Boys and Girls Together: A Novel

  The doorman hurried out of the hotel and around the taxi to the driver’s window. “Seems there’s been a slight screw-up,” he said out of the side of his mouth.

  “That’s certainly no surprise to me,” Jenny said.

  “How slight?”

  “Well,” the doorman said.

  “Why are you both talking out of the sides of your mouth?” Jenny said.

  “It seems they goofed on her reservation,” the doorman went on.

  “Didja fix it O.K.?” Mr. Truman asked.

  “Depends on how long she’s staying. How long is she staying?”

  “How long are you staying, Jenny?”

  “Just until I find someplace. Just a couple of days.”

  “A couple of days,” Mr. Truman said.

  “In that case,” the doorman said, “she can have it.”

  “Have what?” Jenny asked.

  The doorman walked around the car, opened the door and started struggling with her luggage. “The Herbert Hoover suite,” he said.

  I’m in the Herbert Hoover suite, Jenny thought as the bellboy closed the door. Just fancy that. She scurried from the living room into the bedroom, back into the living room, into the closets, out, back to the bedroom, where she picked up the phone. “This is Miss Jenny Devers and I’m in the Herbert Hoover suite and I wondered could I talk to the Algonquin Hotel, please.” She lay back carefully on the bed and when the Algonquin answered she said, “Hello, my name is Jenny Devers and I’m sorry to bother you but I would like to talk, please, to a Mr. Tommy Alden except that I think he’s probably not there anymore, having left town unexpectedly, so could you tell me, please, did he say where he might be going?”

  “Mr. Alden’s in room 802.”

  “Oh. Thank you. Well, could I talk to him, please, if his line isn’t busy?” And then a moment later she heard Tommy’s voice. “Tommy?” she said.

  “Hello? Who’s this?”

  “Tommy? It’s me.”

  “Moose?”

  Jenny giggled.

  “Moose? Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m in the Herbert Hoover suite.”

  “The where?”

  Jenny giggled again.

  “Listen, Bronko, you’re wasting your money. Speak up.”

  “It only costs a dime.”

  “You’re in New York?”

  “Isn’t that just the most incredible thing?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You know very well what I’m doing here.”

  “Omigod, you’re going to be an actress.”

  “I just got off the bus.”

  “Have you still got your return ticket?”

  “I didn’t buy one, smartie.”

  “Omigod.”

  “And stop saying that. Or I won’t let you see me. Do you want to see me?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m at the Herbert Hoover suite at the Dixon Hotel in Manhattan on West Forty-fifth—”

  “I can find it. I’ll be right over.”

  “Wait fifteen minutes.”

  “What for?”

  “What for?” Jenny said. “What for? I’m in a suite. I’m a lady. A lady needs time to prepare.”

  After she hung up Jenny threw off her clothes and dashed into the shower and then dried herself and unpacked a little until she came to her newest spring dress, the pale-yellow one she had made just before leaving Cherokee, Wisconsin, and she put it on and had just finished combing her hair when there was a loud knock on the door. “Yes? Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Moose, who do you think?”

  Jenny went to the door and opened it. “Miss Devers will see you now,” she said.

  “Hello, Miss Devers,” Tommy said, closing the door. He wore a blue cord suit and cordovan loafers and a white button-down shirt and a narrow, regimental striped tie.

  Jenny nodded to him. “Hello.” He was a senior at Williams College, but she had not seen him since the summer of his junior year, almost ten months before, because he had gone south for Christmas, to Bermuda or Jamaica (she could never keep them straight), and though she wept when he wrote her he was going, and though she swore to end their correspondence then and there, she (frantically) changed her mind that same night and wrote him as if nothing at all had happened, in spite of the fact that she was desperately afraid of his meeting some horrible beautiful college girl and falling in love with her because it was so romantic down there, in Bermuda or Jamaica, whichever it was.

  “Hey, you look good, Jenny.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “C’mere?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” she answered, and she ran into his arms.

