Some Came Running (91 page)

“And you really did all of this for me?” she said. “Just because you wanted
me?”

“Why do you think? What else?”

“But you don’t really love me. Not really. You just want to sleep with me. Isn’t that so? You don’t need me. Your writing is all you need, Dave. I have the feeling you never even see me when you look at me. You see a—a character in a book, maybe. A character in your life.”

“That’s not true!”

“I never tried to make you fall in love with me,” she said.

Looking at her where she had backed up and leaned now against the countertop, Dave could only nod dumbly. “No, I guess you didn’t,” he said. He still could not understand what was going on.

“You just want to sleep with me, but . . .” She stopped.

“Hell, yes!” he said, into the gap. “Isn’t that a part of love?”

“It may be all of it,” Gwen said. “My God, how you’ll hate me!”

“Hate you for what? I couldn’t hate you!”

“For embarrassing you so. I never tried to make you fall in love with me,” she said again.

“You never had to. Gwen, all I know is, I love you, and I need you.”

“You do. All right,” she said. “Dave, go over and sit down in the chair. There’s something about myself I have to tell you. No, don’t look at me. If you look at me, I’ll never be able to tell you. Look away.”

He sat down at the table and, finally, at her insistence, pulled his eyes away and turned around and sat staring at the coals in the fireplace.

Behind him, there was silence.

“Oh, I can’t!” Gwen said finally, and began to weep. “It’s too much to ask! I can’t!”

He turned back around then, to see her slumped against the countertop, her face buried in her hands and her shoulders shaking as she cried.

‘You don’t know what it’s like!” she said from between her hands. “You don’t know what it’s like to be a woman! Oh, I can’t, I can’t,” she sobbed.

“What is it, Gwen?” he said, alarmed. “You can tell me. Nothing can be that terrible.”

She looked up at him then, her face contorted, her shoulders shaking as she drew great sobs of breath, tears streaming from the eyes that watched him; and he sat awkwardly, not knowing what to do, wanting desperately to go over to her, and just as desperately afraid to, afraid he would be rebuffed again.

Then she took her hands away from her mouth and wiped them underneath her eyes. “I’ll tell you,” she said weakly. “I’m a cripple, that’s what!”

“A what!” Dave shouted, terrible images fleeing through his mind. “You mean you’re a—a morphodite, or something?”

Gwen did not even hear him. “A cripple, just like you,” she went on. “I’ve been in love with the same man all my life, just like you have been in love with that same girl out in Los Angeles. I’ve been in love with the same boy ever since high school.”

Dave had not understood what was happening all this time. Now for the first time, it penetrated his thick German skull that after all the histrionics were over she might not be going to sleep with him after all, and he wanted to pound his knuckles on it for being so thick. God, what an ass! “Well,” he said lamely. “Well— I don’t believe it.”

“I don’t care whether you believe it or not.” Gwen had stopped crying now, and was looking at him with bright, frightened eyes. “It’s the truth.”

“Who was it? Was it anyone I knew?”

“You probably knew him,” Gwen said. “His name was Milton Evans.”

“Milton Evans?” Dave remembered the name. If he was right, Milton Evans had been a sort of a Milquetoast type. “Well, damn it, I still don’t believe it,” he said. “What happened to him?”

Gwen shrugged. “He grew up. He went away to school. He got married.”

“And he was the first one that ever—” he paused, “ever made love to you?”

“Yes,” Gwen said.

“You don’t mind if I mix myself a drink, do you?” Dave said.

“No, of course not.” She went back to the table, where the manuscript of “The Confederate” lay. She sat down and picked it up.

In silence, Dave got the things out of the cupboard. He walked down and got some ice cubes out of the refrigerator, looking at the copper skillets against the old brick as he passed. “Damn it, every time I come over here I always seem to wind up having to get drunk,” he said. He mixed himself a stiff martini.

Gwen continued to look down at the manuscript cover.

“What about all the other men?” he said finally. He took a big gulp of the drink.

“The other men,” Gwen said. For a moment she did not say anything, and looked bright-eyed and guilty-faced.

“If it upsets you to talk about them,” Dave said, “it’s all right.”

“No. It doesn’t upset me. Anyway,” Gwen said, “I think you have the right to know. I suppose you could say the other men were all just ‘escapades.’ Not any of them were ever real love affairs. I was—trying to find someone who would take his place. But it never worked. And I hurt them all. But I never meant to hurt them.”

