“How old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“That’s about the same as Barbara.”
“But she seems so much older. You and she have done so many things I don’t know anything about.”
“What sort of things?”
“I don’t know. But I can tell by the way you two talk. You’re old friends, and you lived in New York. And you have a lot in common. That’s important. You have a great range of common experience. Things you’ve done and seen.”
Verne considered, standing by the door to the hall. He twisted back and forth, frowning. “I don’t know. It’s hard to say. About Barbara. Maybe she is too old for you. It’s a difficult question. You have to work it out for yourself. I can’t work it out for you. But I think you’re overrating her experience. I doubt if she’s been around as much as you seem to think.”
“It’s terrible to be too young,” Carl murmured.
“Is it?”
“I keep telling myself that eventually I’ll be as old as everyone else, but by that time they’ll be even older. I’ll never catch up.”
“You can also be too old,” Verne said.
“I suppose so. I know some people feel that way. But that’s certainly just an academic problem to me. When you’re too young you feel left out. You haven’t done any of the things other people have done. Every time you open your mouth you say something foolish. Like—like a kid.”
Verne opened the door. “Well, don’t worry about it.”
Carl followed after him plaintively. “But look, Verne. I wish you’d tell me what you think. Am I too young for Barbara? If I am, then maybe I better forget about her.”
“What exactly did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. I just meant our being together. Like today.” Carl smiled his wide, honest smile. “I enjoy being with her. It’s nice to have somebody to read to.”
“You’re not too young to read to her, for Christ’s sake.”
Carl was silent. “I wouldn’t want to be with her if she were laughing at me,” he murmured.
“I don’t think she is.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“Well, I wouldn’t give up. At least, not for a little while. Try it out.”
“You think it’s all right, then?”
Verne took a deep breath, a weary breath. “I don’t know. It’s a deep problem. Only time will tell. Maybe one day we’ll know.”
“I went out during high school to dances, and there was a club I was in that had parties once in a while. But I never went around with girls much. I was always reading or doing that sort of thing. I was never very lucky with girls.”
“I’ll see you later.” Part of Verne disappeared into the hall.
“When will you be back?”
“I don’t know.” Verne closed the door after him. He was alone in the gloomy hall. “I have no idea.”
Barbara’s light was visible, gleaming through the darkness above him as he mounted the stairs to the porch of the women’s dorm building. He entered the dark corridor and climbed to the second floor. Barbara’s door was partly open, down the hall ahead of him.
“Who’s there?” Barbara stepped out into the hall.
“Me.”
“For God’s sake. What are you doing around here so late?” She had been brushing her hair. In one hand she held her brush, tapping it against her leg angrily. She had on dirty army pants and a bra. Her feet were bare.
“I got restless.”
They stood looking at each other, Barbara tapping her brush, Verne plucking aimlessly at his shirt cuff. In the dim light from the lamp, shining out into the hall, the girl’s bare arms and shoulders glowed and sparkled, each tiny hair distinct and alive.
“You just took a bath,” Verne said. “You’re still damp.”
“Well?” She put her hands on her hips. Verne gazed down at her bare feet.
“Well what?”
“What do you want? Do you want to come in?”
“I suppose so. May I?”
“I don’t know.”
Verne scowled. “You don’t know? That’s a new one. Why not? What’s the matter?”
There was silence.
“Why can’t I come in?”
Barbara turned abruptly, going back into her room. “All right. Come on.”
Verne followed after her. She closed the door to the hall. The room was tidy and neat. All the clothing had been put away. Prints were up on the walls. And there was even a vase of flowers on top of one of the dressers.
“Nice,” Verne said. He sat down in a chair, crossing his legs. “Combing your hair?”
“Yes.” Barbara sat down on the bed. She had fixed up a mirror. She began to brush again, moving the brush through her heavy dark hair, slowly and regularly.
“You have nice feet,” Verne said presently.
“Thanks.”
“I’m sorry to bother you.”
“That’s all right.” Her voice was distant. Remote. She went on brushing, frowning into the mirror, her head on an angle.
“Have a good time today?”
She shot him a glance. “When?”
“Up in the hills.”
“Not too bad. It got a little too cold and damp for me. The ground doesn’t dry out completely.”
“It will later on.”
“We won’t be here later on.”
“That’s true. But you did have fun?”
“Yes. I suppose you’d call it that.”
Verne got up and wandered around the room. He stopped at the dresser, examining the vase of flowers. “What sort of flowers are these?”
“Roses.”
“They’re too small to be roses.”
“Well, then I don’t know.”
There was silence. Barbara went on brushing her hair. Verne stooped down to see what books were in the bookcase. He pulled one out and thumbed through it.
“Ezra Pound. How are these?”
“Personae? Not bad. It was a gift.”
“A gift.”
“From Felix and Penny.”
“Oh.” Verne put the book back into place. “How are they? I haven’t heard from them for a long time.”
“They have a child. A boy.”
“I knew that.”
“Then you know as much as I do.”
