Marjorie Morningstar

  The rehearsal pianist sat at the stool, banged a few chords, and swung smoothly into the song. Waltzing couples filled the stage. Noel took Marjorie’s hand without a word, and they danced. She saw Wally leaning on the piano, watching her expressionlessly, then she shut her eyes. The magic warmth came streaming as always from Noel’s hands into her body. “It’s a beautiful song, Noel,” she murmured. “Really, it is.”

  “The words are nothing,” she heard him say. Her face was against the rough black wool. “Wrote them as fast as I could move the pencil. The tune has a bit of feeling, I hope. It’s for you.”

  She pressed his hand, and he held her a little closer. Her heart was full of a happy warm ache. It was only because another couple bumped them that she opened her eyes, and saw Samson-Aaron quietly drop the champagne bottle back in the ice tub and walk toward the stage door. She broke out of the dance and, holding Noel by one hand, ran after him. “Uncle, wait, wait.”

  He turned, flabbily stooped, and his fatigue-shadowed eyes had a somewhat startled look. Before she could say a word he straightened, and life and good humor flowed into his face. He said, “Enough for the old man. I go to sleep. You drink my champagne from the valtz, you and Mr. Airman. I’m very thirsty. I get a glass real cold vater in the kitchen. Then I go to sleep.”

  Noel said, “We’ll have sandwiches in fifteen minutes, Sam. You’re not going to pass up a chance to eat?”

  “Mr. Airman, I ate enough tonight. For a good glass cold vater I vould give a hundred dollars, lucky it’s for free. That yellow stuff, it’s like salt. Good night. Dance, dance, have a good time.”

  Marjorie said, “I’m going to walk with you to the kitchen. I feel like having some air anyway, and—”

  He pushed her shoulder so rudely that she lurched against Noel. “Vot’s the matter, I’m a baby? Don’t be like your mama. I go by myself. Thanks.” Then his tone softened. “Good night, my darling. The Uncle is going to sleep, so vot? You dance. Dance vit her, Mr. Airman.” He went down the gloomy steps, and out the stage door.

  A few minutes later Noel and Marjorie were out on the terrace, alone in a far corner in blue moonlight, kissing. She had completely forgotten the Uncle. Noel said after a while, “I regret to tell you that I’ve decided I really like you. Really.” He was very ardent. His eyes shone.

  “Wally says I’ve made a big pest of myself at rehearsals. That you’re embarrassed by me, and would like nothing better than to get rid of me.”

  “Forget Wally, please. Come here.” She was bending back in his arms, avoiding his kiss. “What’s this, mutiny?”

  “Don’t you want to get rid of me?”

  “Clearly not.”

  “Well, it’s too bad then, because you’re going to.”

  “Going to what?”

  “Get rid of me.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m leaving South Wind. Probably tomorrow. I’m going for a trip out West.”

  His hold loosened. “Out West?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at her in silence, his mouth beginning to curl with amusement. She said, meeting his eyes defiantly, “I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon.”

  “I know. You’ve talked of nothing else all summer.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic. I do want to see it, and now I’ve got a chance, and I’m going.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Perfectly.”

  He nodded slowly, smiling. “Of course. Inevitable, at that. You’re being snatched out of the fell clutches of Saul Ehrmann, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ll see you in the fall.”

  “Queer, though. I could have sworn your mother liked me.”

  “She does like you. Look, she’s not sending me out West. Nobody sends me anywhere. I’m going.”

  “You want to go?”

  “Yes.”

  He took her by the arms and studied her face. “What is this, now? Are you feeling neglected, or something? I know I’ve been too wrapped up in the fiesta, but—”

  “Noel, believe me, I simply want to go out West. What’s so hard to believe about that? Wouldn’t you go, if you could?”

  “Margie, for heaven’s sake, don’t play games with me, will you? You’re up against the Masked Marvel. I eat little girls like you. This western trip comes out of nowhere, a few hours after your folks have been here and gone, so don’t give me those wide eyes and tell me you’ve been planning it since you were fifteen. What did your mother say? Does she know my family very well?”

  “Oh, what are you going on and on about it for? It’s just for a few weeks, Noel, it’s August already. Don’t you want me to go? Do you care at all?”

