“That’s not all. There’s more to it. Women are complex. You never really understand them. Be careful when you’re around them. I wish you had more time. I could tell you a few stories. You know, when I was your age an interesting thing happened to me. Sometime I’ll have to tell you about it. I was nineteen.”
“I’m older than that.”
“I was working for Wineberg’s Department Store. In the bookkeeping department. I met a little girl, tall and blonde. Blue eyes. Soft hair. God, what a lovely little bitch she was. Ellen something. I don’t even remember. It was a long time ago. She was my first. Up in my room. I was shaking like a leaf. I could hardly move. It was raining. I remember that. The rain was coming down outside. Pouring rain. Cold. Gray. And us in the bed, warm like toast. It went on and on. Us, and the rain outside. Forever.”
Verne closed his eyes.
“Well?” Carl said.
Verne stirred. He raised his head, blinking.
“Go on.”
Verne pulled himself up. “You sure you don’t want the John Jamison? It’s good stuff. It’ll keep you warm.”
“No.”
“You’re making a mistake. It casts a glow over things. A lovely glow. Things get soft. Plastic. Not rigid. You can bend them.”
Verne slipped back down again.
“I’m tired. You go on. Have a good time. I wish you luck. Who knows? You might make out all right. After some ground work. She might be a good place for you to start.” Verne yawned, sagging. “As I recall she wasn’t too much trouble. Some are. It varies.” His voice died away.
“Goodbye,” Carl said. He went out into the hall. The door closed behind him.
Verne lay on the bed. Outside, Carl’s footsteps died away.
There was silence. At last Verne struggled up, pulling himself awake. He yawned again.
“Christ.” He got to his feet and walked over to the dresser. He stood swaying back and forth, scratching his groin. Finally he belched. “Christ. Well, my intentions were good.”
He took the John Jamison down from the dresser. Presently he went down the hall to the bathroom to get a glass.
Carl walked very slowly along, his manuscript under his arm, feeling his way through the darkness. For a little while he thought about the things Verne had said. But after a bit all thoughts seemed to leave his mind.
He gazed up at the sky. Ahead of him the dim outline of a building moved, swinging to one side as he walked toward it. His mind was empty. He clutched his manuscript tightly. How strange! He tried to think of what Verne had been saying, but nothing came. He was relaxed. His mind lay in sleep. The violet sky, the ground under him, the vast dim outlines, all were exciting and full of mystery. They made it hard to concentrate.
He halted, catching his breath. Then he went on, increasing his pace more and more.
His shoe touched something. He was there, at the foot of the steps. Above him, the great wood building cut off the sky, blotting out a section of the violet dusk.
Carl stood for a time. The air was thin and cool. It blew around him, stirring some trees along the side of the dormitory. He could hear the branches of the trees, rubbing together in the darkness. There was no other sound. Only the wind and the trees.
Carl started up the steps. He climbed one at a time, holding onto the railing, going very slowly and quietly. Almost solemnly. As if he were part of some procession. The first person in a religious line, slow-moving, solemn and serious. With his manuscript gripped tightly under his arm like an offering.
On the porch he stopped. He rested. Why should it all seem so solemn to him? Why was he making such an important thing of it? He was only doing what he had done before, carrying his manuscript over to read to Barbara.
But the feeling remained. Perhaps it was what Verne had said. He had made everything seem so important and grim. But this was not grimness that he felt, not now. Not hardness, not that at all. It was awe, the hushed awe of the church. As if he were entering the temple.
The temple. Carl gazed up at the building. And he, carrying his offering. A procession winding its way slowly to the temple, with solemn steps. The offering held tightly, a sacred thing.
But that made him smile. His brown-paper and string bundle, a sacred thing? There was nothing holy about his treatise. It was much too calm, too intellectual, to be a religious object. It was not enough alive.
