Gather Yourselves Together

  “Is that what you want for breakfast?”

  “No, but we could have it. Just think—everything here is ours. Maybe we’re not so bad off, after all. We’re like kings. We’re wealthy. Emperors!”

  “It’s not so much. You’ll get tired of it before the end of the week.”

  “Do you think so? Well, we’ll see.”

  Verne nodded absently. He was trying to adjust to the present. The past was still with him very much.

  They washed and shaved and dressed. Together they walked down the path toward the commissary.

  “Do you think Barbara will be there already?” Carl asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “She certainly seems to be a nice person. Don’t you think so? But I get the impression that at some time she suffered a great deal.”

  Verne laughed out loud.

  “Wait! Don’t laugh. I can tell quite a lot about people, more than you’d think. It’s the way she holds herself, and talks. And the words she uses. There’s something in her face. Maybe we’ll find out, before we leave.”

  Verne scowled. “Christ’s sake.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Verne seemed sunk in irritable gloom. He gazed down at the path, his hands pushed into his pockets.

  “Sorry,” Carl murmured. They walked in silence the rest of the way. The commissary was deserted. There was no one there. They wandered around inside.

  “Well?” Verne said.

  Carl looked sad. “I thought maybe she’d already be here, cooking breakfast for us. Waffles and ham and orange juice. Or something like that.”

  “Cook it yourself.”

  “I’m not very good at cooking. Anyhow, it’s not the same when you have to cook it yourself.”

  “All I want is a cup of coffee.” Verne sat down at the table.

  Suddenly Carl brightened. “Maybe one of us could run over and wake her up. She’s probably still asleep.”

  Verne grunted. “Probably.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “Why me?”

  “You know her.” Carl waited hopefully.

  “Do it yourself. It won’t hurt you. Haven’t you ever got a woman out of bed? It’s time you learned.”

  Carl’s ears turned red. He moved toward the door. “I’ll go over. I guess it’s all right.”

  “It’s all right. You don’t have to go inside. Just rap on the door. Of course, if she invites you in, that’s another thing.”

  “Goodbye.” Carl pushed the door open.

  Verne watched him go sourly. After a time he got up and went over to the sink. He fixed himself a glass of baking soda and warm water.

  Making a face, he drank it down.

  7

  BARBARA MAHLER LAY in bed half asleep. From an open window the sun streamed across her body, across the bed covers, her pajamas, onto the floor. Suddenly she threw the covers back, away from her. She stretched out, her legs wide apart, her arms at her sides.

  The warmth of the sun made her sleepy. It was a good feeling. She sighed, twisting a little in the bed to get all of herself under the warm rays. After a bit she sat up and slipped off the top of her pajamas. She tossed it onto the chair and lay back again, her mouth open, her eyes shut.

  The thick beams of the sun pulsed against her shoulders and breasts. She could feel the heat moving across her body like a living thing. It had a strange touch, the sunlight on her naked body. It filled her with excitement. Inside her, something seemed to stir, responding to the sun.

  She wondered how it felt to have a life inside her, down in her belly. How would an unborn child feel, crawling and expanding, moving, twisting, reaching out? A living child, breathing, moving toward the light. Like a plant. Plants did that. What was it called? Photo-tropism. Something like that. She opened her eyes and looked up at the sun, but the light blinded her. She turned her head away.

  Perhaps people were like plants. Perhaps they were photo-tropic. That might explain the sun goddesses. Perhaps there was something of the sun goddess in her. She turned back, leaning toward the light, twisting up to meet it. Outside the level land of the Company grounds stretched out in all directions. She could see no motion, no movement of any kind. She gazed at the buildings, the towers, the silent heaps of rusting metal and slag. The world was deserted. All mankind had fled. She was alone.

  Barbara stood up on the bed, swaying from side to side as the springs gave under her feet. Reaching down to her waist she unfastened the pajama bottoms and let them slide down to her ankles. Standing naked in the warmth she raised her arms above her. Was that what they did? Was that it? She tried to remember what she knew about the Aztecs. Or was it the Incas? Some South American tribe. And they tore out the hearts of people and cast them up to the sun.

  She smiled. That was too much. She could not do that; she could not give her heart up to the sun, even if she wanted to. It was impossible. The sun would have to be satisfied with something else. She put her hands under her breasts and lifted them up, up toward the sun. She would present her breasts to the sun instead. What would happen? Would the sun accept them? Would the sun make her breasts grow and expand? They might swell and expand, and finally burst like ripe seed pods. She looked down at them. They had not changed. They were still full and round, the breasts of a mature woman.

  She laughed. They were large enough as it was. She stepped down from the bed onto the floor.

  After she had dressed she walked downstairs and outside onto the front porch. She stood for a moment and then started down the steps, onto the path. Soon she was walking toward the commissary.

  After a few minutes she saw a figure coming toward her, walking from the opposite direction. It was Carl. She could see his blond hair shining in the sunlight.

  “Hello, Miss Mahler!” Carl called.

  She waited for him, stopping. “Hello.” He came up to her, grinning from ear to ear. How old was he? Not more than twenty or twenty-one. She thought: he must be coming to get me. In another minute he would have gone along the path to the dormitory and seen me—standing at the window naked.

