“A suede jacket for my birthday.”
“I’m sorry,” Charley’s father said, “I can’t give you a suede jacket.”
Charley looked up at his father. It was dusk and they were walking to the little house that Covington Academy let them live in, the whole Fiske family: Charley, his father, and his three beautiful sisters.
“I’m sorry,” his father said again. “I feel very foolish. I ask you what would you like and when you tell me I say no.’ I promise you this, though: someday I’ll have the money to give you a suede jacket. But not next month, not this birthday. Do you understand?”
“I don’t really need any jacket,” Charley said. “I don’t really need anything. I don’t like birthday presents. I think it’s dumb, giving people presents just because they have a birthday. Now someday, when I graduate the smartest in my class from Covington Academy, then you can give me a present.”
“You’re a nice boy, Charley.”
“I hope so. I try to be. I don’t know why I said that about wanting a jacket. As long as I have this—” he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his folding carpenter’s rule—“and this—” he tapped the rule against his wrist watch with the second hand—“what do I need?” Then he dashed off to try to find something to measure.
Charley had been measuring things for almost as long as he could remember. He was never without his wristwatch with the second hand and his folding carpenter’s rule. He knew how big his bed was, and his room, and how many feet it was from there to the top of the stairs, and how long it took to crawl that distance as well as walk it or hop it, and he knew the length of his front yard, the width, too, as well as the length and width of each block of cement in the blissfully irregular sidewalk that passed by his home, and how many feet it was to the corner and to the next corner, and to the corner after that.
What he couldn’t measure with his wristwatch and his carpenter’s rule was whatever it was his father felt that drove him to take a job, an extra additional secret nightly job, as a dishwasher in downtown Coving-. ton, in order to get the money to get the suede jacket. Charley knew that his father was going out evenings, but he didn’t know why, not until his birthday morning when he woke to find the suede jacket folded carefully over the foot of his bed. The minute he saw it he jumped up, touched the jacket, touched it again, then dashed downstairs to find his father, who was having his coffee, and as he lowered his cup Charley kissed him, let him go, kissed him again, then dashed back upstairs to try the jacket on. It fit, of course, perfectly, and as he gazed at himself in his mirror, he looked—he hated to admit it; it sounded conceited, but what could he do?—magnificent. Even his three sisters—Emily, Charlotte and Anne—(his mother had been, while alive, a reader) who were engaged in their customary morning squabble over bathroom rights, had to admit, as he whirled before them, that although ordinarily he did not look magnificent, he certainly did now. Charley left them, invaded the kitchen once more, and this time he did not kiss his father but looked at him instead, just looked at him, until the stern old man nodded, gave a small, rare smile, and then Charley was out the door to the sidewalk (twenty-four feet), then to the corner (forty-six feet, four inches), then to the lawn of Covington Academy (fifty-one seconds if you walked, thirty if you ran), where he encountered Timmy Brubaker, a dear friend of the Keeler twins, only richer. Nevertheless, Charley spun around for Timmy, let Timmy touch, and Timmy repaid his kindness with four words:
“That isn’t real suede.”
Charley nodded and smiled and continued on his way, walking until he was out of Timmy’s sight, then running, running deep into the woods behind the Academy, where, his hands hugging the imitation leather, he wept. He was poor and his father was the janitor and, imitation or real, it shouldn’t have mattered, he shouldn’t have cared. Except that he did. And without thinking, he began to dig, scraping away with his ringers, making a hole, enlarging it until it was enough. He took the jacket off, folded it neatly, plunged it into the hole and covered it up with dirt. Then he stood and started out of the woods. What he would say when he got home, he decided, was that he’d lost it somewhere, which was a perfect idea unless his father happened to ask him where was the last place he could definitely remember having had it, which his father would definitely ask, so ... What he would say when he got home was that the jacket had been stolen, and then his father would ask who stole it, and he would answer Timmy Brubaker and the Keeler twins, and his father would suggest they pay a visit, so ... What he would say when he got home was that he had given the jacket away, to some poor kid, and his father would congratulate him for his charity except he would probably wonder, his father would, why he had worked so hard for something that meant so little.
