Boys & Girls Together (3 page)

“He should go out with other people more,” Charlotte said.

Deborah laughed. “What other people? Aaron’s a joke, Mother. I just dread having him in high school with me next year.”

“People shouldn’t laugh at Aaron,” Charlotte said. “Why do they?”

“Look at him. He’s ninety feet tall and his clothes never look like they fit and he thinks he’s so smart and he’s all the time
appearing
behind your back like a spook. He’s a nut, Mother. I’m ashamed to be seen with him and that’s the truth.”

“If only your father had lived,” Charlotte said. “If only he hadn’t—”

Aaron slammed the front door.

“Is that you, Aaron?” Charlotte called.

“Yes, Mother,” he answered.

“Howza flick?” Deborah asked him.

Aaron smiled. “Yummy.”

That night he drew a vicious picture of his sister. He looked at it. It wasn’t enough. He began to draw another picture, then, suddenly shifting from one form to another, he started writing. He wrote for hours. About Deborah. And Charlotte. Page after page, crushing them beneath the weight of his erudition, slashing the remains with his wit. It was nearly dawn when he finished. Aaron walked outside and waited for the sun. He felt wild.

He began writing character sketches of his fellow students, the shift into high school serving only to widen his choice of subject matter. He was protected from everyone now; as long as he had paper, he was safe. In school he was brilliant, and if his teachers were frightened of his habit of asking difficult questions, then smiling at them while they stumbled through an answer, they also admired his brilliance. His fellow students simply feared him. Sometimes, as he limped through the halls, he could hear them whispering about him. “That’s Debby Firestone’s brother. Him. Yeah. Can you believe it?” Whenever he met his sister on his way to class the pattern was always the same. She would do her best not to see him until he moved almost directly in front of her. Then she would smile. Aaron always smiled back.

He was a freshman in high school when he discovered his name. He was reading in study hall, doing his homework for the day, when he chanced across the names of the four elements: earth, air, fire and water. He studied the words. Earth, air, fire and water. Earth and air. Air and fire. He said them to himself. Air and fire. Aaron Fire.
AARON FIRE.
He shrieked. Heads turned to face him.
AARON FIRE.
That was his name. Aaron Fire the writer. He was Aaron Fire, the writer.

At last he knew his immortality was assured.

Charlotte decided the time had come for Deborah to get married. Deborah was eighteen, halfway through her senior year in high school, and there seemed little point in her going to college. Her grades in high- school had been barely average, and, more than that, what was the point of going to college when there were all the eligible young men right here in town, in Princeton. “And you must have an eligible man, my baby,” Charlotte said. “It has got to be an eligible man.”

“You mean rich,” Deborah answered.

Charlotte grabbed her daughter’s shoulders and turned her. They faced each other, standing close. “Now you hear me,” she whispered. “You listen to your mother. I want you to marry for love, you understand that? For love.” Charlotte smiled. “But you might as well fall in love with a rich man.”

And so the search for a suitor began. Not that there was any shortage of candidates; Deborah was pretty, with pale red hair and a lithe body, and boys flocked to the yellow house on Nassau Street. High-school boys and Princeton sophomores and even a few graduate students all the way from Columbia University. But the rich ones were too young and those old enough didn’t quite seem eligible enough.

Aaron watched it all, watched as his mother entertained the men in the living room while Deborah applied a final touch of lipstick, a last dab of perfume. Charlotte was at her most charming—she seemed to speak more Southern than in the past—as she gently probed the young men, inquiring as to their homes, their interests, their parents’ occupations. “Mr. Firestone was a fine lawyer,” she would begin. “Is your father by any chance in law?” Occasionally she would bring Aaron into use, calling to him as he stood by the wall outside the living room. “Oh, come in, Aaron. Do you know my son Aaron? Aaron’s the smart one in the family.” But always, after Deborah and her escort had gone, Charlotte would frown slightly, shaking her head. “Not for my baby,” she would mutter. “Not good enough for my baby.”

Generally her disapproval went only that far—a quick shake of the head. The one time it exceeded the limit was when Deborah went out with Dominic Melchiorre. He was a big man, broad and swarthy, and he came to the door wearing a striped double-breasted suit. Ill at ease, he stumbled through a few minutes’ conversation with Charlotte. Then he smiled at Charlotte—he had a dazzling smile, white teeth flashing against dark skin—and moved outside. “Tell Debby I’m in the car,” Dominic Melchiorre said. Charlotte watched him through the screen door as he got into an old sedan and began smoking. Deborah dashed after him a few minutes later. “Bye, Mama,” she said. “Don’t wait up.”

