Marjorie Morningstar (29 page)

If South Wind was Sodom, it seemed to be a cheerful, outdoors sort of Sodom, where
tennis, golf, steak roasts, and rumbas had replaced more classic and scandalous debaucheries.
Marjorie did notice a lot of necking in canoes and on the moonlit porch outside the
social hall, but there was nothing startling in that. Perhaps terrible sins were being
committed on the grounds; but so far as her eyes could pierce there was nothing really
wrong at South Wind. All was jocund and fair to see. She lost her curiosity about
the guests after the first week or so. They were a blur of similar faces; part of
the background—like the lake, the trees, the clouds—to the real life that went on
among the people of the staff.

For the Fourth of July weekend, a crooner named Perry Baron came to South Wind to
add glitter to the entertainment. He was a sort of second-class celebrity, good-looking
but flabby, about thirty-five, with a yellow Cadillac convertible, a voluminous camel’s
hair coat with white pearl buttons, and rather strikingly limited intelligence. For
some reason Baron took a strong fancy to Marjorie, from the first moment he saw her
at the registry desk in the camp office. All weekend long he paid court to her, dancing
with her, canoeing with her, driving her here and there in his yellow Cadillac, and
requisitioning her from Airman as a girl to sing to when he performed. His most spectacular
gesture was sending to New York for two dozen roses, which were delivered to Marjorie
Friday evening by a truck which drove more than a hundred miles. If she had not been
so desperately infatuated with Airman, Marjorie might have been overcome by all this;
as it was, though flattered, she was bored. But since Baron treated her courteously,
and since it was obvious that her stock in the camp was rising by the hour, she was
pleasant to him, and put up with his extravagant antics as gracefully as possible.

Wally Wronken was the real sufferer in this turn of events. He mooned, he gloomed,
he glared, he glowered, he got drunk, he stopped writing, he left rehearsals. Embarrassed
by this display, Marjorie tried to make it up to Wally by praising his writing, asking
him to dance with her, and so forth; but he snubbed her with proud Byronic agony.

At the end of the Saturday afternoon rehearsal, Airman came strolling up to her as
she was pulling a sweater over her head. “Rushing off to dinner? How about a drink
first?”

“Love a drink.” She was glad that the sweater hid her face and muffled the excited
tones of her voice. Until this moment he had paid no attention to her whatever, even
at rehearsals, beyond moving her around the stage like a chair, or giving her directions
prefaced with the meaningless “darling” which he used in addressing all the office-girl
actresses.

They sat in a booth by the window. The sun was setting in immense smears of red and
yellow on the purple lake. The floodlights had not yet been turned on, and a violet
haze darkened the lawn and the white buildings. “Best time of the day,” he murmured
after a long pull at his highball. He was silent for a while, looking at her with
his characteristic ironic smile. He was so far above her, she thought; yet his deformed
elbow, resting awkwardly on the table, warmed her with pity and tenderness.

He seemed to notice her eyes on his elbow. He leaned back, folding his arms, ghost-thin
in the black sweater. “I suppose you know that Wally’s eating his heart out.” She
said nothing. He added, “I live next door to him. He comes shambling in and I have
to listen to his moans. It’s kind of repetitious, after brother Billy.”

Marjorie pulled a cigarette out of his pack on the table and lit it with a moment’s
yellow glare in the gloom.

“Not talking, Marjorie?”

She puffed at the cigarette, looking straight at him.

“You will admit,” he said, “that a yellow Cadillac and roses from Trepel’s sent a
hundred miles are crushing competition for a college boy. But it’s all wrong, you
know. Wally’s worth ten Perry Barons. Baron’s a faded carbon copy of Crosby. Wally
has talent. You mustn’t be dazzled because that oaf throws around the few dollars
he earns. Singers are like that.”

“Noel, pardon me, but what business is it of yours?”

His eyes widened and gleamed. “Question of staff morale. I like Wally. Furthermore,
he’s writing some fine material and making my life much easier. I don’t want him demoralized.”

“I see.” After another silence she said, “It would probably help if I set you right
on a notion that seems fixed in your mind somehow.” She took a slow drag on her cigarette.
He did not unnerve her any more; he stimulated her. She felt that she had come to
a tight turn in life, and that she was going to round it smoothly and well. “I like
Wally too. I also know that he has a crush on me. It’s too bad, but I’ve gotten over
many a crush in my time, and I’m sure Wally will get over his. What puzzles me is
your impression that there’s some kind of romance between him and me. It’s a bit annoying.
I’m more than a year older than Wally, Noel. He’s eighteen and a half and I’m nearly
twenty. Now as for Perry Baron, he has nothing but the nicest things to say about
you. That being the case, I’m not quite sure which of you is the oaf.”