But there was life, somewhere around him, in the night. The stars, coming out above him. They were alive. The wind and the trees. And dimly, half way up the steep side of the building, a thin line of yellow light. The outline of Barbara’s window. And, of course, he, too, was alive. At least, in some sense or other.
Carl entered the building. He made his way up the stairs to the second floor. Yes, he was alive. Especially of late. Since he had stood that moment, in the hot sun, gazing across the water at the girl. Since then especially, he had been alive. But why that had mattered he did not know. It was a mystery, in part.
He came to Barbara’s door and rapped.
The door opened. “Come in,” Barbara said.
Carl hesitated. “All right.”
“Come on!”
He went inside slowly. Barbara closed the door after him. Carl stood shyly in the center of the room, looking around him. “Your room looks wonderful.”
“Thanks.” Barbara rustled past him. Her face and hair shone, reflecting the light from the lamp in the corner. As if she had been carefully brushed. She had on a flower-print blouse and dark slacks. And sandals. Carl glanced at her again and again as she moved about the room, fixing things here and there.
“Yes, it looks wonderful.”
“Put your book down.”
“All right.” He set his manuscript down on the table by the bed. Barbara had fixed the room up with many colors and fabrics. The room was rich and warm. Carl sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed. “I can’t get over how it looks. The drapes. The prints. All the flowers.”
Barbara was at the window. She ran her finger over the glass. “It’s cold outside, isn’t it?” The glass was wet with collected moisture. She pulled the shades down.
“Yes. It’s cold.” Carl unwrapped his manuscript. He laid the brown paper and string on the floor. Barbara seemed very quiet and withdrawn. She was not saying much. “I won’t leave these wrappings around. I’ll take them with me when I leave. I don’t want to spoil your room.”
“It’s not so wonderful.” Barbara sat down across from him, in a chair.
“I think it looks fine.”
“Thank you.” She nodded curtly.
Carl leaned back on the bed, arranging his papers. The bedsprings squeaked under him. He made a face.
“Don’t mind that. They always do that.”
“All right.” He made himself comfortable. “Shall I begin?”
“Already?”
He blinked. “Well, I—”
Suddenly Barbara leaped up. She swept two small glasses from the dresser and set them on the table by the bed. From the corner of the room she brought out a bottle of wine and uncorked it.
“What’s that?” Carl asked.
“Burgundy.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t you like burgundy?”
“I—” Carl hesitated.
Barbara lowered the bottle. “What’s wrong?”
Carl did not know. He searched his mind, but he found everything confused, unclear. “I’m sorry. I guess I would like a little. Thank you very much.”
Barbara poured the two glasses full and recorked the bottle. She gave Carl his glass.
Carl sipped. “It’s good.”
“Yes. It’s good wine.” Barbara sat down again. The two of them sat silently, sipping from their glasses, neither of them speaking. At last Carl stirred.
“Well, I guess I’ll go ahead.”
“Fine.”
“You—you don’t mind listening, do you? I don’t want to impose. There isn’t very much left.”
“Of cours
e I want you to read. I asked you to bring it. You’re funny, Carl.”
Carl picked up his papers. The room was partly in shadow. Only the small lamp was on. It made the colors and textures of the drapes and prints seem deep and full. The room was lovely, but it was hard for him to see his pages. Barbara was sitting almost in darkness. Her eyes were large and dark. She was lovely, too.
Carl smiled at her. “Here goes.”
Barbara leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. She rested her hands in her lap. Carl felt his heart begin to beat a little faster. And to his surprise he found his voice low and husky, as he began to read the first page of the remaining sections of the treatise.
After he had read a while he noticed that Barbara seemed restless. He lowered the pages.
“What is it?”
Barbara stood up. “I can hardly hear you. Wait.” She crossed the room and sat down beside him on the bed. The bedsprings creaked. Carl felt the bed sag.
“Not very strong, is it?” he muttered in confusion. He edged away from her. “I’m sorry my voice is so dry.”
