“None at all, Sandy. Go ahead.”
Sandy streaked away. The riding party passed through a dank muddy tunnel, and came out into a sun-flecked avenue of cherry trees, perfumed and cool. Marjorie was stunned by the charm of it. For the first time she perceived what horseback riding was about. She turned her eyes to the pink blossoms nodding under the blue sky in the breeze, and lost herself in pleasure.
When they emerged into open sunlight she noticed that Prince Charming was falling behind the other horses. The blonde, next to last in the party, was glancing back over the widening gap with amusement. Marjorie clasped the saddle and kicked Prince Charming in the ribs. Nothing happened except that she lost her stirrup and had to clutch for it with her foot. Prince Charming, an old civil servant of a horse, continued to reel off the same number of yards per second.
Far up the path the rest of the riders went round a bend and were hidden from view by green trees. “Giddyap!” Marjorie said. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? They’re beating you. Giddyap!” She made clicking noises and kicked both heels and shook the reins. Prince Charming ground along philosophically. They came to the bend and rounded it. There was a long straight stretch of black path ahead, completely empty except for a settling cloud of dust.
The solitude did not have a good effect on either horse or rider. Marjorie stiffened. Prince Charming, without a rear view of other horses to draw him on, seemed to lose interest in his work. His trot slowed, became bumpy, and subsided into a walk. He began to look here and there. Marjorie said in her fiercest voice, “You get going now,” and spanked his neck with the reins. Prince Charming yawned. He wandered off the path, stopped and contemplated a clump of yellow forsythia with the look of a nature lover, and began to eat it. Tears of vexation came to Marjorie’s eyes. She beat the horse’s neck with her fist.
She heard thudding hooves at about the same time Prince Charming did. The horse glanced around, took one more wrench at the forsythia, and ambled back on to the path, chewing. Sandy reined in, wheeled, and came beside her. “Having trouble?”
“Some.”
“Kick him.”
“I’ve kicked him.”
Sandy surveyed the horse, wrinkling his nose. “Never been out with this one before. Mostly I think kids ride him. Here, try this.” He passed his tan leather riding crop to Marjorie.
He should have noticed the terrible flattening of the animal’s ears, but he was too busy looking at Marjorie’s flushed pretty face.
“Thanks,” Marjorie said. She flourished the crop and smacked it clumsily on the horse’s flank. Prince Charming jumped, snorted, neighed; then he gathered himself up like a fist, and bounded away in a wild gallop, throwing up a boil of black dust all around Sandy.
After the first crazy moment of the bolt Marjorie found herself clinging to the saddle with no idea of how she had managed to remain on the horse. The reins were dangling free, she had lost her stirrups, and there she was, thundering along the path like a jockey, with trees, grass, and other riders swimming by her in a greenish blur. In a few seconds, hardly aware of what was happening, she overtook Vera, and one after another she passed the rest of the party as though they were standing still. Dimly she heard a shout from Jeff over the tattoo of Prince Charming��s hooves and the splatter of flying dirt, “… rid of that goddamn crop! He’s crop-shy! Never…” But it meant nothing to her. She went drumming down a clear track with the air whistling in her ears, pulling at her hair, bringing tears to her eyes. Her hat was gone, of course. The stirrups thumped and clanked gaily against the saddle girths. Marjorie noticed that, oddly enough, a maniacal gallop was the easiest of all gaits to sit to. It was like resting in a gently rocking chair, except for the noise of wind and hooves, and the quantities of scenery flying by. She was aware of no fear at all, but rather a silly mildly surprised pleasure. A cold wind on her teeth indicated that she was smiling. On the whole she was idiotically enjoying the fast ride.
Prince Charming came to the reservoir, turned sharp right, and went galloping up the curved path. At the moment that he turned he parted company with Marjorie, for she continued travelling in a straight line, flying off his back, landing on the path, rolling over and over through dirt and puddles, and coming to rest face down, sprawled on sweet-smelling new grass. There she lay, hearing far-off peaceful traffic sounds.
All at once she was surrounded by stamping horses, and girls were screeching and men were shouting and somebody gave her her hat, and a policeman was dismounting and taking out a notebook.