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She said, taking her mouth from his, “That isn’t enough.”

  “Marjorie, why are you being so small, so obvious? What words are you trying to wring out of me?”

  “I don’t want to wring anything from you. Don’t say anything, just let me alone—let go of me—”

  “Marjorie, I love you. If you want to be really clever, don’t be clever. Give me time. Give me rope, that’s all you have to do—”

  They were twined in each other’s arms. “Oh, God, Noel, why did I ever meet you? Why did I come with Marsha that night across the lake? I ruined myself.”

  “Don’t go out West, sweet. Don’t go.”

  “Oh, damn you!” Her hands curved up behind him and she thrust them into his hair. She sighed and shuddered. “Do you think I can refuse you anything? You may be lying when you say you love me. I’ll probably never know. But I love you so much I don’t know what I’m eating, what I’m wearing, what I’m doing, what I’m thinking. It’s all been a fog, all summer. The only thing I’m afraid of is waking up. It seems to me I would die.”

  “Marjorie, darling, listen to me. You know—God knows—you’re not the first girl in my life nor the second, but I swear to you this is new. The reason you’re so crazily in love is that I am, too. There’s no other reason. It happens once in a lifetime to everyone, and I swear to God I’m beginning to think it’s happened for us.”

  “You called it a shipboard romance—”

  “I know, I’ve been so damned clever and superior and sure-footed about it, haven’t I? Don’t press me, Margie darling, don’t try to pin me down, whatever you do. That doesn’t work with me.” He was leaning against the rail of the porch, holding her close.

  She felt her will dissolving. “I won’t go out West. I’ll stay here. I’ll do anything you want me to do. I don’t care about anything except being with you. You know that. You’ve known it ever since the first time you kissed me.”

  A small part of her mind stood apart and watched curiously while they kissed again, with new passion. The rest of her was drowning. She realized dimly that Noel had never tried to woo her before, and now was doing it. She could not protest. She did not want to. The sweetness of his lips on hers, the sweetness flooding her body, passed all her experience. Her innocence vanished. In a moment, in a blink of an eye, the barrier was gone, and she was seeking adult satisfaction of an adult desire.

  “All right,” Noel muttered. “This won’t do at all, you see. Let’s go.” He had to push her away, tenderly and firmly, laughing a little in a hoarse low tone.

  “Where?”

  “My place.”

  “They’ll be missing us.”

  Noel laughed.

  She said, “Not your place.”

  “Why not?”

  “Someplace else.”

  “Why? Don’t be childish.”

  “Wally. He—it’s just a partition. He’s on the other side, under the same roof.”

  “He’s drunk, and anyway he sleeps like a stone.”

  She yielded to the tug of his hand and came a few steps. “Noel.” She stopped. Her senses had been narrowed to their two selves. Now she saw the moon and the stars and the blue moonlit mirror of the lake, heard the lapping of the water under the terrace and, faintly
, the music of the backstage party. “Noel, I love you. I don’t care about anything else. My whole life will go by and nothing will change it. I love you, Noel.”

  They kissed quietly, apart, bending toward each other like a couple in a public place. Arm in arm, they walked down the terrace steps and across the lawn.

  The floodlights and the colored spotlights of the fountain had been turned off since midnight. The gloom of the lawn was relieved here and there by a lamp on a rough log post, in a mist of darting insects. It was very quiet. The plashing of the fountain sounded loud and musical, like a waterfall.

  They were halfway across the lawn, not speaking, moving in one rhythm, quietly happy. Marjorie never knew what it was that she saw, out of the corner of her eye, that made her glance toward the fountain. Even looking straight at it, she saw nothing: a patch of white, or yellowish white, a little different from the foaming white of the water, in the dim lamplight. Then she saw that the surface of the water in the fountain was tumbling irregularly. She said, “There’s something in the fountain. Some fool dropped something big in the—Oh God.” She dug her nails into Noel’s hand. The yellow was the yellow of an old Palm Beach suit, and she thought she saw a hump of that yellow under a swirl of water.

  “What is it?” Noel said. He looked where she was looking, and said, in a sudden frightful shout that tore through the stillness, “MY GOD!”