  They kissed and then he grabbed her as tightly as he could and hoisted her into the air. “God, you’re a tank.”

  “Oh, you hush,” and she made him put her down so she could kiss him again.

  “I love you, do you know that?”

  “Well, you should.”

  “Get her.” He fingered her pale-yellow dress. “New tent?”

  “It is not a tent.”

  Tommy kissed her. “Well, shall we?”

  Without a word, Jenny walked him to the full-length mirror and they took off their shoes and stood, ritually, back to back, eying the results in the mirror.

  “I’m still taller,” Tommy said. “Got you by over an inch.”

  “Thank heavens,” Jenny said, and they put their shoes back on. “Would you like to see the Herbert Hoover suite?”

  He followed her into the next room. “The hotel’s a dump but this room’s O.K. How’d you get it?”

  “It’s all in who you know,” Jenny answered. “How was Jamaica?”

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” Jenny mumbled, and she flicked a speck of dust from the bureau top.” I just wondered how Jamaica was.”

  “It was Bermuda and it was four months ago, so why are you asking about it now?”

  “Just making conversation.”

  Abruptly he turned away. “Dammit.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Just dammit,” Tommy said, and he led her back to the living room. “I didn’t want to get into this. Not right away. What did you have to ask for?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Sit down, huh? Please.”

  Jenny sat on the sofa. Tommy sat in a chair across from her. “It happened,” he said.

  “What did?”

  “What you were worried about that made you ask about Bermuda. What you’re afraid happened. Well, you’re right.”

  Jenny said nothing.

  “I was gonna hold off telling you until this summer. I never would have written it to you; I hope you believe that.”

  “I believe that.”

  “She’s English,” Tommy said. “Her name is Cecily.”

  “Auh?”

  “And nothing’s set yet. I mean, no date or anything like that. I’ve got to go to London this summer to meet her parents. He’s some rich guy. Coal business, primarily. Very snobby.”

  “Is she nice?”

  “I think so. I don’t know. It was so damned romantic down there, you know what I mean. Beach and sun and dancing all night long. I’m really torn up about it, Jenny. Honest I am. But she’s so little and cute and that way she talks, it just knocks me out.”

  “Little and cute?”

  Tommy nodded. “Like a button. Cecily Henshaw. She comes to about here on me.” He indicated his chin.

  “Well,” Jenny said, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “So do I,” Tommy answered. “So do I. I know it’s crazy, but ...” His voice drifted off.

  “Just a little ago. Why did you say you loved me?”

  “I’m sorry,” Tommy said. “I was just trying to be nice.”

  “I’ll always care for you and I hope you’ll be very happy.”

  “Thanks. Oh, Jesus, Jenny, don’t think this is easy for me. But the
re she was on the beach in Bermuda and, well, I never met anybody like her before. She’s so petite and all, but with this terrific shape and great eyes and this green hair and dimples and a smile, well, I don’t know how to describe her smile.”

  “She sounds like a very pretty—did you say green hair?”

  Tommy sighed. “Long and green.”

  “You’re terrible!”

  “Tommy sighed again. “Like seaweed.”

  Jenny jumped up and ran into the bedroom and shut the door.

  “Moose?” Tommy said. He went to the bedroom door and tried pushing it open. “Hey, Moose?”

  Jenny held it shut.

  “Moose, come on now.”

  “How dare you lie to me?” Jenny shouted through the door. “Especially when you know I always believe everything.”

  “You started it with that ‘how was Jamaica’ junk.”

  “I did not. Besides, it doesn’t matter anymore. You went too far to ever regain my good graces. I thought you might like to know that.”

  Tommy threw his weight against the door, but Jenny held it shut. “Let me in.”

  “Never.”

  “Let me in.”

  “Give me one good reason.”

  “I hunger for your lips.”

  “Oh, in that case,” and she opened the door.

  “Listen,” Tommy said after he kissed her. “When do you wanna get married?”