Charley stood at the edge of the woods and stared at the sky. It was interesting, but not as interesting as trying to measure how many feet it was from where he stood back to the hole. (Two hundred and sixteen, on the button.) Charley measured the diameter of the hole (eleven inches), but in order to get a really accurate depth measurement he had to lift the jacket out, which he did, brushing it carefully before the final measurement. (Nine inches.) Then he put it on, the imitation suede, and he wore it until it wore out or he outgrew it, he could never quite remember which came first. He was poor, and his father was the janitor, but what the hell.
Besides, that fall he discovered football.
Sports were emphasized at Covington Academy, and first Charley tried soccer. But he wasn’t very fast and he wasn’t agile and he couldn’t kick very well. He was big, though, and strong enough so that nobody ever picked fights with him anymore, so they sent him to the football field, where he tried tackling people, but he still wasn’t fast, and he wasn’t agile, and things looked bad for him there, too, until the afternoon they gave him the football to run with. He sighed and tucked it under his arm and ran, not fast, not with agility, just straight ahead, and it turned out, to the surprise and delight of the Latin professor who had to double as coach, that it was very hard to knock Charley down. From then on he was fullback. Freshman year of high school, when he stood six feet one and weighed close to two hundred, he scored four plodding touchdowns in a scrimmage against the varsity. From then on he was the fullback. He scored more points than anyone else in the history of the Academy, and everybody liked him, especially in the fall, and although he despised football he kept at it, because it was nice to have everybody like you, even if it was only especially in the fall.
He graduated third in his class, which would have been disappointing, since he wanted to graduate first, because once, years before, he had told his father that he would, except when graduation came it didn’t matter because his father had died the month before. Any number of colleges were interested in him, because he was so hard to knock down, but he couldn’t make a decision, and as the summer wore on, as it began to dawn on him that his good father was dead, he enlisted. He was sent, as an infantryman, to Europe, where he did nothing to be ashamed of, earning several medals, among them a Silver Star, a Purple Heart, and he advanced from private to sergeant-first class and twice turned down commissions, and once a full colonel called him in to chat about making the military his career. After the war, he came back to Covington briefly before leaving again, this time for the University of Chicago, which was a very good school without a football team. He majored in English (he was, like his mother, a reader) and enjoyed the whole academic experience, except that when he received his diploma he didn’t know quite which profession to attach it to. Something about writing, maybe, Charley thought, so he came to New York because it seemed like both the place to go and the thing to do. He rented himself a cell of an apartment and wrote a book (that seemed like the thing to do, too), a novel about the war. It turned out to be a bad novel and nobody showed the least interest in publishing it, but in the course of traveling from one rejection to another Charley met some people who seemed to like him even though it was wintertime, and when he was offered a job at Kingsway he with j
oy accepted, editing, as his first book, The Nose Is for Laughing, a novel by R. V. Miller. He got married, and some time after that he and his wife had a son, and some time after that the three of them moved to Princeton. The commute wasn’t bad, since it gave him time to read. He worked very hard for Kingsway, eventually becoming a senior editor, and when, in the office late one afternoon, he heard Miss Devers crying at her desk, he tried to be soothing and he couldn’t have been more amazed, a couple of hours later, to find himself in bed with her.
He had waited with her as she wept at her desk, her sobs shattering the quiet of Kingsway, and through the use of great patience he finally got her to stop. Since she was upset he offered to see her home. When they stood on her doorstep she invited him in for some coffee or something, and he accepted only because she seemed so lost and alone.
Jenny made the coffee or something invitation partially out of embarrassment (Mr. Fiske had, after all, caught her crying) and partially because, as he stood fidgeting on her doorstep, he seemed so lost and alone.