But Charlotte waited.

Aaron listened to the scene from his room. Deborah got home after three and Charlotte was ready. “An Italian?” she began. “I brought my daughter up so she could be escorted by an Italian? I bought my daughter clothes so she could look nice for a ... a ...”

“Say it,” Deborah urged.

“Catholic,” Charlotte said.

“I like him.”

“You like him. Oh, baby, you don’t know what you’re saying. What does he do?”

“He’s in the construction business.”

“Day laborer, you mean. A common sweating day laborer.”

“But
like
him.”

“There’s nothing to
like
! He does not exist. This did not happen. Not in our world. He is gone, hear? He is dead and forgotten and long, long gone. You tell me that. Deborah Crowell Firestone, you just tell me!”

There was a long quiet.

“Gone,” Deborah whispered then. “He’s gone.”

They wept that night. Both of them. When they retired to their bedrooms, Aaron could hear them weeping.

Aaron smiled.

Jamie Wakefield appeared the following week, as if divinely ordered. Charlotte met him first, at the Browse-Around. “This wonderful young man came in today,” she began, the minute she got home. “Listen to me, Deborah, while I tell you about him.”

“Who?” Deborah took her gum out of her mouth and began rolling it in her fingers.

“Jamie Wakefield, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Jamie Wakefield, he bought a coat—Deborah, stop playing with your gum this minute, hear?—a cashmere coat. For his mother. It’s her birthday and he bought her a one-hundred-percent cashmere coat just like that. We got to talking, and he is a real charmer and nice-looking and—”

“I’ll bet,” Deborah said.

“And it turns out he’s from Dallas. Well, I had his address, of course—he was sending the coat to his home—and you remember my cousin Millie—well, she lives in Dallas, has all her life, and she told me today—”

“You called her?” Deborah said. “To check up on this boy?”

“I did no such thing as check up on anybody. I owed Cousin Millie a letter—have for the longest time—so I called her to chat and if I happened to mention the Wakefield boy, well, I certainly don’t see anything unusual in that. Deborah, you’re going to love this Jamie Wakefield—I know it. I told him all about you—he’s very interested—he’s a pre-medical student and I mentioned how you loved biology and all. He’s coming on Friday to see you. I knew you’d be free, so I took it on myself—”

“I’m busy Friday,” Deborah began.

“Not anymore you’re not,” Charlotte said. “Not after what Cousin Millie told me today you’re not.”

“What did she say?”

“He’s eligible, baby. That’s what she said.”

Jamie Wakefield arrived promptly at seven o’clock on Friday, wearing a dark tweed coat, a dark tweed jacket and dark gray pants. Shy, obviously nervous, he waited with Charlotte and Aaron in the living room.

“I think the role of a physician is a noble one, Mr. Wakefield,” Charlotte said. “My husband, Mr. Firestone, was a lawyer. That’s noble too.”

“Yes, ma’m,” Jamie Wakefield said. He was of medium height, with brown hair and a bland, even face.

“My son Aaron here hasn’t decided yet what he wants to be, have you, Aaron?”

“Not yet,” Aaron lied. He had never told her about Aaron Fire. There was no point in telling; she would never have understood.

“Aaron’s the brains of our little family,” Charlotte went on. “Deborah’s got the beauty and Aaron’s got the brains.” She laughed softly. “I don’t know where I fit in.”

“I’m sure they both take after you, Mrs. Firestone,” Jamie Wakefield said.

“Gallantry,” Charlotte said. “Undeniable gallantry. See, Aaron? It’s true what I say about Southern men. They have—what would you call it, Mr. Wakefield?”

“I don’t know, ma’m.”

“Flair,” Charlotte said. “That’s as good a word as any. Style. Southern men have style.”

“If you say so, ma’m.” Jamie Wakefield nodded.

“Why, I remember some of my beaus when I was growing up in Roanoke. I remember ...”

Fortunately, Deborah appeared.

Jamie Wakefield stood silently, looking at her. She was wearing a dark green dress and it contrasted perfectly with her pale red hair. “Mr. Wakefield, my daughter Deborah,” Charlotte began. “Deborah, this is Jamie Wakefield from Dallas.”

“How do you do, Mr. Wakefield,” Deborah said.