Verne smiled. “Thanks.”
“Perhaps more.” Barbara studied him. “What’s on your mind? I can tell something’s going on inside. You’re restless. Jumpy.”
“Am I?”
Barbara put down her brush. She turned to face him. “Has it got anything to do with our going up into the hills today?”
Verne was silent. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
“It does have something to do with it.”
“Maybe so.”
Barbara walked across the room to the closet and took down a jacket. She put it around her, fastening the cord into place. A long-sleeved jacket, pale yellow. She returned to the bed and seated herself. From her purse she took a cigarette and lit it slowly. “It was your idea, you know. You suggested it.”
“I did?”
“You wanted to bring him in.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I don’t understand you. What do you want, Verne? First you say—”
“Let’s not argue. I’m too tired.”
Barbara leaned back, blowing smoke toward him in a great cloud. The smoke mixed with the light from the lamp. “It would be interesting to know what goes on inside all the nooks and crannies of your mind. I guess it would take a first-rate analyst to figure out what’s the matter.”
“There’s nothing the matter. I just came over to spend a little time with you. That’s all.”
“Really?”
“Can’t we sit and talk? Have we got to the point where we can’t do that anymore?”
“We can talk for fifteen minutes.” She looked at her watch. “Then I’m going to bed.”
“You’re pretty damn hostile, all of a sudden.”
“Reaction to yesterday. I’ll get over it. In time.”
“That’s good.” Verne tried to make himself comfortable on the chair, drawing his feet under the chair, his arms folded. “Brrrrr. It’s chilly in here.”
“Is it?”
“You know, it’s odd. All this. What you’re doing. In a way I can take a detached interest. A sort of impersonal intellectual interest. The way Carl would.”
“Interest in what?”
“In what you’re doing. The way you’re acting toward me. What you’re doing right now.”
“I wasn’t aware I was doing anything.”
“Your hostility. You blame me even more, don’t you? More than you did before—before yesterday. And if it ever happens again you’ll blame me just that much more. Every time it happens you’ll go through the same business. You were done in. Robbed. It was all my idea. I made you do it. I held you down on the bed and unbuttoned your pants.”
“Is that what I think?”
“Something like that. A period of time goes by, after it happens. After yesterday. You forget what really happened. That it was as much your idea as it was mine. You forget all that part. All you remember is that it did happen. Again. And you blame me. I can see it settling down over you like a shroud. A shroud of outrage. Frigid hostility toward me. But there’s no use blaming me. It was your fault, too.”
Barbara nodded. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I know. Now, does that settle it? Can we let the matter drop?”
Verne was nettled. “I suppose so.” He cleared his throat. “What ever you want.”
“I’d like to drop it.”
“All right. We’ll talk about something else. How much time do we have?”
Barbara looked at her watch. “About ten minutes.”
“Good.” Verne considered. “Let’s talk about what you did today. You say you enjoyed yourself? You had fun?”
“Yes.”
“What’s his treatise all about?”
“Ethics. Something to do with morals. The power of reason. Free will. I dozed a little.”
“Was it confused?”
“No. It was clear enough. But I got to thinking about other things.”
“Is he going to read more to you?”
“Yes.”
“Soon?”
Barbara did not answer.
“What’s the matter?” Verne said.
“Why do you care if he’s going to read more?”
Verne stood up. “I guess I’ll leave. You can’t keep from turning your guns on me, can you? You’re full of resentment and it’s me you want to fight.”
Barbara shrugged. “Go if you want to go. You have about seven minutes left.”
“I’ll stay.” He sat down heavily, sagging against the chair. For a time he sat, his legs crossed, picking at his sleeve. “Carl liked to read to you;” he murmured after a while. “He says it means a lot to him.”
“Good.”
“He’s beginning to like you. Before I came over here he wanted my advice.”
“On what?”
“On whether you’re too old for him.”
“Old? Too old in what way?”
“He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know what way. Maybe he hasn’t found out yet what ways exist.”
“Maybe not.”
“But he is beginning to get interested in you. In some vague manner. A kind of sense that you make a good companion to read to. Very general and nebulous. Nothing to do with sex. He’s a strange kid. He’s very alert in an intellectual way. There’s nothing stupid or dumb about him. But in certain areas his mind doesn’t seem to function. Dead spots. As if he didn’t understand or hear.”
“He’s led a different life from us.”
“Maybe that’s it. He frisks around like a great big colt. I have the feeling you could shout and shout like hell at him and he’d never hear you.”
“It would depend on what you were shouting.”
“True. But you are going to let him read his stuff to you again?”
“Yes. You don’t object do you? Yesterday you seemed to think—”
“No. I don’t object. You go ahead, if that’s what you want to do. It’s probably the right thing. I’m not sure anymore. I guess we have to be saved somehow.”
Barbara nodded.
Verne eyed her. “Is—is that it? Is that what all this is about? You want to try to shake me off and get away from—from everything I represent?”
Barbara did not answer. She sat smoking silently, staring off into the distance. Verne shifted uneasily.