  “I don’t know. When do you wanna get married?”

  “I don’t know. When do you ...” He started to laugh. “Do you think, that maybe this conversation means we’re not quite ready?”

  “Probably; I don’t know.” She clung to him. “We really love each other, don’t we?”

  “Haven’t we always?”

  “I guess we have. That’s nice, don’t you think?”

  “If you like that kind of thing.”

  “I don’t even know why I bother with you.” She looked at herself in the bureau mirror a moment. Then she shook her head. “Sometimes I’m not so ravishing as some people,” she said.

  “They’ve got these new things for hair I just heard about,” Tommy said. “I think they’re called ‘combs.’ Supposed to work wonders.” He watched as she opened her compact. “Try not to take all afternoon.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know. Have cocktails eventually. First I thought you might like to see the sights. As long as you’re here a few days.”

  Jenny said nothing.

  “Let’s face it. Lloyds of London says you’re not liable to stay.”

  “I’m putting on my makeup. It requires fantastic concentration.”

  “I wanna talk about it if you don’t. I’m glad you’re here, but I don’t see much point to your staying, considering we’re gonna get married sometime and, anyway, you don’t probably even want to stay, do you?”

  “I don’t know.” She put her makeup away and he helped her on with her coat. “But, Tommy, so far, today, I mean, well, the things that have happened to me. Why, you wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Try me,” Tommy said as he locked the door and they walked down the hall to wait for the elevator.

  “I’d rather be mysterious.”

  “The day you’re mysterious ...” And then he stopped, because the elevator door opened and they rode down in silence.

  “I’m an enigma,” Jenny said, pulling her coat collar to just below her eyes.

  They walked through the lobby. “Behave yourself,” Tommy told her. They moved onto the sidewalk. “Now, I thought we might begin at Rockefeller Cen—”

  “Good afternoon, Miss Devers.”

  “Oh, hello, Morton.”

  “Miss Devers, Franklin was wondering if you might be wanting the car.”

  “Tell him ‘thank you’ for me, will you, Morton? I think I’m fine.” Tommy looked at the doorman, then at Jenny, then back at the doorman, then he started to run, hurrying to catch up with Jenny as she floated toward Fifth Avenue.

  As they started to enter the Algonquin Jenny said, “Is the Round Table still here?”

  Tommy stopped. “How many books did you read before you came?”

  “About New York? Seventeen. I thought I should prepare myself.”

  Tommy shook his head.

  “Oh, they weren’t all all about New York. Some of them just had chapters.”

  They walked into the hotel and Jenny looked at the people having cocktails in the lobby, at the dining room beyond. Tommy took her arm when she gasped.

  “What is it?”

  “Look,” Jenny whispered.

  “Where?”

  “There.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “There,” and she gestured with her shoulder to the red-haired man drinking by himself in the corner.

  “So?”

  “That’s him,” Jenny whispered. “That’s Stagpole.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I’ve seen his pictures.”

  “Come on,” Tommy said.

  Jenny held back. “Can’t we stay here a minute? I want to watch him.”

  “You’re probably looking at some guy from Salt Lake City who’s in the butter-and-egg business.”

  “He looks just like his book jackets.”

  “Jenny, will you cut it out?”

  “I wonder if I could get his autograph. You could ask him for me. It’s less embarrassing for a man.”

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Tommy said, and he took her arm. “I’ll prove you’re crazy.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll just go ask him.” He started pulling her across the lobby. At first she resisted, but then as she imagined people might be staring at her she stopped, contenting herself with frantic whispers.

  “Tommy, please. Tommy, now stop this. Tommy—”

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Tommy said when they reached the redheaded man. “But this girl here wants to ask you a question.”

  “What is it, Jenny?” the man said.

  “Well,” Jenny said, “the thing is ...” And then she said, “That’s my name.” And then she said, “You’re him!” Then: “Tommy, you pull any more tricks on me and ...” Then: “Fancy that.” Then she just stood there.