  She ran, and he ran.

  Samson-Aaron lay in the long wide shallow basin of the fountain, face up. His mouth and eyes were open. Water was cascading across his face so that the features were blurry. His body was slightly out of the water, for it was only a couple of feet deep, but his head was submerged. Noel seized him by the shoulders and dragged him into a sitting position in the water, his back against the rim. Samson-Aaron’s head lolled. His eyes rolled opaquely.

  “Uncle! Uncle! Oh my God, Uncle!” Her arms were around him, feeling into his streaming clothes. Her mouth was on the wet face. “Noel, he’s cold, he’s terribly cold.”

  “I’ll get the doctor.” Noel bounded away, dripping. Marjorie crumpled over the fat wet slumped form, soaking her dress. “Uncle, Uncle. Oh my God, Samson-Aaron! Uncle! Uncle!” She rocked his head on her breast. “Uncle, it’s Marjorie.” She was crying bitterly. “Come back, Uncle! Uncle!”

  Chapter 20. NO DISHES TO VASH

  He did not respond. She felt for his pulse. She had a moment of serious panic at the deadness of his wrist, but then she thought she felt dim throbs. She could not tell whether he was breathing. There was no rise and fall of his huge chest or perhaps a very, very slight motion. His lips, she noticed, were warm, warmer than the rest of his face. Though tears kept pouring down her cheeks, her first shock passed rapidly. She was fairly calm when the commotion started up in the gloom of the men’s side: voices, the running of feet, the glow of lights, the lancing of flashlight beams. She was sharply aware of everything about her—the smell of the trampled grass, the half-moon glittering almost overhead, the stars, the moonlit glassy lake, and the loud splashing of the fountain. Everything was very normal and familiar, except that Samson-Aaron was sitting up to his waist in water in the bowl of the fountain, slumped in her arms, soaking wet.

  The doctor, a plump almost bald young man, came running in his pajamas, carrying a black bag. Two waiters, naked except for underwear shorts, ran with him. The hair of all three was mussed, and they looked sleepy and scared. “Let’s get him out of the water,” the doctor said, seizing the Uncle’s arm.

  One of the waiters jumped splashing into the fountain and took the feet, the other took an arm. They lifted him out on the grass and laid him on his back. The doctor pushed up Samson-Aaron’s eyelid and shone a flashlight into it. He shone the light on his lips, pulled open his mouth and flashed the light inside. He felt his pulse and listened to the heart with a stethoscope.

  “Is he going to be all right?” Marjorie said. She watched the doctor’s face closely.

  “How long ago did it happen, do you know?” he said, rapidly and carefully preparing a hypodermic needle.

  “How about artificial respiration?” said a waiter.

  “Yes, go ahead,” said the doctor.

  Marjorie, searching her mind for the time sequence, tried to remember how long she and Noel had been on the terrace. “Maybe twenty minutes ago he left the party, more or less—no, no more, it isn’t even twenty minutes.”

  The doctor pushed up the Uncle’s left sleeve and injected the arm with the needle. Noel came with Greech and the people of the staff while the waiters were pumping the Uncle’s arms and pressing his sides. The doctor kneeled beside Samson-Aaron’s face, which was turned to a side, expressionless, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, water trickling from his hair. Nobody said anything. After a little time, the doctor said, “Quit it. There’s no water coming out and there’s a free passage of air. He isn’t drowned.”

  “Doctor, how is he? What is it? What can we do?” Marjorie said.

  The doctor looked at her, and the absorbed expression of a mechanic at his trade passed from his face. He was a staring fat young man. “Marjorie, it’s very bad.”

  With a throb of astonishment, she said, “Is he dead?”

  “I can try a shot of adrenalin directly in his heart. He has no heart action, you see.”

  “Doctor, do whatever you can, please.” She was speaking calmly, and she was aware of being the center of the sombre circle, the dramatic figure in the scene. She was also beginning to feel a ghastly nauseous dread.

  He set about the injection. The tension was out of his movements. Marjorie turned away as the waiters rolled the Uncle over and bared his chest. She covered her eyes and slumped against Noel. He held her with one stiff arm.

