The Collected Stories of Richard Yates (5 page)

Eddie was his best friend, and an ideal best man because he'd been in on the courtship of Gracie from the start. It was in this very bar, in fact, that Ralph had told him about their first date last summer: “Ooh, Eddie—what a paira
knockers
!”

And Eddie had grinned. “Yeah? So what's the roommate like?”

“Ah, you don't want the roommate, Eddie. The roommate's a dog. A snob too, I think. No, but this
other
one, this little
Gracie
—boy, I mean, she is
stacked
.”

Half the fun of every date—even more than half—had been telling Eddie about it afterwards, exaggerating a little here and there, asking Eddie's advice on tactics. But after today, like so many other pleasures, it would all be left behind. Gracie had promised him at least one night off a week to spend with the boys, after they were married, but even so it would never be the same. Girls never understood a thing like friendship.

There was a ball game on the bar's television screen and he watched it idly, his throat swelling in a sentimental pain of loss. Nearly all his life had been devoted to the friendship of boys and men, to trying to be a good guy, and now the best of it was over.

Finally Eddie's stiff finger jabbed the seat of his pants in greeting. “Whaddya say, sport?”

Ralph narrowed his eyes to indolent contempt and slowly turned around. “Wha' happen ta you, wise guy? Get lost?”

“Whaddya—in a hurry a somethin'?” Eddie barely moved his lips when he spoke. “Can't wait two minutes?” He slouched on a stool and slid a quarter at the bartender. “Draw one, there, Jack.”

They drank in silence for a while, staring at the television. “Got a little bonus today,” Ralph said. “Fifty dollars.”

“Yeah?” Eddie said. “Good.”

A batter struck out; the inning was over and the commercial came on. “So?” Eddie said, rocking the beer around in his glass. “Still gonna get married?”

“Why not?” Ralph said with a shrug. “Listen, finish that, willya? I wanna get a move on.”

“Wait awhile, wait awhile. What's ya hurry?”

“C'mon, willya?” Ralph stepped impatiently away from the bar. “I wanna go pick up ya bag.”

“Ah, bag schmagg.”

Ralph moved up close again and glowered at him. “Look, wise guy. Nobody's gonna
make
ya loan me the goddamn bag, ya know. I don't wanna break ya
heart
or nothin'—”

“Arright, arright, arright. You'll getcha bag. Don't worry so much.” He finished the beer and wiped his mouth. “Let's go.”

Having to borrow a bag for his wedding trip was a sore point with Ralph; he'd much rather have bought one of his own. There was a fine one displayed in the window of a luggage shop they passed every night on their way to the subway—a big, tawny Gladstone with a zippered compartment on the side, at thirty-nine ninety-five—and Ralph had had his eye on it ever since Easter time. “Think I'll buy that,” he'd told Eddie, in the same offhand way that a day or so before he had announced his engagement (“Think I'll marry the girl”). Eddie's response to both remarks had been the same: “Whaddya—crazy?” Both times Ralph had said, “Why not?” and in defense of the bag he had added, “Gonna get married, I'll
need
somethin' like that.” From then on it was as if the bag, almost as much as Gracie herself, had become a symbol of the new and richer life he sought. But after the ring and the new clothes and all the other expenses, he'd found at last that he couldn't afford it; he had settled for the loan of Eddie's, which was similar but cheaper and worn, and without the zippered compartment.

Now as they passed the luggage shop he stopped, caught in the grip of a reckless idea. “Hey wait awhile, Eddie. Know what I think I'll do with that fifty-dollar bonus? I think I'll buy that bag right now.” He felt breathless.

“Whaddya—crazy? Forty bucks for a bag you'll use maybe one time a year? Ya crazy, Ralph. C'mon.”

“Ah—I dunno. Ya think so?”

“Listen, you better
keep
ya money, boy. You're gonna
need
it.”

“Ah—yeah,” Ralph said at last. “I guess ya right.” And he fell in step with Eddie again, heading for the subway. This was the way things usually turned out in his life; he could never own a bag like that until he made a better salary, and he accepted it—just as he'd accepted without question, after the first thin sigh, the knowledge that he'd never possess his bride until after the wedding.