She brewed the coffee and they drank it. It was stifling and he asked if he might take off his suit coat and loosen his tie. She said good heavens, please. He took off his coat and loosened his tie. Then she asked if he wanted some iced coffee, seeing as it was so hot, and she laughed, explaining that she felt like a fool since only a fool wouldn’t have fixed them iced coffee the first time. He said he would love some iced coffee. She excused herself and went to the tiny kitchen. He followed her to the kitchen entrance and stood there, talking to her while she made some more coffee. He found her face quite pretty and he wondered why he had never noticed anything but her body before. She was surprised at the breadth and thickness of his shoulders; with his jacket on he never seemed nearly so powerful. She asked him, once the coffee was ready, if he would mind getting out the ice cubes. He said he would be glad to. He stepped into the tiny kitchen and she stepped as far back as she could, but still their bodies touched. They were both about to apologize but they both stopped themselves in time. They went back into the living room and sat down and drank their iced coffee. The sun was going down and they both commented on how much cooler everything was in the dark.
He got up and moved toward the window; she apologized that there wasn’t any view.
He explained that he was only going to get his coat, which was on the sofa bed, which was next to the window; she said he probably had lots of things to do.
He said lots; she said oh.
He stared out the window; she watched him.
Then she got up and moved across the room and stood so close behind him that their bodies barely touched; he decided he ought to move away from her.
Barely touching, they stood very still, staring out the window.
He wondered if he was going to do anything; she wondered, if he did anything, would he be gentle?
He decided not to do anything; she decided that, even if he was gentle, it wasn’t enough.
He thanked God that his marriage was going so well or else he might have got involved; she gave thanks that although she was no genius, she was blessed with common sense.
He turned; she meant to step back.
He realized suddenly that she thought he was going to do something; she stepped back.
He reached out for her because he had to explain that she had misunderstood his intentions; she wondered if he was married.
He brought her roughly into his arms because sometimes you had to be rough with women to make them understand; she thought oh, he’s not gentle, I want to cry.
Her body stiffened.
She wasn’t expecting anything, he thought, and he almost released her, but not quite, and he continued to hold her, but lightly; she realized, as his fingers lightly caressed her body, how odd and wonderful it was that sometimes the biggest, strongest men were the gentlest men of all.
She kissed his eyes. She kissed his mouth.
She pulled him down.
Charley caught the Princeton train just as it was starting to move. Panting, he entered the smoker and sat down heavily. The car was not air-conditioned. Charley thought ill thoughts about the Pennsylvania Railroad while he wiped his forehead. Setting his briefcase on the seat beside him, he forced the window open, letting in the night air, which was hot, but he basked in it anyway. Then he fanned his handkerchief across his, neck, doing what he could to thwart the shaving rash he could feel forming; he knew better than to run full out in hot weather; he was a big man and in hot weather he paid for his size. But Miss Devers had—no, Jenny; it was a little absurd calling her Miss Devers anymore—but Jenny had begged him to stay with her a while, so he had stayed, for too long a while, and so he had to run to catch his train. Result: he was hot and cheerless and shaving rash was already forming on his neck, ready to bloom a resplendent red when he next touched razor to skin.
Poor Jenny, Charley thought. Poor Jenny all alone in that cell of an apartment. And then he thought, No, goddammit, that way madness lies. Don’t feel sorry for her because once you start feeling sorry then you’ll start feeling guilty and once you start feeling guilty you’ll bore me. Whatever happened happened and it ain’t about to unhappen no matter how you writhe, so forget it, forget it, take two and hit to left.
Charley opened his briefcase and lifted out the large typed manuscript. He plopped it on his lap and looked carefully around. When he was sure no one was watching he quickly flipped to the end of the book and read the page number. It was a childhood habit of his, and it embarrassed him now, but he couldn’t break it any more than he could forget the texture of Jenny’s skin.
Now, dammit! he told himself.