Jeff and Sandy helped her to her feet and set about cleaning her off with handkerchiefs and stray pieces of newspaper. She was smeared with mud and her jacket was ripped at the elbows. One of her ankles was throbbing peculiarly inside the boot, but nothing else seemed to be wrong with her. Exhilarated and quite gay at the center of the fuss, she answered the policeman’s questions clearly and calmly. Jeff explained about Prince Charming’s fear of crops. Sandy kept apologizing for not noticing the animal’s terror. Marjorie said it was all her fault, she should have been able to control the horse anyway. The policeman said he was damned if he knew why more damned Sunday riders weren’t killed. He shut up his book and remounted his tremendous brown horse, adding he was damned if he could see why people rode horses for pleasure at all, seeing that saddles were damned uncomfortable, and all horses were damned idiots.
Meantime another policeman appeared leading Prince Charming by the bridle. The animal was streaked black with sweat, and his head drooped meekly. Marjorie at once stepped out of the chattering circle around her, took the reins from the policeman’s hands, and with a limber spring that surprised herself got back into the saddle. Her ankle gave her an angry twinge when she jumped.
“Hey,” said Jeff, staring at her and scratching his head. The others peered around at her.
Marjorie said, “I’m all right. Let’s get going.”
“You sure, miss?” Jeff said. “Maybe we better get you a cab, call it a day.”
“Didn’t you ever fall off a horse?”
“Forty times, miss, but—”
“Well, you’re still in one piece. So am I. Just shorten my stirrups, please. Sorry I held up the party.”
“Attagirl, Margie,” said Billy Ehrmann.
“Well, okay.” Jeff sprang to the stirrups. “That’s the spirit, miss. You’ll be a rider yet. Mr. Goldstone, you better ride with her from here on.”
“With pleasure.” Sandy reined his horse alongside Prince Charming.
The blonde gave her horse a hard kick in the ribs as she went ahead past Marjorie and Sandy. “Quel cretin,” she was heard to murmur.
Marjorie’s hands and legs were trembling, and sweat was cold on her forehead. But she was less afraid than she had been at the start of the ride. The worst had happened, and here she was, back on the horse. Without realizing it she was sitting more naturally in the saddle, holding the reins better collected.
“Well, now you’re an experienced horsewoman,” Sandy said as they rode beside the reservoir, trotting over a golden layer of tree pollen on the black path.
Marjorie laughed. “It’ll take more than one fall, I’m afraid. At least I fulfilled my own expectation this morning. I made a fool of myself. I can hardly ride, you know. That’s the truth.”
“Why did you come, Margie? You didn’t have to say yes just to be polite.”
She looked him serenely in the eye, smiling. He grew red and stopped talking, and they trotted on in silence.
Paced by Sandy’s horse, Prince Charming went along like a machine. Back at the stable Marjorie managed not to limp, though the ankle was bothering her more and more. She didn’t intend to be parted from Sandy Goldstone at this point because of a little pain.
When the party came to the Tavern on the Green, Marjorie was very glad she had come along despite the throbbing ankle. How gay it was to sit down to white napery and silver on a sunlit stone terrace under the open sky, in a green park bordered by jagged skyscrapers! Marjorie
had never done it before. A stiff brushing at the stable had cleaned all the dried mud from her habit. She didn’t mind the ripped elbows; she felt they gave her a raffish Long Island horsy-set touch. She had combed her hair and freshened her makeup. She thought she rather resembled an illustration in a fashion magazine. She was proud of the way she had muddled through the ride and the fall, and pleased at certain small attentions Sandy had been paying her.
“Bacon and scrambled eggs for everybody, I guess?” Sandy said.
“Leave the bacon off mine. Just eggs,” Marjorie said, after hesitating a moment.
Vera raised one eyebrow at her. “What’s the matter, dear, are you religious?”
“Just habit,” Marjorie muttered, embarrassed. She was convinced that the Jewish food prohibitions were mere primitive taboos, but her upbringing was stronger than logic. Once or twice she had tried to eat bacon and had failed; the red and yellow strips made her gorge rise.
“Well, I guess you’ll go to heaven and we won’t,” Vera said. “I couldn’t live without my bacon in the morning.”
Sandy yawned, “Let her alone. What do you know about it, anyway? Some people think that all the equipment you need to discuss religion is a mouth.”
Marjorie blinked at this unexpected support.
“Dear me,” Vera said to Marjorie with a grin, “have I stepped on your toes? I’m sorry, I’m sure.”