  “Sit,” Tommy said, holding a chair.

  Jenny sat.

  “Where’s Dad?” Tommy asked, sitting beside her.

  “Talking too much someplace, I expect,” Stagpole replied. “You know your father.” He turned to Jenny. “I understand we’re both fans of mine.”

  “Hello,” Jenny said.

  “She thinks you’re even greater than Edgar Rice Burroughs,” Tommy said.

  Stagpole laughed.

  Jenny put her arm around Tommy’s neck and pulled him close. “Now you be nice to me,” she whispered. “And, please, don’t call me ‘Moose.’ ”

  “Word of honor,” Tommy said.

  “There she is!” Mr. Alden’s voice boomed from behind them. “There she is!” He hurried up and kissed Jenny roughly on the cheek. “You and I are through.”

  “But—”

  “Nineteen years I know this girl.” Mr. Alden gestured with his unlit cigar. “I was there when she was born. And when she comes to New York, does she tell me? Hell no.” He sat down and signaled for the waiter. “Through. Who wants what?” The men ordered Scotch, Jenny ginger ale.

  “The reason I had to keep it secret was if I told you you would have told Tommy and he would have made some joke and then I wouldn’t have come.”

  “That makes me sound pretty neat,” Tommy said.

  “Have you always wanted to come?” Stagpole asked.

  “Not always, exactly. Just since I was twelve.”

  “Have you acted a lot?” Stagpole said.

  “Not a lot, exactly. I’m too tall for most parts.”

  “How tall are you?”

  “Oh, a little over five-seven.”

  “Three inches over,” Tommy said.

  “Tommy.?
??

  “Anyway,” Mr. Alden said, “you’re here. How’s it been so far?”

  “You wouldn’t believe it,” Tommy said.

  “That’s the truth,” Jenny said. “Mr. Stagpole?”

  “Call him ‘Wormy.’ ” Mr. Alden told her. “When we were growing up, that’s all anybody called him. Just ‘Wormy.’ ”

  “Go on, Jenny,” Stagpole said.

  “Well ...” Jenny began. Then she stopped. “Did they really call you ‘Wormy’?”

  Stagpole nodded. “Alas.”

  “I think that’s terrible,” Jenny said. “I saw your play this afternoon. I went right by it in my taxicab. The Left Hand Knows.”

  “That turkey,” Mr. Alden said.

  Stagpole looked at him. “Have you no heart?”

  Happily, Mr. Alden lighted his cigar.

  “That play,” Stagpole went on, “happens to be an outstanding artistic achievement. Not only has it run more than a year but Warner Brothers bought it for four hundred thousand dollars. That proves it’s an outstanding artistic achievement.”

  “Bushwah,” Mr. Alden said. “It’s just like the rest of your turkeys. The men are all studs and the women are nympho—” He stopped and smiled at Jenny. “Your father would disapprove of my language. Forgive me.”

  “He still thinks I’m a baby,” Jenny said. “But I know lots of words.” The waiter brought their drinks. Jenny took a sip of her ginger ale. “I’m in New York and I’m having cocktails and I’m just so happy.” She giggled at Tommy. I am.

  “Do you always say what you think?” Stagpole asked.

  “Always,” Tommy said. “Believe me.”

  “That’s a bad habit, Jenny. Nice. But bad.”

  “Oh, I’m a terrific liar when I want to be. You wouldn’t believe some of the lies I’ve told. Why—” She broke off suddenly. “Why are you staring at me?”

  “No reason,” Stagpole said.

  “I don’t like it for people to do that.”

  “Do you know why you don’t like it, Jenny? I think I do.”

  “Oh-oh,” Mr. Alden said. “He’s playing God.”

  “Yes.” Stagpole nodded. “That’s a bad habit of mine. One of my better bad habits. Why did you come here, Jenny?”

  “I don’t know. No reason.”