Dave looked down at the glass in his hand, which was empty, and stepped quickly to the counter and the mixer. He poured out another double.

“And that’s why I didn’t want it to happen to you,” Gwen said. “I don’t think I could bear that.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Dave said as he stirred the drink. “If I’m willing to risk it? Why should you worry?”

“I can’t,” Gwen said. “I know what would happen.”

“Goddam it, I still don’t
believe
it!” Dave shouted. “It’s not the
truth!
”

Gwen did not say anything.

“Is it?” he said, swinging around.

“There’s one thing I can offer you,” Gwen said. “I can offer you love. I do love you, Dave. But not the kind of love that has sex in it. I love your work, and the talent you have, and what you might be able to do with it. And I love you, too. Just because of all of these things. I can give you encouragement with your work and perhaps even a little help, sometimes, and we can have a love relationship, of a sort. If you want that.”

“Yeah,” Dave said, “sure.”

“That’s all I have to give, Dave. And one other thing,” she said gently, “Don’t worry about me going out and having sex with other men. I gave that up as a bad job a long time ago. That was what I really meant when I told you once that sex bored me.”

“Yeah,” Dave said, “sure. Well, that’s one consolation. Anyway.” He swung around on her, his face contorted, his eyes bright. “Will you just tell me one thing?” he said. “And really tell the truth?”

“Oh, Dave!” she said.

“Is the truth, the reason you won’t go out with me, is it because I’m so fat?”

“Oh, Dave!” Gwen breathed again, her own eyes as bright with pain as his were. “That I should ever hurt you so much! I never ever meant to do that! Oh no. No, no. A woman doesn’t love a man because he’s fat or slim or curly or bald or short or tall. She loves him because of what he
is.”

“And that’s really the truth?” he urged. “You’re not just lying to save my feelings?”

“Oh no, Dave!” Gwen said.

“Well, okay,” he said. “But I had to know. Damn it, I
can’t
believe it!” he bellowed. “Milton
Evans!”

“It’s no more unreasonable than your own girl out in Hollywood, Dave,” Gwen said.

“But I don’t love
her
anymore.”

“Maybe you still do,” Gwen said.

“Well, I don’t,” he said, and fell to mixing his third drink and it was then that the cellar-landing door opened and Bob came in.

Robert Ball French marched into the center of the kitchen, his rakish old black slouch hat still on his head and smiling cheerily under his heavy thick mustache, and looked at both Dave and Gwen.

“Well, I see I have missed another dramatic installment,” he said cheerfully. “I wish I had stayed home now. But if I had, it would not have happened probably.

“Hello, Dave, my boy,” he said. “How have you been?” He was completely sober.

“Just fine, Bob.”

“Dad,” Gwen said, “Dave has brought over a long story he’s done. It’s simply magnificent! Here, come look at it. I want us to send it to the New Literature people. You come look at it, and I’ll make us all some coffee.”

“Good!” Bob said. “Fine! But I’m afraid I cannot read it tonight, dear Gwen. Tomorrow! I’m late for my old bed, and I must get up and work in the morning. Good night, my dears,” he said, and disappeared through the pantry door to the back stairs before anything else could be said.

“I must go, too, anyway,” Dave said, hoisting his third drink. “I have to work tomorrow, too.”

“But aren’t you going to stay?” Gwen said anxiously. “Don’t you want to stay the night?”

“No. I must go,” he said.

“But— You’re not too drunk to drive, are you?” she said.

“I’m not drunk at all,” Dave said, and truthfully. He could hardly feel anything he had drunk. He also could hardly stand to stay in this house another minute. He took a long look at Gwen, where she sat at the table leaning forward on both elbows.

“But I wish you would stay,” Gwen said, her eyes screwed up with anxiety and guilt. “You’re perfectly welcome.”

“No,” he said. “I can’t. Don’t ask me to, Gwen.”

“All right,” she said. “I understand.”

And with that, he turned to leave, quickly. At the door down to the landing, where she had come with him, but did not get close or offer to shake hands, he said,

“I’ll just leave that stuff on the novel here. Maybe you’ll get a chance to read it.”