The subway swallowed them, rattled and banged them along in a rocking, mindless trance for half an hour, and disgorged them at last into the cool early evening of Queens.

Removing their coats and loosening their ties, they let the breeze dry their sweated shirts as they walked. “So what's the deal?” Eddie asked. “What time we supposed to show up in this Pennsylvania burg tomorra?”

“Ah, suit yourself,” Ralph said. “Any time in the evening's okay.”

“So whadda we do then? What the hell can ya do in a hillbilly town like that, anyway?”

“Ah, I dunno,” Ralph said defensively. “Sit around and talk, I guess; drink beer with Gracie's old man or somethin'; I dunno.”

“Jesus,” Eddie said. “Some weekend. Big, big deal.”

Ralph stopped on the sidewalk, suddenly enraged, his damp coat wadded in his fist. “Look, you bastid. Nobody's gonna
make
ya come, ya know—you or Marty or George or any a the rest of 'em. Get that straight. You're not doin'
me
no favors, unnastand?”

“Whatsa matta?” Eddie inquired. “Whatsa matta? Can'tcha take a joke?”

“Joke,” Ralph said. “You're fulla jokes.” And plodding sullenly in Eddie's wake, he felt close to tears.

They turned off into the block where they both lived, a double row of neat, identical houses bordering the street where they'd fought and loafed and played stickball all their lives. Eddie pushed open the front door of his house and ushered Ralph into the vestibule, with its homely smell of cauliflower and overshoes. “G'wan in,” he said, jerking a thumb at the closed living-room door, and he hung back to let Ralph go first.

Ralph opened the door and took three steps inside before it hit him like a sock on the jaw. The room, dead silent, was packed deep with grinning, red-faced men—Marty, George, the boys from the block, the boys from the office—everybody, all his friends, all on their feet and poised motionless in a solid mass. Skinny Maguire was crouched at the upright piano, his spread fingers high over the keys, and when he struck the first rollicking chords they all roared into song, beating time with their fists, their enormous grins distorting the words:

Weakly Ralph retreated a step on the carpet and stood there wide-eyed, swallowing, holding his coat.
“That nobody can deny!”
they sang,
“That nobody can deny!”
And as they swung into the second chorus Eddie's father appeared through the dining-room curtains, bald and beaming, in full song, with a great glass pitcher of beer in either hand. At last Skinny hammered out the final line:

And they all surged forward cheering, grabbing Ralph's hand, pounding his arms and his back while he stood trembling, his own voice lost under the noise. “Gee, fellas—thanks. I—don't know what to—thanks, fellas. . . .”

Then the crowd cleaved in half, and Eddie made his way slowly down the middle. His eyes gleamed in a smile of love, and from his bashful hand hung the suitcase—not his own, but a new one: the big, tawny Gladstone with the zippered compartment on the side.

“
Speech
!” they were yelling. “
Speech! Speech
!”

But Ralph couldn't speak and couldn't smile. He could hardly even see.

At ten o'clock Grace began walking around the apartment and biting her lip. What if he wasn't coming? But of course he was coming. She sat down again and carefully smoothed the billows of nylon around her thighs, forcing herself to be calm. The whole thing would be ruined if she was nervous.

The noise of the doorbell was like an electric shock. She was halfway to the door before she stopped, breathing hard, and composed herself again. Then she pressed the buzzer and opened the door a crack to watch for him on the stairs.

When she saw he was carrying a suitcase, and saw the pale seriousness of his face as he mounted the stairs, she thought at first that he knew; he had come prepared to lock the door and take her in his arms. “Hello, darling,” she said softly, and opened the door wider.

“Hi, baby.” He brushed past her and walked inside. “Guess I'm late, huh? You in bed?”

“No.” She closed the door and leaned against it with both hands holding the doorknob at the small of her back, the way heroines close doors in the movies. “I was just—waiting for you.”

He wasn't looking at her. He went to the sofa and sat down, holding the suitcase on his lap and running his fingers over its surface. “Gracie,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Look at this.”

