Boys & Girls Together (57 page)

He was in a jewelry store. Rose could see the display of wedding rings in the window.

“Branch?”

“Yes?”

“We’ve got to have a talk.” It was late the same evening and they were sitting on the back porch, prior to bed.

“Sounds important.”

“I’ve thought about this, Branch. More than you’ll ever know. It’s been in my mind for weeks. Day and night, all the time.”

“You’re upset.”

“Yes,” Rose said. “Yes, I am. Do you love me, Branch? Do you think I love you?”

“Of course.”

“Well, for the first time in my life I feel like a bad mother. I do. And I don’t much like it.”

Branch was silent.

“I want the best for you, my baby. That’s all I want. Do you believe me?”

“I don’t even have to answer that. You know how I feel.”

“Well ...”

“Yes?”

“It’s just that ...”

“Yes?”

“I think you should go to New York.”

Branch waited.

Rose said nothing, then the words came tumbling down. “Right away. Pack up and go to New York. Just go. Now. You’re not extravagant, I know that. I’ll support you.”

“I’m stunned,” Branch said.

“Like I say, I’ve thought a lot about this. Ever since we had our talk in New York and you told me you wanted to stay and I said I didn’t think it was a good idea. Well, I was wrong. You owe it to yourself to try and make good there. If that’s what you want, you have it coming. Forget about us here. Just go there and make your mark. Will you do that?”

“I hadn’t thought—yes. I’ll go. If you want me to.”

“I do.”

“I’ll fly in this weekend and find a place to live.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll need two bedrooms.”

“Why?”

“You’ll come visit me, won’t you?”

“I’d like to.”

“Well,” Branch said, and he smiled at her, “I wouldn’t dream of allowing my own mother to stay at a hotel.”

What could she do but smile? “I do love you, baby. I do want what’s best for you.”

“I know that.”

“Who can tell; maybe you won’t like it there. Maybe you’ll miss your home.” And if you don’t, the money stops. After six months. Six months was a long time. Nobody could say it wasn’t generous. Six months. At the outside. Maybe less.

“You’re right. I probably won’t like it. Once the novelty wears off.”

“Time will tell.”

“Yes,” Branch said. “Good night.” He kissed his mother on the forehead, then moved to the doorway.

“Good night, my baby.”

“You know what you are?”

“What?”

“Unselfish.”

Rose smiled.

Branch left her there, alone on the porch, staring at something on the lawn. Inside the house, Branch moved very slowly up the stairs to his room. Carefully he closed the door. Then he ran full tilt across the room, dove onto his bed, clutched his pillow to his body and stuffed one corner into his mouth so she wouldn’t hear him laughing.

J
ENNY KNEW SHE WAS
ready for something.

Monday night she forgot to go to acting class, wandering instead through Central Park, which wasn’t a smart thing to do, but she did it anyway. Tuesday noon she had an argument with her temporary boss at Kingsway Press, which also wasn’t a smart thing to do, especially for a secretary, but she did that too, anyway. Wednesday she simply overslept, waking at half past one—after a solid thirteen hours’ sleep—still tired. Thursday she jaywalked recklessly, all day long, and had another argument with her temporary boss, whose name was Archie Wesker and who looked for all the world like Robert Mitchum.

Then, Friday morning, her dry cleaner disappointed her.

His name was Mr. Yang and he was old and very wise and Jenny loved his dry cleaning, because he showed genuine interest in her occasional spots and always returned garments when he promised. So, on Friday morning, when she dashed through the summer heat to his shop only to find that half of her clothes had not come back and the other half were less well pressed than usual, she nearly wept. Sadly, she returned to her tiny apartment and almost without thinking put on a tight blue blouse and skirt and left for work without her customary raincoat. As she waited for the West Side subway she was propositioned twice and elbowed half to death by hordes of men who all seemed smaller and darker than she was. Ordinarily the elbowing would have upset her, but this morning she took it all serenely, leaving the subway before the train came, hailing a cab, blowing her budget, going to work in style.

She had not been at her desk more than five minutes when Mr. Wesker came up and stood in front of her, arms crossed, staring. He had, of course, stared at her before, except that before, when he had stared, she had not flushed. She looked up at him. “Yes?”

“Don’t attack me, Miss Devers. You didn’t have to say ‘yes’ quite so negatively.”

I really don’t like you, Jenny thought.

He smiled at her crookedly, the way Robert Mitchum smiles.

There’s more to a man than looks, Jenny thought.

“Good news, Miss Devers.”

“Auh?”

“Yes. You’re getting a new boss. I’m transferring to the textbook department.”