“It’s all right. Go on.” Barbara stretched out on the bed, resting her shoulders against the wall. Carl glanced at her. Then he went on with the treatise.
Barbara, listening to the sound of Carl’s voice, felt herself slowly passing into sleep. She rested her body against the wall, hearing the low, intense murmur coming out of him as he sat bent over his manuscript, the pages on his lap. His words were losing their meaning, blending and fading together. But it did not matter.
She watched him sleepily as he read. Carl’s face was serious, absorbed, his lips moving. His pages meant so much to him. He had worked on them so hard. His hands were clasped tightly around the page he was reading, as if he were afraid something would happen to it, as if it might blow away and become lost any moment.
“Does it mean so much to you?” she said suddenly.
Carl started. “What?” He lowered the page.
“Does your paper mean so much to you? You’re holding it so tightly.”
Carl noticed his hands. “I am, aren’t I?”
“I didn’t mean for you to stop. Go on.”
“No. I’ll rest my voice for a moment.” He laid the paper with the others on his lap. She saw how careful he was to handle them loosely, now. Carelessly.
“I didn’t mean to criticize you. I only wondered why. I wondered what was going on in your mind.”
Carl tried to think what was going on in his mind, but he did not seem to know. “Why?” he asked.
“I like you, I suppose.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. Which is strange. I don’t usually like people. I’ve always been remote from people. Off to my self. As long as I can remember.”
Carl nodded.
“Carl, what was your mother like?”
“My mother? Oh, I don’t know how to answer that. She was very business-like. I didn’t like her. She had some sort of job in personnel work. Job interview work. I always think of her looking up over her desk with her glasses on, business forms in her hands. And a sharp new pencil and eraser.”
“She’s not alive?”
“She was killed in an accident when I was quite young.”
“I think you told me. I’m sorry.”
“I never missed her. I lived with my grandparents until I was old enough to work. It was my father that I loved. He played golf and wore an old cap. He had an old Model T Ford. We used to go out into the woods and have picnics. Maybe that’s why I like the woods so much. He died when I was only six. It’s funny. I haven’t thought of him in years. I remember his voice. He had a big booming voice. He was huge. He towered over me.”
“Did you have many girlfriends in high school?”
Carl’s answer came slowly. “Not exactly. I went out a few times. But I was wrapped up in my books and that sort of thing.”
“Did you have a crush on a certain girl?”
Carl flushed. “No.”
“Don’t you want to talk about it?”
He did not answer. His face was red.
“I’m sorry.” Barbara touched his arm. “I didn’t mean to pry. I want to know about you. I want to know the things that have happened to you. You don’t mind, do you? Would you rather not talk to me?”
“Sometimes it’s hard for me to talk to—to a woman.”
Barbara smiled. “I won’t make you talk. Do you want to go on?”
“Go on?”
“Reading. Your treatise.”
Carl snatched it up. “Yes, I’ll read some more.” He found his place quickly. “I’ll go on.”
Barbara lay back again, against the wall. The room was warm and quiet. She closed her eyes. “It is comfortable. It’s nice to lie here and listen to you read. You have a nice reading voice. It’s pleasant to listen to. It makes me feel relaxed. I’ve been very taut, the last few days.”
“Thank you.” Carl cleared his throat. He went on, reading slowly and carefully, not looking at the girl beside him, but keeping his eyes on the page he held.
Again she was becoming sleepy. She tried to concentrate, but she could not make head nor tail of what he was reading.
What did it all mean? Ideas, words, carefully prepared sentences. She was going faster and faster to sleep. Her eyelids were like stones. She was slipping down farther each moment, her body lifeless, unresponding. She was powerless to help herself.
Carl glanced out of the corner of his eye at the girl. The sight of her, lying so close to him, gave him a sense of importance. He was glad to read to her. She was the first person who had heard his treatise. He was happy. Barbara liked him. She had said so. It was a long time since a girl had told him that. Had any girl ever told him that? He tried to think, but he could not remember. Perhaps this was the first time.