“Say something, damn it! Answer me.”
“That’s part of it, I suppose.”
“Then you want to call it quits between us?”
“I thought we had already decided that.”
“Not in so many words.”
“That was my impression. Isn’t that what we were going to do? Yesterday—”
“We talked about it. Had we made up our minds?” Verne’s voice was low and dry.
“I thought so.”
“I see. Well, I guess maybe you’re right. The whole thing is settled, then? You’re going to wash off your sins in lamb blood.” Verne got up and moved to the door. He stood by the door, lingering. “Remember one thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“You have to slaughter the lamb to get the blood.”
“That’s so.”
Verne shoved his hands in his pockets. “You know, Barbara, I think in a lot of ways you’re taking the wrong attitude.”
“Oh?”
“This sort of thing never works out. It’s like what you do on New Year’s Day. Resolutions. That all the wicked old habits are going to be kicked out the window. But after a couple of days there they are back again. Just as before. Resolutions don’t work.”
“What works, then?”
“I don’t know. Genuine conversions, I suppose. I don’t know much about that. But the Church says that works. Where the whole soul is lifted. Not just the soul’s face.”
“Maybe this is a conversion.”
“You still look the same.” He walked back toward her. “In fact, you look pretty good. Not half bad. Even in bare feet and dirty pants. And your jacket hanging out.”
“It was your idea. You saw it before I did. That through him—”
“Christ. A story. A ghost story to scare us. The kind of thing you think up at night.”
“We were scared, weren’t we?” Barbara said softly. “We were both scared. Even you, Verne. You were scared, too. Along with me.”
“That was yesterday.” Verne grinned crookedly. “A whole day and a half ago. You’re not still thinking about it, are you?”
“Yes.”
“I advise you to forget it. I’ve changed my mind. You can ignore my previous suggestions. I’ve changed my mind about it.”
“I haven’t”
Verne laughed. He sat down on the bed beside her. “Carl is too big. He’ll squash you to death. You won’t live through it.”
Barbara smiled stiffly.
“Do you want to have someone around like that? Running back and forth, knocking over things, talking all the time? Wait a while. Maybe somebody better will come along. Somebody even purer. More innocent. More virgin. Just wait. You don’t want to pick up the first stick you see. The woods are big.”
“And full. I remember that phrase.”
Verne put his hand on her shoulder. “Wait until you see the dove fly up. Don’t rush into this. You have a long life ahead of you.”
Barbara did not answer. Verne put his arm around her, rubbing her neck. Her skin was warm and a little damp, above the collar of her jacket, where her dark hair ended. He rubbed slowly, pressing his fingers into her firm flesh. Barbara said nothing. She swayed a little with the motion of his fingers. In the ashtray her cigarette burned down. Smoke drifted into the lamp, circling slowly aro
und the shade.
“It’s nice in here,” Verne murmured.
“Yes.”
“You’ve made this room into something.”
“Thank you.”
“I remember that. It’s been a long time, but I still remember that. How you changed that other room. In Castle. At that party. Do you remember? That was when I first saw you. You were sitting there, at the end of the room. All by yourself. All alone. But you did something to that room, too. The same way. You changed it. The way you’ve changed this room.”
“I remember.”
“That was a long time ago. So many things have happened since then.”
Barbara nodded a little. “Yes.”
Verne’s fingers tightened against her neck. She was rigid and tense. He could feel her taut muscles under the skin. Like steel cables. “Relax. You’re all wound up.”
She relaxed a little.
“That’s better. Don’t be wound up. Is there anything wrong?”
“I guess not.”
He rubbed her neck slowly, around and around. She leaned back, closing her eyes.
“Fine. Do you mind if I do this? You don’t mind, do you? It’s good for you.”
“Is it?”
“Of course. Physical therapy. Doctor’s recommend it. It’s considered very soothing.”
Barbara nodded. “Yes. It’s soothing.”
“Good. Then you don’t mind?”
For a long time she did not answer. Verne watched her. The girl’s eyes were still shut. She seemed to be a long way off. Far away from him. What was she thinking about? There was no way to tell by looking at her. He did not say anything. Her flesh felt good under his fingers. Warm and full. He touched her hair. Hard, dry hair. It was good, too. His fingers pressed against her muscles and tendons, into the warm flesh.
Barbara sighed.
“All right?” Verne said. He moved closer to her. The room was still. Neither of them spoke.
“Verne.”
“What?”
“When you found out how young I was you should have let me go. It was wrong. I was too young.”
“For God’s sake! Can’t you forget that ever?”
“Why didn’t you let me go? Why did you go ahead with it? You knew and yet you went ahead.”
“It didn’t hurt you any. Did it?” He looked into her face. “It didn’t hurt you. Not too much. How long ago that was. It seems strange to be sitting here talking about it. Another world. Another time stream. You were so mixed up in those days. A girl playing at being an adult. You were so scared of men. I could see that. You were shaking with fear. And it made you gruff. You chased men off by being gruff and harsh.”