  She blushed, her face turning scarlet. He was just a baby. What would he have thought?

  It was a good thing she had not stayed there any longer.

  “It’s a nice day,” Carl said.

  “Yes. Very nice.”

  What would he have thought if he had seen her, standing there by the window? Would he have been ashamed? Of course. He would have run quickly away, his eyes shut tight. He would have run on and on. She was delighted, thinking of this, of the boy running away, his face red and burning. She smiled.

  “What is it?” Carl said, worried.

  Barbara laughed outright. Carl was frowning at her, puzzled and a little alarmed. What a child he was! There was so little of that left in the world, a boy who ran and hid himself. Perhaps he would have to be taken by the hand, sometime.

  “Are you all right?” Carl said.

  “Oh, yes.” Had she been that shy at twenty-one? No. At twenty-one she had already been at Castle, and then at New York. With Verne.

  Looking at the blond boy standing uncertainly in front of her, Barbara began to think back. The memory of herself at twenty moved up and around her, slowly at first, then faster and faster.

  It was a tide carrying her away from the present, rushing her back into the past.

  Back to Castle. And Verne Tildon.

  When Penny had suggested she ride back with Verne Tildon she was outraged. On the way back to the cabin she told her so.

  “But after all,” Penny said. “I don’t see what you’re so excited about. What could happen to you? I suppose you’re afraid you’ll get raped, or something.”

  Barbara raised her voice. “I don’t want to hear about it. I’ll get home all right without help from men I don’t even know.”

  “You’re just afraid you’ll get raped. I wouldn’t be surprised if you wanted to get raped. They say old maids are like that.”

&nbs
p; Barbara was furious. “Old maid! What do you mean! Just because you’re getting married—”

  “I’m just teasing you, honey.” Penny put her arms around the girl. “My God, kid, you’re only twenty. You’re not even grown up, yet. You know what they’d call you? As far as they’re concerned you’re ‘San Quentin Quail.’ You’re under the legal age. You’re out of bounds. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I wasn’t worrying about that. I just don’t like the idea of riding all the way back with strangers. It’s so unfriendly. Why can’t we all go back together?”

  “You know, honey. We don’t have enough money. And if we don’t have money we can’t go on the bus. We have enough for two bus fares but not three. Of course, you and Felix could go back on the bus and I could go with Tildon, or you and I could go back on the bus and Felix could go back with Tildon. Maybe that would be safest. Tildon doesn’t look like the kind who would molest Felix. Anyhow, Felix would hit him over the head.”

  “I’d hate to see you and Felix separated. I know how much you want to go back together.”

  “Well, think it over for a while.” Penny considered. “There’s one thing you might do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why don’t you get to know this Tildon fellow a little better? Maybe you might like him. He should be pretty interesting. He has some kind of a jazz program back in New York.”

  “He told me.”

  “Well, you’re a jazz fan. Go over and visit him. It won’t hurt you.”

  “I don’t think I want to.”

  “You never want to do anything.”

  “Well, god damn it, do I always have to do what you want? Can’t I not do things? Can’t I just be?”

  “Sure, honey.” Penny took her arm. “Come on inside the cabin. It’s time to turn in. And don’t worry. Everything will turn out all right.”

  Barbara sat alone in the cabin. It was evening. Penny had gone; she and Felix had walked over to visit with some people.

  Sitting alone in the cabin, with Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers on her lap, she imagined that she was happy. Was she really? She put the book down on the bed and stood by the window, listening to the sound of the ocean. It was a familiar sound; she had lived near it all her life. It was like the wind or the rain; an eternal presence, a natural being that was always there.

  But tonight the sound of the water made her feel restless. Why was it always there? Why was it eternal? Whatever happened to people, whatever happened to her—it made no difference to the ocean. Suppose she were some sort of little creature caught in the surf, pounded back and forth, beaten to death against the rocks… Back and forth, up and down, until every bit of shell and bone had been broken and hammered to a pulp. Did that happen to the little sea things?

  Sometimes she saw them, washed up on the beach in the morning. Was that how they died? She thought about it. Perhaps a little sea thing would not even be aware of the ocean, the movements of the tide.

  While she was meditating Verne Tildon came up on the porch and knocked. She could not imagine who it was. She opened the door and he came into the cabin.

  “Hello, Barbara. How are you?”

  She regarded him uncertainly. “I remember now. You’re Verne. What did you want? Penny and Felix are gone. They went over to see some people,”

  “Well, I wouldn’t worry.” He sat down on a hard chair and leaned back. He was so little and strange. How old would he be? Over thirty, certainly. Perhaps thirty-three or -four. His eyes, magnified by his glasses, blinked up at her owlishly.

  “Why not worry?” she said.

  Verne shrugged. “I can talk to you instead, if you don’t mind. Do you mind?”

  “No. I guess not.”

  “Then I’ll talk to you. Well? What sort of a person are you, Miss Mahler? Barbara Mahler. Barbara. I always like to know what kind of person I’m talking to.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Verne got up and came over toward her. He was studying her so intently. Like one of her professors back in school. What would this man be like as a teacher? He wore a rough, heavy coat and smoked a pipe. She tried to imagine him with a dog. No, he was not big enough. The dog would pull him along. She smiled, thinking of this.