“Live and let live,” Sandy said.
Marjorie felt she had been successfully snubbed by the blonde. She resolved, as she had several times before, to practice eating bacon sometime by herself. Some of the fun went out of the brunch for her.
The waitress was just beginning to serve the food when Marjorie’s mouth twisted in an involuntary grimace. A thrill of pain had shot up hotly from her ankle to her knee. “What’s the matter with you?” Sandy said.
“Nothing, nothing.” Everybody looked at her. The waitress was passing Phil’s bacon and eggs under her nose. Marjorie couldn’t help it; she put her head on her arms on the table, feeling faint and very sick. “I’m sorry, it’s my ankle. It hurts like hell. I—I think I’d better go home—”
There was a flurry of sympathy and suggestions. Sandy Goldstone cut it short by tossing his car keys on the table and picking Marjorie up easily in his arms. “She shouldn’t walk on it. I’ll carry her to a cab and get her to her house, Billy. If I’m not back in half an hour you drive the others home. I’ll phone you, Vera, about three o’clock.”
“Well, all right. No later,” said the blonde.
Marjorie submitted limply to being carried, aware of little besides the stabbing pain. She did notice that Sandy’s rough red-checked shirt, against which her cheek rested, smelled strongly of horses. Somehow it was not a bad smell at all in a young man’s wool shirt.
It was the pressure of the gradual swelling inside the boot that had caused the agony, the doctor said. He made one tentative effort to pull off the boot. The girl shrieked. Without ceremony he took a sharp instrument from his bag and cut the beautiful new boot to pieces. “There,” he said, carefully removing the shredded leather and the rags of stocking, “feels better now, doesn’t it?”
“Much.”
He squeezed and prodded the red-blue swelling, and made her move the foot and wriggle her toes. She was embarrassed because Sandy could see her bare leg. The doctor began to tape the ankle. “You’ll be all right in a few days. Just a sprain.”
Mrs. Morgenstern picked up the ruined boot and Marjorie’s torn jacket, which lay crumpled on a chair. “You had to go riding in the park after three lessons. You had to wear the new outfit. You had to climb back on the horse with a sprained ankle. Hooray for you.”
Sandy said, “It was my fault completely, ma’am. She rides very well. If not for that riding crop—”
“I’m glad she got back on the horse. That’s the only good thing about the story,” said the father. He was as pale as his daughter. He had not previously uttered a word.
Mrs. Morgenstern gave Sandy a bleak glance. “You said your name is what��Goldstein?”
“Goldstone, ma’am,” Sandy said with his easy good-natured smile.
“Goldstone… Your mother isn’t by any chance Eva Goldstone?”
“She’s my aunt, ma’am. My mother is Mary Goldstone.”
The mother straightened, smiled, and dropped the torn clothes on a chair. “Well, and a lovely lady, too. Isn’t she the vice-president of Manhattan Hadassah?”
“Yes, Mother keeps pretty busy with those things.”
“Well, and you didn’t have your lunch—I mean your brunch, as Margie calls it. You’ll stay and have it with us, of course.”
“Well, ma’am, thank you, but I guess I better go and—”
“How long will it take to fix some eggs? After all, you must be starved, and you took such good care of our girl—”
Sandy glanced at Marjorie and raised his eyebrows slightly. She shrugged slightly. “Thanks a lot, I’ll be glad to stay if it isn’t too much trouble—”
“Trouble!” exclaimed the mother, vanishing. She called them into the dining room in ten minutes. “Just a snack, naturally, there’s no time to fix anything.” Platters of smoked salmon, smoked whitefish, kippered herrings, lettuce and tomatoes, scrambled eggs, french-fried potatoes, rolls, toast, Danish pastry, and coffee cake covered the table.
“Holy cow,” Sandy said. Mr. Morgenstern stared at the table and at his wife.
Sandy, eating continuously and heartily, told them of his comic misadventures with horses in Arizona. It became a very jolly meal. Marjorie’s eyes were brightly fixed on Sandy; the mother was enchanted by him; Mr. Morgenstern warmed to him and began laughing. They were having their second cups of coffee when the house phone rang in the kitchen. Mrs. Morgenstern went to answer it. She returned in a moment looking very disturbed, and whispered in Marjorie’s ear. The girl seemed startled; then she glanced at Sandy, and her lips curved in a confident smile. “Of course, Mom. George said he might drop by.”