Carl read on and on, happily, contented to sit with the pages in his hands, aware of the room, the textures and colors in the half-darkness, the unmoving girl on the bed so near to him. It was very pleasant. Barbara was right. He felt relaxed, too. It was a good feeling. Warmth and the soft colors in the room.
After a while he set the manuscript down and took a deep breath. He was finished. He had read all the good parts to her. The reading was over. He turned toward her.
Barbara was asleep. She lay, partly against the wall, her hands limp in her lap, her body sagging, her head to one side. Her mouth was open slightly. Her chest rose and fell under her flowered blouse.
Carl was astonished. Dismay flooded over him. He stared at her. She did not stir.
“My gosh!” Carl exclaimed. “My good gosh!”
19
BARBARA STIRRED AND turned a little in her sleep, Carl gazed down at her. How could it be? How could she fall asleep? It did not seem possible.
Deep sorrow rolled over Carl. A tide of misery and despair. The silence of the room made him want to shout out loud. He gathered up his papers numbly and pushed them onto the table.
Barbara lay outstretched on the bed, one arm across her chest. She was pretty. Carl’s unhappiness ebbed slightly. He studied her. What a strange face she had. There was nothing cute about it. The features were stiff, the nose a trifle too large, the teeth crooked and uneven. But her hair was thick and deeply colored. And her skin was clear and smooth. In her blouse and slacks she seemed quite slim. The heaviness that he had seen in that moment, as he stood watching her across the lake, was completely gone. She was supple and lithe, like a sleeping animal. Her inert body was full, rounded and filled out.
She was close. He could touch her if he wanted.
He fixed his gaze on her hand, resting only inches from him. Her fingers were white and tapered. Her nails a light red. A small hand. It was really a woman’s hand that he saw. Strange. The hand seemed quite different from his own. Perhaps hands were more a key than anything else. The narrow wrist. Smooth skin.
Many times in his youth he had imagined this moment, when he would be sitting with a woman beside him. He could touch
her. He could touch any part of her that he wished. Again, as in the early morning hours, he was a king, and this was one of his stone subjects, one of his enchanted people who had fallen into eternal sleep. As he had walked in the morning he had known the buildings belonged to him. They were silent and empty, and his footsteps had echoed hollowly as he passed them. They were his. The hills had been deserted, too. They also belonged to him.
It was the same way now. Beside him the girl lay, sleeping silently. She belonged to him. She had become his, to do with as he wished. It had been a long struggle to reach this point. He had never been this close to a woman before, close enough to see her chest rising and falling, close enough to hear the sound of her breathing. He leaned over her. He could touch her hair if he wanted to. He could let the strands of dark brown fall between his fingers.
She was enchanted, turned to stone, but not a hard and rigid stone. She was soft to the touch. He could see that. When he was a boy he had played with plastic oil clay, kneading and mashing the clay with his hands, making it warm and pliable. The Bible said that man was made from the clay of the ground. But this girl was made from soft clay, the soft warm clay that melted and bent in his hands, forming itself into shapes and forms that he wished, the soft oil clay that was never dry, never hard to the touch.
The clay of the ground from which man had come was a dry clay, nothing like this at all. He could almost feel the softness of her face. His fingers were only a little distance away. Carl trembled. It had been a long way for him, to come this far. Many years. His heart was pounding. Perspiration rose on his neck.
He had come so far. He was so close, so very close! He reached out his hand toward her, toward the soft silent face. She was only inches from him, from his touch. His fingers hovered above her cheek. So near—
He touched her.
Carl let out a deep shuddering breath. He had been holding his breath without realizing it. He gazed down in speechless wonder at the sight of his hand against the girl’s face. Her skin was warm, warm and smooth. Even a little moist. The room was warm; there was a soft glow across her features, a moist sheen. Perspiration. There was perspiration on both of them. On his neck, under his arms. On her face.