  One of his eyebrows went up. “Well, you’re not so god damn serious after all.”

  She felt her cheeks grow red. “Let’s cut that out.” He was frankly appraising her, looking her up and down. “Stop it! What do you think I am? Something hanging up in a window for sale?”

  “If you were, how much would it cost?” And he added, “Do you think I’d pay it?”

  She did not understand. He seemed to be kidding her, but she could not tell. He was puzzling. A little dried-up wrinkled man with hornrimmed glasses.

  “You’re an elf,” she said suddenly. “A strange little elf. Just like in my story book.”

  For a moment she thought she had hurt his feelings, because he seemed to scowl. But apparently she was wrong. He bowed deeply, with great solemnity. “Thank you.”

  As he bowed his face had come close to hers. She caught the smell of liquor. He was drunk! No, not drunk exactly. But he had been drinking. That was why he was so lively. Suddenly she felt afraid. She backed away.

  “What’s the matter? Do you think I’m going to put a hex on you? Turn you into a pumpkin?”

  “No.”

  He walked around the little kitchen of the cabin, pulling open the cupboards. He peered inside them. “Got anything to drink?”

  “To drink?”

  His mouth fell open. “You mean you have never heard of such a thing?” He closed the cupboards. “Young woman, how old are you?”

  He put his hands on his hips. The corners of his mouth twitched as he glared in mock astonishment.

  “I’m twenty-four,” Barbara murmured. “Why?”

  “Twenty-four? Really? And you never heard there was something beside eating and sleeping and—” He broke off. “Maybe you never heard of that, either.”

  “Heard of what?” She was confused.

  “Forget it.” He came up and put his hand on her shoulder. “My dear young lady. Perhaps it is time some older, more experienced person, wise in the ways of the world, introduced you to a certain practice, the indulgence of which—in which—is the producer of the most gratifying results.” He paused. “What I am saying is this. How about walking over to a bar with me and having a drink? I promise to pay for the drink in the event that you do not care to finish it. Assuming that I may have what is left, of course.”

  She did not know what to do. She thought about it, her heart beating. He was so strange. He was partly drunk, but she could not tell just how much. He considered her a child; she could see that. He was teasing her. How much older he was than Felix or Penny! This would be the first time she would be going out without them. It was not the same, going to a bar with them for a beer. This was different. She could not make up her mind.

  “I’ll have to think it over.”

  He leaped to attention. “All right! I’ll come back in late October to find out what you decided.”

  “Wait a minute.” She hesitated. “I can leave a note for Felix and Penny.”

  “Would that make you feel better?”

  “I really should leave a note.”

  “All right. You go ahead. I’ll be outside.” He pushed the door open and went out on the porch. The door closed loudly behind him.

  Barbara hurried around the room until she found a pencil and a scrap of paper. She wrote: “Penny—I have gone out with Verne Tildon. I’ll be back later on. Don’t worry about me.”

  She got a thumb tack and put the note up on the wall, over the bed. Then she took her coat and went outside. Verne was sitting on the porch steps, smoking his pipe. He glanced up.

  “So you decided to come. Well, let’s go.”

  Taking her arm, he led her down the road.

  The first bar they came to was a small wood place with high stools and
sawdust on the floor. The juke box was playing loudly; they could see a few people inside, drinking and sitting.

  “How would this be?” Verne said.

  “It looks all right.”

  They went in and sat down at a table. When the bartender came over Verne ordered two scotch and waters.

  “I don’t like scotch and water,” Barbara said, after the man was gone.

  “It’s the only thing to drink. All those mixed drinks with sugar make you sick. Like pink ladies. You stick to a straight drink like scotch and water and you won’t get sick afterwards.”

  “Are we going to drink that much?”

  “What much?”

  “That we might get sick.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Verne said, trying to be patient. “That’s why I want to stick to scotch and water. Isn’t that right, Charlie?”

  The bartender agreed, setting the drinks down on the table. Verne paid and the man left. Barbara lifted hers slowly and tasted it.

  “That’s good blended scotch,” Verne said. “I saw what he was using. Walker’s DeLuxe.”

  “It tastes more like gasoline,” Barbara said, making a face. “Phooie.” She put her glass down.

  Verne drank deeply. He sighed. “That’s it.”

  “What?”

  “The breath of life.”

  “I guess you can develop a taste for it.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Verne drank more. Barbara sat, listening to the jukebox and the sounds of the people all around them.

  “This is a nice place. Sort of warm.”

  “Yes it is. Very nice.” He seemed less talkative. He had calmed down; he did not make as much noise as before. He sat peering into his glass, turning it around and around, his glasses pushed up a little.

  “What are you thinking about?” Barbara said.

  “What?”

  “What are you thinking about? You haven’t said anything for a while.”

  “Oh, nothing. I was just moldering. It’s strange to be here. I haven’t been here very long. It was hard to get away. I almost didn’t get here. I had to promise to go right back.”

  “Your job?”

  He nodded. “That, too.”