“What’ll I tell him?” muttered the mother.
“What? Why, tell him to come up of course, Mom dear.”
Chapter 3. GEORGE
George Drobes and Marjorie Morgenstern had been keeping steady company for the better part of two years.
George was a victim of the depression. By training and ambition a bacteriologist, he had completed half his studies toward his master’s degree before being compelled to go to work in his father’s little auto accessories store in the Bronx. George wasn’t happy about spending his days in the dusty gloom of Southern Boulevard under the booming rattling El, selling fan belts and hub caps to gray-faced Bronxites, when his mind was full of marvels like amoebas and spirochetes. But there was no help for it. He grimly saved a fragment of his allowance each week (he was getting no salary for helping to keep the large Drobes family alive); for he was resolved to go back and finish his training in bacteriology, even at the age of fifty.
He was by no means the first boy who had dated Marjorie. She had gone to well-chaperoned schoolgirlish dances and parties since her twelfth year. Around her fifteenth birthday, with official if reluctant parental approval, Marjorie had arrayed herself in lipstick, rouge, perfume, eyebrow-black, brassiere, girdle, silk stockings, and stylish clothes, and plunged out once for all into the sea of dating. Mrs. Morgenstern fought off this debut with great energy to the very end. At first, when Marjorie was a little over fourteen, she objected to rouge. Then she gave in on rouge and objected to lipstick. Then she yielded on lipstick and declared war on the eyebrow pencil. She kept up a fierce rear-guard action for a long time against any kind of clothes that looked grown-up, the only kind Marjorie was interested in. But the mother’s resistance collapsed when Marjorie reached fifteen. Any further fight was hopeless. Whatever Marjorie’s deficiencies in experience and common sense, she looked as womanly as her mother did. Mrs. Morgenstern turned Marjorie loose, hoping for the best. It was the way things were done nowadays.
Marjorie immediately ran into the furtive sex fumbling that all boys her own age considered natural and in fact obligatory. She was upset the first couple of times it happened. But her instinct, backed up by her mother’s vague but horrid warnings, made her reject these advances with a strong arm. She found dates disappointing once the first thrill of having them was past. The pleasure lay mostly in the fact that she was doing grown-up things, and in the theatrical fun of dressing and painting herself. Most of the boys she met were pimpled gangling fools. They kept trying to kiss and hug and paw her; and when she fought off these compliments, they sulked. None of them remotely tempted her to try out the sex excitements promised in movies and magazine stories. It often seemed to her, in the first eight months of her fifteenth year, that all males were nasty louts, and that she would have to live and die an old maid for her fastidiousness. She faced the prospect cheerfully. It was during this time of her life that she worked up a number of bright arguments against marriage, and made fun of sex, and declared that instead of becoming some man’s dishwasher and cook she was going to be a career woman.
She then met George Drobes.
He came into her life via the Bronx YMHA. Marjorie went there to see an amateur production of Desire under the Elms, in the company of a boy whose name was now blotted from memory, but whom she remembered for buck teeth and wet hands. After the play there was dancing. George Drobes cut in on Marjorie. Her first impression of him was that he had pleasantly dry palms. Then she realized, with a little shock, that she was dancing with an adult, not a boy. She had danced with men before—uncles, and aging cousins in their twenties—but this was the first time a grown man had approached her in the open arena of life.
George cut in on her several times, and eventually asked for her telephone number, having danced her out into a quiet corridor. Marjorie was dazzled. She had not yet grown to her full height; George was a head taller than herself. She did not see the glasses and the reddened nose; she did not hear the snuffle. She saw an earnest, well-spoken man of twenty paying court to herself, a girl fifteen and a half, hardly past hanging by her heels in playgrounds, popping bubble gum, and cutting out pictures of stars in movie magazines. George had a narrow bony face, thin lips, and bushy dark hair. His smile was sweet and faintly melancholy. She gave him her telephone number, and for a while they went on with a halting delicious conversation. But he was too big, too powerful, too flopping a fish for her inexpert hands. She could think of nothing but her own age, and at last she blurted it out. George was astounded; he had taken her for eighteen, he said. The conversation died. He took her back to the wet-handed boy and cut in on her no more. Marjorie could hardly sleep that night for thinking of George, and hating herself for mishandling him.