosy red rectum,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Stagpole muttered, and he sighed and picked up the coat and carried it back to Aaron, handing it to him with his left hand, and as Aaron reached out for it Stagpole made his right hand rigid and, swinging suddenly, crashed it against Aaron’s throat.

Aaron reeled backward, slammed into the mirror, fell.

Stagpole walked slowly after him, reached down, lifted him gently and, with his left hand this time, dealt another blow to Aaron’s throat. Aaron fell full length, gagging, his hands across his Adam’s apple. When Stagpole picked him up a third time Aaron whispered, “Don’t.”

“Ah, but I must,” Stagpole said, and then he turned Aaron gently around, brought his knee up fast, slamming it into the small of Aaron’s back.

Aaron gave a quiet cry. Then he lay sprawled out, very still.

“Now we’ll have a little talk if we may,” Stagpole said, moving to the bed, taking off his shoes. He started to massage his feet. “You see, Aaron, you were quite right: I can do it myself.” Stagpole smiled. “But of course, the central question here is not one of manipulation but of obedience.” Stagpole removed his socks and started rubbing his little pink toes. “Pudgy fingers, pudgy toes,” he said, holding up his hands for Aaron to see. “Am I boring you?”

Aaron lay still.

“In a little you’ll be fine, don’t worry,” Stagpole said. “In the meantime, let me point out that you, according to your own biased reports, have written one novel which nobody published and one play which nobody saw. I, on the other hand, have written many novels and many plays; the novels sell, the plays run. I am not bragging, Aaron—”

Aaron made a sound.

Stagpole rubbed his toes harder. “I’m not, really. I’m just trying to indicate something to you:
I am a master
, Aaron. You could not begin to lick the shoes of an apprentice and
I am a master!
”

“Your breath smells,” Aaron whispered.

“Wonderful,” Stagpole applauded. “Not only stern but spunky.” He left the bed and pulled a chair over beside Aaron. Then he sat down, reached out, made a finger stiff and jabbed it at just below Aaron’s left ear.

Aaron groaned.

“What is a writer actually,” Stagpole asked, “but an exposer of nerves?” He pressed down again, and again Aaron groaned. “There are various places on your body, Aaron, which, when pressed will cause certain rather unpleasant reactions. I am going to press, from time to time, those places. Now hear me: if you suffer silently, I will let up. If you are audible, well, so much the worse for you.” He reached down quickly, jammed a knuckle into Aaron’s neck.

Aaron yelled.

Stagpole jabbed again, much harder.

Aaron bit his lip.

“Splendid,” Stagpole said.

Aaron panted, color draining.

Stagpole sat up and lit a cigarette, inserting it into an elegant holder. “Mustn’t have you fainting, Aaron,” he said. “Not before the ship has even sailed. I hate rushing things, don’t you?”

Aaron managed to lick the perspiration from his lips.

“Now what we have in you, Aaron,” Stagpole went on, “what you are is a writer and a sadist and a pervert. Well, small world, so am I. Except that
I am a master of those crafts! I am unexcelled
. And you ...” Stagpole shook his head. “Well, it’s just too bad about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Would you like to know your future? I’ll tell you. If you’d like.”

Aaron said nothing.

Stagpole bent down, pressed a finger lightly on Aaron’s eye. “Say you’d like.”

Aaron bit his lip. “Tell me.”

“That one is almost too painful, isn’t it?” He pressed down again.

Aaron bit his lip while perspiration sprang all across his forehead.

“I must begin with myself, when I was your age, Aaron. I wrote a novel and suddenly I found myself famous. It was a book about people like us, Aaron, and with the money I made I determined to take a trip around the world. You see, what I didn’t know then was that people like us, we form a special club. We more or less take care of our own. And when I got to Europe, oh, Aaron, I was feted, believe me. I did such things as only a young man dreams. I met the mighty men of Europe, Aaron; I saw sights, kissed kings—oh God, it was a journey to remember. And the most memorable sight pertains to you.”

Aaron lay still, panting.

“I don’t remember quite the country. I’m terrible at geography, flunked it in the seventh grade, would you believe it?”

Aaron said nothing.

Stagpole pressed down with a finger. “That was a question, Aaron.”

Aaron bit his lip, then muttered that he wouldn’t have believed it.

“In the East it was,” Stagpole said. “In the East, a village square, at dawn. Dust rising. White buildings all around. People scurrying back and forth across the square. And then, at a signal—are you listening, Aaron?—the children appeared! Ten years old, some of them less, eight or nine, some of them perhaps thirteen. They appeared with their parents, and their parents pushed them into the middle of the village square, with the dust rising and the white buildings all around. The children stood huddled together. Panicked. Not a sound. And then, Aaron, then came the foreign legionnaires. Because that is what I was witnessing—a flesh sale. A flesh sale at dawn, human flesh. The legionnaires walked in among the children, they began to examine them. They checked their teeth and their calf muscles and they tested their arms and they carefully scrutinized their genitals, and all the while, Aaron, there was not a sound. The legion officers, you see, needed houseboys. Boys to cook and clean and dust and, on steamy nights, Aaron, other things. The head officers, they each had a boy all to themselves, while the lower ones had to share. And here before me at dawn, Aaron, the officers of the foreign legion tested these children and made their choices and paid the asking price to the parents and then led their prizes off into the day. That movement brought back the dust. The sun became blinding. Soon the square looked like a village square somewhere in the East. White buildings, dust, hot sun.” Stagpole stood.