“Auh.”

“We’ll still be on the same floor, of course. And if you’d like, I could probably swing having you transferred with me.”

Jenny said nothing.

“That was a joke, Miss Devers. Our short time together has been more than sufficient for both of us, I’m sure.”

“I haven’t anything against you, Mr. Wesker, and that’s the truth.”

“Then have lunch with me.”

Jenny almost said “Why?” but it would have been rude, so she stopped herself in time. Rude or not, it was a good question. Why in the world had he asked her? And why in the world did she accept?

That was a good question, too.

They lunched at Adela’s, a long, narrow restaurant, very expensive, with red drapes lining the walls and elegant candles, one on each table, providing light. As they entered the cool darkness Jenny felt flattered. When a Kingsway editor wanted to impress someone, more often than not they lunched at Adela’s. The headwaiter led them to a table in the rear corner of the room. Mr. Wesker smiled and sat down right beside her.

“Who’s going to be my new boss?” Jenny asked, moving a little bit away.

“I think Fiske.” Archie smiled again.

“Mr. Fiske.” Jenny paused a moment. “He’s supposed to be very nice.”

“Who says?”

“The girls in the office.”

“Charley’s honest, upright and true,” Archie said. “A perfect senior editor. What do you want to drink?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I just don’t feel like anything.”

“You do drink.”

“Sometimes.”

“But not now. Why?”

“I already said. I just don’t feel—”

“Miss Devers, we’re separating as of today, so in celebration of that fact, let’s be honest. You’re afraid you’ll get plastered and I’ll lure you someplace and quote take advantage of you close quote.”

Jenny was tempted to get up, just get up right then and there and say, “Archie Wesker, you think you’re so smart you make me sick.” But she didn’t. Instead, she sat very still with her hands folded in her lap and cursed the weakness she had always had for Robert Mitchum.

“Well, let’s analyze your fear,” Archie went on. “You’re a big strong girl. I’ll tell you the truth: I wouldn’t want to arm-wrestle you, at least not for money. And answer me this: where am I going to lure you that if you don’t want to go there with me you can’t say ‘no’? How’m I going to surprise you? I’d have to have some kind of wild place, wouldn’t I? Ian Fleming out of Rube Goldberg. You know, we’re walking along and I push some hidden button and the sidewalk opens and you fall helpless onto this huge bed I’ve got stashed away under midtown Manhattan. Now all that’s possible, but the odds against it—”

“Gin and tonic,” Jenny said.

“Sure you’re not game for a martini?”

“Gin and tonic, thank you.”

Archie signaled for a waiter, gave the order. “Why don’t you like me?” he said then.

“I told you before, Mr. Wesker; I’ve got nothing against—”

“Come on, Jenny.
Spiel
.”

“You think you’re so good you make me sick. There.” She felt herself flushing again and she rummaged quickly through her pocketbook.

“What are you searching for?”

“Nothing. I’m just hiding. Look away. Give me a chance—please—to get back my composure. I don’t like fighting—please.”

Archie lit a cigarette. “I’m cursed,” he said.

Jenny went on rummaging.

“You’re absolutely right—I do think I’m good. I’m cursed. I
am
good. I would love—underline love—to feel insecure every so often. A little inferiority. But I don’t. When I’m honest, I’m an egotist. I’ve got to be hypocritical for most people to like me. It’s a curse, I tell you. Where you from?”

“Wisconsin.”

“Had to be. Or Minnesota. How’re you fixed on composure?”

“Fine.”

“You like me any better?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m really a great guy.”

“You’re very modest. I’ll say that.”

“Listen: can I help it that I look like Robert Mitchum?”

The waiter came with their drinks. Jenny sipped her gin and tonic. She was to finish three before the meal was over. More accurately, she was to finish three before the meal
began
. Each time she neared the bottom of her glass Archie would make a gesture and soon another drink would appear on the table. The gesture was a wrist flick, done with what, Jenny supposed, he supposed was breathtaking nonchalance.

Actually, he was so obvious she wanted to giggle.