She looked at it, and then into his tragic eyes.

“Remember,” he said, “I told you about that bag I wanted to buy? Forty dollars?” He stopped and looked around. “Hey, where's Martha? She in bed?”

“She's gone, darling,” Grace said, moving slowly toward the sofa. “She's gone for the whole weekend.” She sat down beside him, leaned close, and gave him Martha's special smile.

“Oh yeah?” he said. “Well anyway, listen. I said I was gonna borrow Eddie's bag instead, remember?”

“Yes.”

“Well, so tonight at the White Rose I siz, ‘C'mon, Eddie, let's go home pick up ya bag.' He siz, ‘Ah, bag schmagg.' I siz, ‘Whatsa matta?' but he don't say nothin', see? So we go home to his place and the living-room door's shut, see?”

She squirmed closer and put her head on his chest. Automatically he raised an arm and dropped it around her shoulders, still talking. “He siz, ‘G'ahead, Ralph, open the door.' I siz, ‘Whatsa deal?' He siz, ‘Never mind, Ralph, open the door.' So I open the door, and oh Jesus.” His fingers gripped her shoulder with such intensity that she looked up at him in alarm.

“They was all there, Gracie,” he said. “All the fellas. Playin' the piana, singin', cheerin'—” His voice wavered and his eyelids fluttered shut, their lashes wet. “A big surprise party,” he said, trying to smile. “Fa me. Can ya beat that, Gracie? And then—and then Eddie comes out and—Eddie comes out and hands me this. The very same bag I been lookin' at all this time. He bought it with his own money and he didn't say nothin', just to give me a surprise. ‘Here, Ralph,' he siz. ‘Just to let ya know you're the greatest guy in the world.'” His fingers tightened again, trembling. “I cried, Gracie,” he whispered. “I couldn't help it. I don't think the fellas saw it or anything, but I was cryin'.” He turned his face away and worked his lips in a tremendous effort to hold back the tears.

“Would you like a drink, darling?” she asked tenderly.

“Nah, that's all right, Gracie. I'm all right.” Gently he set the suitcase on the carpet. “Only, gimme a cigarette, huh?”

She got one from the coffee table, put it in his lips and lit it. “Let me get you a drink,” she said.

He frowned through the smoke. “Whaddya got, that sherry wine? Nah, I don't like that stuff. Anyway, I'm fulla beer.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “And then Eddie's mother feeds us this terrific meal,” he went on, and his voice was almost normal now. “We had
steaks
; we had French-fried
potatas”
—his head rolled on the sofa-back with each item of the menu—“lettuce-and-tomata
salad, pickles, bread, butter
—everything. The works.”

“Well,” she said. “Wasn't that nice.”

“And afterwards we had ice cream and coffee,” he said, “and all the beer we could drink. I mean, it was a real spread.”

Grace ran her hands over her lap, partly to smooth the nylon and partly to dry the moisture on her palms. “Well, that certainly was nice of them,” she said. They sat there silent for what seemed a long time.

“I can only stay a minute, Gracie,” Ralph said at last. “I promised 'em I'd be back.”

Her heart thumped under the nylon. “Ralph, do you—do you like this?”

“What, honey?”

“My negligee. You weren't supposed to see it until—after the wedding, but I thought I'd—”

“Nice,” he said, feeling the flimsy material between thumb and index finger, like a merchant. “Very nice. Wudga pay fa this, honey?”

“Oh—I don't know. But do you like it?”

He kissed her and began, at last, to stroke her with his hands. “Nice,” he kept saying. “Nice. Hey, I like this.” His hand hesitated at the low neckline, slipped inside and held her breast.

“I do love you, Ralph,” she whispered. “You know that, don't you?”

His fingers pinched her nipple, once, and slid quickly out again. The policy of restraint, the habit of months was too strong to break. “Sure,” he said. “And I love you, baby. Now you be a good girl and get ya beauty sleep, and I'll see ya in the morning. Okay?”

“Oh, Ralph. Don't go. Stay.”

“Ah, I promised the fellas, Gracie.” He stood up and straightened his clothes. “They're waitin' fa me, out home.”