But it was extraordinary skin. All right, he told himself, louder, so it was extraordinary skin. Admit it. Lots of people have extraordinary skin. You enjoyed yourself. Admit that too. She has an altogether memorable frame. Bless her for it, because when you’re old, when whatever drives that drove you to do what you did earlier are dead, you’ll be able to summon up Jenny Devers’ body and think about it with remembered lust, the best kind. So remember her. Just stop trying to make yourself feel guilty. She started it. It was her idea. You may not resemble the driven snow but neither does she and you’ve got a 418-page novel to read this weekend, so hop to it.
Charley turned to the title page: Does Your Detergent Taste Different Lately? by Emmet Slocum. Charley had never been a fan of Emmet Slocum’s novels, but they sold well, and it was a sign of Charley’s advance at Kingsway that when Slocum’s old editor died, this, his new novel, was awarded to Charley rather than to Ted Boardman or any of the others. Charley read the first page and a half before he sighed audibly, because it came suddenly clear that Does Your Detergent Taste Different Lately? was a Madison Avenue Novel. Charley skimmed the opening chapter, in which it was shown that the hero—Pete Fletcher, ace copywriter for Anders, Swivett and Bodkin (ASB to the trade)—though a good father, loving husband, handsome, brilliant, successful, rich and Protestant, was somehow unhappy. Quit your job, Pete, Charley urged; quit in the first chapter and go back to that teaching post in Massachusetts and save me from reading 400 pages of bilge. As he began the second chapter, Charley sighed again. I know the plot already, he thought. The hero’s unhappy, but he doesn’t know why, but he knows that he has to find out why, and it never dawns on him that the Machiavellian fink who runs the ad agency might have something to do with his unhappiness, so the hero, in desperation, has an affair with his faithful secretary—
Jenny, you’re unavoidable, Charley thought.
—his faithful secretary, who’s this great sweet girl who loves him from afar but in the end he stays with his wife on account of the kids and ... Charley began thumbing through the book. Then he said “Bingo” out loud because he found the first sex scene between Pete and Helen, his faithful et cetera. Charley started reading after the dot-dot-dot double space:
“I wanted that,” Helen said. She cradled him in her arms.
Pete looked at her. “God,” he said. “Go
d.”
“I hate her,” Helen said then, and there was no denying the passion in her voice. “That wife of yours. That Doris. I wish she were dead.”
“Why didn’t I meet you before?” Pete said. He grabbed her long black hair. “Darling.” His lips bruised hers ...
Charley rubbed his mouth. Our dialogue was better, he thought, Jenny’s and mine, and he closed his eyes, remembering what they had said. Well, he admitted then, when you come right down to it, our dialogue wasn’t all that hot either. There’s not much you can do with the moment; everybody’s read it before, so it’s best just to hurry on by. Charley flicked a few pages farther in the book until Pete Fletcher was walking by himself at three o’clock in the morning, staring moodily at the Hudson River and ...
I’ve got no patience with you, Pete. Not with you, not with me. I’ve edited this scene fifty times in my life and every time I edit it I have no patience with the damn man and his breast-beating, because this is a world in which you get what you pay for, so just forget what you did, because Jenny has by now, probably, and if she has, she’s smart, so you be smart too. You’re not the office stud like Archie Wesker. It may kill you to admit it, but you’ve done some things you can be proud of.
You’re not a bastard! We know that already!
What he wanted, suddenly, was somebody to hit, hard, except he didn’t do that kind of thing, but he wanted to anyway, the feeling was there, so naturally he thought about the night he first met Connie. He was living all alone in a cell of an apartment between Tenth and Eleventh in the West Forties, and his one and only novel, his bad book about the war, had just begun its string of rejections. He was just six months out of the University of Chicago and when he got the invitation to the Covington Academy reunion he decided not to go several times before he went. The reunion was set for a room in the Yale Club, and as he sat in his cell and fingered his invitation Charley felt very alone and wildly poor. The loneliness he was used to; the loneliness he could cope with.