That was what most surprised her—his obviousness. Did he think she didn’t know? Wasn’t it clear that she knew when, midway through her first drink, she downed several pieces of French bread and butter, thereby coating her stomach, thereby providing immunization? Evidently it was not clear, because during the meal he insisted on their sharing a bottle of wine, which she was more than glad to do, although he was getting a little thick-tongued by then. He was obvious in other ways too: touching her a lot—his hand on her hand, on her shoulder, once, ever so briefly, on her knee. And when he asked her questions about her background, it was obvious that he was just making conversation, that he didn’t really care a fig for her background, that he wasn’t the least bit interested in the fact that she had been in Manhattan over a year and had had an understudy part in a Stagpole play but hadn’t ever actually acted it because the play closed too soon and, besides, the girl she was understudying had had the constitution of
two
truck horses. Why am I talking so much? Jenny wondered, pausing before launching into a discussion of how much she hoped she was a good actress because that was the one thing in all the world she really wanted to be, a good actress, just a good solid professional working actress, and she was about to tell Archie Wesker how her acting teacher had taken her aside less than a month before and whispered that he thought she had the potential, except that since it was so obvious Archie didn’t care, Jenny decided to keep mum on that one. She also decided not to talk about Tommy Alden being on a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford or Cambridge (she could never keep them straight) except she changed her mind and did talk about it, because that way Archie would know she was practically for all intents and purposes
spoken for
and so wouldn’t try “anything,” whatever that was.

But telling of Tommy failed, for nothing Archie did was half as obvious as his approach at the end of the meal.

“Gotta pick up this manuscript, Jenny babe.” His hand rested on her shoulder.

“Wherzit?” Jenny said, speaking fuzzily so as not to embarrass him.

“Thizz place. Come along?”

“Izzit onnaway tuh the offizz?”

“Sorta.”

“Sher.” She smiled at him.

“Thank you.”

“Fer wha?”

“Meal.”

“Yuh travel wi’ Archie, yuh travel firzz clazz.” They got up and slowly made their way out of Adela’s, pausing for a moment when they reached the sidewalk. “Hot azza pistol,” Archie said.

“Hot azza pistol.” Jenny nodded.

Archie took her hand. “Gotcha.”

“Got me.”

They started to walk.

“Whazzatime?”

Archie looked at his watch a while. “Four,” he said finally.

“Four
o’clock
?”

Archie nodded.

Jenny pulled loose. “I’ve got to get back to the office. I can’t take a three-hour lunch. How did it get to be so—”

She stopped suddenly, because, among other reasons, she was speaking much too clearly, but so was he when he answered, “Forget it! Just forget it! I’m your boss. We’re on company business.”

Jenny began rummaging through her purse. He must be terribly embarrassed, she thought. “Fresh air,” she mumbled. “It really clears the head.”

“What are you looking for?”

“I forget.” She closed the purse after a while.

“Now just you quit worrying about the time. It’s Friday and it’s summertime. Nobody works. Hand?” He held his out.

She took it. “Hand.” Jenny smiled. “Gotcha.”

“Got me.” They walked in silence for a while. Then Archie hailed a cab.

“Where are we going?” Jenny said.

“To pick up this manuscript.”

“But where?”

“Listen, do you want me to drop you at the office?”

“No, no. It’s Friday and it’s summertime. Nobody works.”

Archie nodded, gave the driver a number.

“Much cooler in the cab anyway,” Jenny said.

“Much.” He took her hand again. “Are you bright as a penny, Jenny? The song says you’re supposed to be.”

“I’m not so bright,” Jenny said. “Not as some people, anyway.”

“And you’re going to be a great actress someday?”

“I don’t know. I’d like to be.”

“We should have lunched before this. Our business transactions would have been less rocky.”

“Yes.”

They sat quietly until the cab stopped in front of a brownstone off Park. Archie paid and they got out. “It’s the garden apartment,” he said. “That’s where the manuscript is.”

“Oh.”

“Want to see?”

“Oh, yes; I love looking at other people’s apartments. Mine isn’t much. I think that’s why.” She waited behind him while he took out a key and put it in the lock. Jenny started to rummage through her purse, then stopped. She waited. He opened the door and ushered her into the hall. Then he let the front door close and moved down the hall to the apartment door. Jenny waited again. Her fingers played with the clip on her purse. She made them stop. They smoothed her skirt, made sure her blouse was tucked in neatly. Archie opened the apartment door. Jenny walked inside. Archie closed the door behind her. She stared straight ahead. He walked up behind her, put his hands to her shoulders, turned her slowly, brought her against him. As her arms went around his neck she remembered she was still holding her purse, so she dropped her arms, released the purse as quietly as she could, then embraced him again. When they broke, they looked at each other and smiled. Then they fell into another, a longer kiss. This time, as they separated, he took her hands, raised them, kissed the tips of her fingers. It was, she thought, a sweet thing to do, sweet and gentle and, from him, surprising, so when he held her close again she could feel her body relaxing. He kissed her on the mouth several times and on the neck and eyes and he had her blue blouse half unbuttoned before she spoke.