He looked surprised; then he laughed, a low, pleasant laugh. “Okay. Wally’s eighteen
and a half and you’re nearly twenty. From your viewpoint I suppose you and he belong
to different generations. But look here, you were at the opening of Wally’s show with
him—”

“Certainly. He asked me, and I was proud to go. I admire him just as you do, he’s
extremely clever. I’ve seen him a few times since. I can envy the girl he’ll really
fall in love with and marry some day, but I know perfectly well it isn’t me. So will
he, one of these days. Maybe next week, for all I know. I’ve snapped out of crushes
faster than that.”

He nodded approvingly, hanging his elbow over the back of the chair, and running a
knuckle along his upper lip. “Good, Marjorie, I’m glad I talked to you. I’ll be less
sympathetic now when Wally starts languishing. In fairness to him, though, you’ve
grown up terrifically in the past year, you know, while he’s still pecking his way
out of the egg. Girls do hit this time when they grow like mad. I won’t annoy you
any more by bracketing you with Wally, and I apologize for the comments on Perry Baron.
Okay? Let’s go to dinner.”

“Okay.”

As they stood he said, “I can’t help hoping, all the same, that you won’t decide,
in the mature insight of nearly twenty, that Baron is the storm god come to earth.
Such things happen, Lord knows, only too often. He really is just a slimy slug, you
know, an overgrown jellyfish that shaves and sings. I hate to see a nice girl run
over by a rented yellow Cadillac.”

They were walking past the bar piano. He stopped at the keyboard and rippled a chord;
then he sat on the stool and moved his fingers idly, making soft chiming waves of
sound. “I’ll tell you something, Margie—the prettiest and cleverest girl I ever knew
threw herself away on an imbecile, a four-footed animal posing in human clothes, because
he could do two things—rumba well, and treat her badly. Every other man she’d ever
met had fallen at her feet. His indifference was a piquant novelty. He was so dull,
and his tastes were so gross, that he actually didn’t think much of her. So she pursued
him, and forced him to marry her, and now his father supports them both, ostensibly
by letting his son manage a few dry-cleaning stores. She might have been the wife
of an ambassador, a playwright, a senator, with elegance and distinction. She did
this in the wisdom of nearly nineteen. The wisdom of nearly twenty is another matter,
to be sure.”

He struck a clashing dissonance; then, after a silent instant, he began to play one
of his own waltzes, a sentimental tune that Marjorie loved. She stood behind him for
a few moments, listening. Then she said softly, “She must have been someone you liked
pretty well.”

“Oh yes, she was,” Noel said, playing on and not looking up, “in fact I still like
her pretty well. My older sister, Monica. She’s thirty-two now and has three children.
She’s as pretty as you, and looks as young.”

When Marjorie glanced back, from the doorway of the bar, Noel was stooped over the
piano, playing on in the amber gloom. He did not seem to know that she was leaving.
But just as she was stepping through the door he said, “Wait.” He broke off his playing,
came to her, and leaned against the doorway. “Am I wrong, or when you were here last
summer did you utter several bright sayings about my lighting effects?”

“Well, I remember saying they were brilliant and marvelous, and so forth.”

“I see. No wonder I retained the impression that you showed precocious good judgment.
Well, come clean, do you really know anything about lights?”

“I—well, you know, kid-camp stuff. But I did read up on it a lot.”

“Wally wants to do some directing, and he’s carrying a big writing load. That may
be one reason he’s overwrought. I’d like to take him off the switchboard, and it occurred
to me that you might help—”

Marjorie broke in, “I accept the job. I’ll do anything you say. Look, I can’t pretend
to be blasé. I’m crazy about lighting, I love this idea—”

“You still have to do your office work. And dance in the chorus. This is just extra
labor without extra pay.”

“When do I start?”

He hesitated, smiling a little at her eager tone. “Well, Marjorie, let’s say we’ll
try you out Sunday evening after the storm god leaves, okay? That is, if he doesn’t
carry you off to the cave of the winds, forever and a day.”

During the dancing on Sunday evening he came to her. “Ready? Let’s go backstage.”