“Yes, ma’m.” Jamie nodded, looking at her.

Charlotte saw them to the door, and when they were gone she whirled around, eyes bright, arms stretched wide. “Aaron,” she said, “we have great expectations.”

For the next month Deborah and Jamie dated several times a week and every weekend. Jamie was inexperienced, backward at times, ill at ease. He took her to the movies and for coffee after, where she did most of the talking, chattering on about whatever came into her mind, while he simply nodded, sipping his coffee and nodding, looking at her. Then they began going to New York. They ate sometimes at Le Pavilion—Jamie’s father liked Le Pavilion—and they went to the theater on Saturday nights, and everything seemed to be living up to Charlotte’s hopes until Deborah found out she was pregnant.

Charlotte’s reaction to the news was quite remarkable. They were having dinner, Deborah and Charlotte and Aaron, sitting at the small table in the corner of the kitchen, and Charlotte was commenting about how happy she was and how happy Deborah was and how even Aaron seemed happier than usual and wasn’t it wonderful what one person like Jamie Wakefield could do for the spirits of one family and the high cost of weddings and was there ever a better time of day than suppertime with a family all together when Deborah burst uncontrollably into one quick wave of tears and then gave forth the news. In the ensuing silence, Deborah half closed her eyes, tilting her face up toward her mother, ready for the blow.

Charlotte simply put her fork down. “You’re sure?”

Deborah nodded.

“Jamie?”

Deborah shook her head.

“Who, then?”

Deborah sat frozen.

“Tell me—” Abruptly Charlotte stopped and said “No.”

Deborah nodded yes.

“The Catholic, I might have known,” Charlotte said, and she put the tips of her fingers against her closed eyes, talking very quietly. “It is not going to happen and that is all there is to it. I simply will not allow ...” She opened her eyes. “Are you sure it isn’t Jamie?”

Deborah nodded.

“How do you know?” Charlotte asked, no longer talking quietly.

“Jamie’s never touched me,” Deborah whispered.

Charlotte reached across the table and took her daughter’s hand, stared at her daughter’s eyes. “We can remedy that, can’t we, baby?” Deborah said nothing. “Can’t we, baby? Can’t we, baby?” Staring and touching, Charlotte went on. “Can’t we, baby? Can’t we, baby? Can’t we, baby?”

Deborah was never one to argue with her mother.

When Jamie arrived that night Deborah was waiting for him, sitting in the living room. “Where’s your mother?” Jamie asked. “It doesn’t seem as if I deserve to see you without talking with your mother a while first. Sort of a price of admission.”

“Mother had to go to New York for the evening. Some cousin of hers’ is in town.”

“Well, I’ll miss her,” Jamie said. “I’ll truly miss her.” He took off his tweed coat and folded it over a chair. “You look very pretty, Deborah.”

She smiled at him. “You always say that.”

“It’s the truth is why.”

Deborah wore a black sweater open at the throat with a thin strand of pearls around her neck. “Hey,” she said, giggling. “Guess what I discovered today. Guess. Mother keeps a bottle. Isn’t that amazing? Do you want a drink?”

“No,” Jamie said.

“True blue Jamie Wakefield,” Deborah answered. “Lips that touch liquor will never touch his. I’m going to have a drink. A big strong one.”

She disappeared into the kitchen and Jamie could hear the sound of an ice tray splitting open. He rubbed his palms against his trousers. Deborah came back carrying two glasses. “I brought you one anyway. In case you change your mind.” She handed it to him and they both sipped in silence for a while.

“Aaron’s at the movies,” Deborah said. “Like always, Aaron’s at the movies.”

Jamie nodded.

They sipped a while longer.

“The lights bother my eyes,” Deborah said. “Jamie, turn off the lights.”

“What’s got into you anyway? ‘Jamie, turn off the lights.’ ”

Deborah giggled. “I’m just trying to get you alone in the dark, silly. That’s all.”

Jamie looked at her. “You are?”

“I are.”

“Oh.” Slowly he walked to the wall switch and flicked it off. The room was dark momentarily, but then they began getting accustomed to the moonlight. Jamie sat across the room from her, holding tightly to his glass.

“Jamie Wakefield, you win the blue ribbon for stupidity. The world’s championship.”

“What did I do?”

“Why are you sitting over there? What’s the point of being all alone in the house with no lights anywhere to be seen if you’re going to sit a million miles away?”