  She heard Greech say, “Is there anything else we can do, Doctor? Shall we phone the Tetersville Hospital? They’ll do anything I say—”

  “Well, if he should come out of it he’d need an oxygen tent at the least, he’d need—I think it’s pretty bad. I can tell better in a minute.”

  “Meantime we can call,” Greech said, “and tell them to get ready.”

  “All right, Mr. Greech,” the doctor said.

  Greech told one of the girls to telephone the hospital.

  “Marjorie,” the doctor said. She looked at him. He was getting up from beside the Uncle, replacing the hypodermic in his bag. “Has he been complaining of pains in the chest? Dizziness? Any history of heart trouble?”

  She answered a series of questions dully. The Uncle lay as before, wet and relaxed on the grass. She was beginning to understand that he must be dead, after all.

  “He was very thirsty. That was almost the last thing he said. He was terribly thirsty,” Marjorie said.

  The doctor looked at Greech. He knelt and examined the Uncle again. He stood and took off the stethoscope. “Marjorie, I’m sorry, your uncle is dead. By all odds it was a heart attack. He didn’t drown.”

  She nodded. “I see. Thank you, Doctor.” She said to Noel, “I’m afraid I have a lot of telephoning to do.” Then she looked again at the body of the Uncle. Tears filled her stinging dry eyes. With a feeling that it was a melodramatic thing to do, but unable to stop herself, she fell beside the Uncle and threw her arms around his chest. “Uncle, Uncle, oh God, oh my God. Samson-Aaron is gone. What happened, Doctor? How did it happen?”

  The doctor looked down at her, and she was surprised to see that he was crying. “Margie, I don’t know. Nobody will ever know. He’s the only one who could have told us, Margie, don’t you see? And he never will.” She peered up at him, tears rolling down her face, her arms still around the Uncle. The doctor said, “Maybe he—he could have felt the attack coming on when he was crossing the lawn, don’t you see, and sat on the edge of the fountain to catch his breath. Or maybe, if you say he was so thirsty, maybe he tried to take a drink in his palm and got dizzy and toppled in. We can’t tell, don’t you see? Once he’d fallen in, for whatever reason, there’d be fright, panic, violent agitation—he mu
st have died in seconds, or he could have pulled himself out. He was a strong man. That’s a comfort, Marjorie. It was only seconds, whatever it was. He never really knew. He was alive, and then he was dead—”

  “In the fountain. Oh God, in the fountain,” Marjorie said, and she bowed her head on the Uncle’s chest, on the cool skin and the wet curly hair, and sobbed.

  The needle hardly stung. The doctor promised her that the sedative would not put her to sleep, and it did not. After a few minutes a strange warm loose feeling trickled into her arms and legs. Her trembling died away. Noel was sitting at the foot of the bed, watching her, smoking. “Let me have a cigarette,” she said. She sat up and held it to the match. “I’m sorry.”

  “Good God,” Noel said, “you’ve been remarkable, don’t apologize. This thing is hell.”

  “Where have they put him?”

  “He’s here in the infirmary.”

  “Well, I want to see him. Then I have to phone.”

  “Look, why don’t you lie down for a while? The phoning can be done for you. It’ll be better that way.”

  “No. Let’s go.” She stood, straightening her wrinkled wet dress.

  The long sheeted figure on the bed looked like something in a movie. Greech stood beside the doctor, who sat by the dead man, rapidly scrawling with a fountain pen on a long printed form. The yellow plasterboard room was lit by one white bulb hanging on a black cord. It had the usual strong medicine smell, and there was another smell completely new to Marjorie, a rather pleasant one, yet scary because she believed this was what the books called the smell of death. The doctor glanced up at her. She said, “I’d like to see him.”

  “It isn’t a good idea, Margie,” Greech said.

  “It’s all right,” the doctor said, standing and pulling back the edge of the sheet.

  Now Marjorie saw that the Uncle had died. His face was not a living face. It was smiling and greenish. His hands rested loosely on each other on the front of the wet Palm Beach suit, and the many open cuts were not red but nearer purple. In a powerful momentary hallucination she heard his voice, as though he were alive. The voice said, “No dishes to vash.” She shook her head and said to the doctor, “He’s dead.”