She had been restraining herself with some difficulty from speaking to him first.
“Why, sure. As you see, I’m not off to the cave of the winds.”

He nodded, with a small grin.

They went through the stage door and were alone together in total darkness. “Give
me your hand,” Noel said. His touch in the dark thrilled her. “Damn, my orders are
to leave one light burning at all times. Greech keeps sneaking back here and turning
it out—” He groped along, tugging her cautiously. A rope roughly brushed Marjorie’s
face. “Watch out, don’t get hung in these damned lines—here’s the board. If I touch
the wrong switch send my body to brother Billy.” Light drenched the stage, streaming
through the curtains on them. “Ah, that’s better.” He released her hand, but his grasp
remained palpable on her skin for a while like a warm soft glove. He began to demonstrate
the switches and rheostats for her, and he let her execute some black-outs, dim-outs,
and fade-ins. He told her to improvise a morning effect and a night effect, using
the labelled color switches. “Well! Not bad at all.”

The stage door slammed. “Who the hell is fooling with that switchboard?” called Wally,
and his steps came running across the stage.

Noel grinned conspiratorially at Marjorie. “Take it easy, Wally. Just training up
your replacement.”

“Oh. Sorry. You pulled the wrong switch or something, Noel. One of the pink spots
on the catwalk came on—” He appeared through the curtain. His mouth opened when he
saw them, and he stood holding an edge of the dusty black drape, staring.

“Hi, Wally,” Marjorie said.

“My replacement?” Wally’s voice was thick and queer.

“You’d be amazed. She knows plenty about lights.”

Wally came to her and touched her arm. His big head shook heavily. “Look, Marge, please
don’t. Please. I never thought he’d ask
you
. I can do it. It’s a dirty messy job, you have to go climbing around on catwalks,
staying up till all hours—”

“I love it,” Marjorie said. “There’s nothing I’d rather do.”

Wally said to Noel, “Forget it, forget I ever asked for a replacement. I’ll do the
writing, I’ll do the lights, and I’ll pick up the directing when I can—”

Marjorie said curtly, “Wally, can’t you understand that I want to do this? I’m here
at South Wind to learn, just as you are.”

Noel said, “You’re being silly, Wally. There’s no chivalry backstage. Lighting is
dull hackwork for you now. Let her take it over. You have more important things to
do.”

The boy looked from one to the other. Marjorie and Noel stood side by side at the
board. Noel’s arm was around behind her, resting lightly on a switch. “Please. I’ll
do the lights,” Wally said in a terribly melancholy tone.

Marjorie said sharply, “I’ll do them. It’s all arranged!”

“All arranged,” Wally said. He swung his head around like an animal and went out through
the curtains.

The sight of her own uncovered breasts in the lamplight shocked Marjorie out of the
sleepy sweet delirium that was paralyzing her. She sat up. “God in heaven, what am
I doing? What are you doing? Turn away, please, I want to dress.”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll leave,” Noel said. He stood and strode out.

The drawing board and the lighting-plan sketches lay on the floor where they had fallen.
A log had caved in on the fire, and a flaming chunk which had rolled against the screen
was smoking into the room. As soon as she had buttoned her shirtwaist she pushed the
ember back with the poker, thinking the while that she must have succumbed to the
spell of Noel’s room; it was the most beguiling place on earth. The rough-plastered
stone fireplace, the crude wooden walls crammed with books, the wagon-wheel chandelier
in the high dusky ceiling, the smell of tobacco, books, green trees, and wood fires,
all blended into a comfortable warm lulling maleness. The brass red-shaded reading
lamp by which they had been working cast a round of yellow light on the Indian blanket
covering the couch; the rest of the room was gloomy. Blue cold moonlight falling through
the windows only made the lighted place by the couch and the fire seem cosier.

She had thought she was weeks away from having to plan for the possibility that Noel
might want to neck with her. It had happened like a short circuit between live wires.
She had abandoned herself to shocking freedoms unknown to her before; and the worst
of it was that she did not even feel conscience-stricken. The sensible thing was to
get out at once, of course. But she wasn’t angry at him, though she was scared, exquisitely
and pleasantly scared in her remotest nerves. She thought she had better wait just
long enough to tell him she wasn’t angry at him. She curled up in the armchair by
the fire. The excitement which had made her fingers almost too unsteady to button
her blouse died away, leaving a warm languor in her limbs as after a bath. Five minutes
went by.