“I’ll read it tomorrow,” she smiled, “if I don’t read it tonight. Then you want to go ahead with—with a kind of relationship like we talked about?”

“Yeah,” he said, “sure. Why not? Only you mustn’t be mad at me if I break out once in a while. I’m liable to try and break the rules,” he said.

“It’ll be perfectly all right,” Gwen smiled. “I’ll understand.”

“Yeah?” Dave said. “Well, that’s good.” At the bottom of the landing, Gwen stopped him.

“You’re sure you won’t change your mind and stay?” she said.

“No,” he said. “I’ve got to work tomorrow.”

“Dave,” she said, her eyes bright with pain. “Dave, we all of us do what we must,” she said almost beseechingly. “Not what we wished we could do. And not even what we’d like to do sometimes.”

“I know,” he said. “Yeah, I guess that’s right.”

“And, Dave,” she said. “I don’t think you’re fat.”

Not trusting himself to say anything, he winked at her, and left. From outside the door, before he closed it, he said, “You call me up when you get that read, and I’ll come over.”

When he had driven back to Parkman, he was astonished to discover the lights were still on in the poolrooms and restaurants and around the square. It was only nine-thirty! And after starting on out to the house, he turned around and drove out to Smitty’s, where he went in and picked up Ginnie Moorehouse, sitting at a table of brassiere factory girls. To hell with what they all thought. The two fatties should stick together.

In the car going out to the house, Ginnie kept up her usual running conversation. She was, she said, very pleased to see him. “Have you been over t’Israel to see your teacher friend yet?” she asked in her dull-eyed way.

“What?” Dave said. “Who?”

“That teacher friend of yours. From the college.”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said. “I’ve been over several times lately. Why?”

“I jist wondered,” Ginnie said. “She’s just such an awful bitch. I’ve heard talk about how awful many men and love affairs she’s had.”

“I don’t know anything about any of that,” Dave said.

“Course I’ve never met her myself,” Ginnie said. “But the thing that gets me is,” she said, “they everybody let her git away with so awful much. You don’t see that son of a bitch Sherm Ruedy ever goin around checkin on the like of her kind. That’s because she’s rich and her old man use to run the whole college. I wonder what it’s like to be like that?”

“Everybody has problems,” Dave said. “And I’ll tell you something else,” he said sharply, “the less you worry about her and the more you look after yourself, the better off you’ll be all around.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Ginnie said. “I didn’t mean to make you mad. Say, what’s this here in the seat?”

“It’s a present,” Dave said, “for my goddam stupid mother.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“It’s a pillow. And I bought it in Terre Haute. And I paid six-fifty for it. Anything else?”

“Six-fifty!” Ginnie said. “I’ll bet it’s purty!”

Dave took the package, and tossed it into the backseat—and suddenly remembered that he had forgotten to get his own presents off the table at Gwen’s. The thought sent a sudden twinge of anguish through him. He hoped she wouldn’t think he didn’t want them, he thought desperately.

Behind him, the package hit the seat. It had been lying in the car for over two weeks. He would have to take it up there and see the old lady and get that over with.

“Come on,” he said, pulling up into the driveway. “Here we are.”

They got out. He figured he could get her out of the house by midnight, long before ’Bama would ever be home to see her. He’d drive her back downtown himself.

M
RS
E
LVIRA
H
IRSH,
on the day that her youngest son finally visited her, was not expecting him. Mrs Hirsh was aware that David had been back in Parkman because Franklin had told her. That was back in May and here it was, the first of July. And David still had not come to see her. So she felt safe in assuming he would never come.

Mrs Hirsh did not hold this against David. She knew how young people were. And anyways, he was her youngest and she had always spoiled him a little, she guessed. And of course, Franklin’s wife had spoiled him a great lot more, Mrs Hirsh thought with a sudden vindictiveness. But he was still a
good
boy. Just thoughtless, was all. There wasn’t nothing
bad
about him. Mrs Hirsh believed that and prayed to God for him and for his immortal soul. Maybe he was gambling and living an un-Christian life right now, but she knew that someday he would settle down.

He had not had a very happy life, as a child. Thanks (Mrs Hirsh’s mind froze stiffly) to Victor. But none of her children could ever be really
bad,
because she had raised them all to be decent Christians, and she did not hold it against David because he had not come and see her. But when he did come, she was very pleased.