“For what?”
Harriet began counting the reasons off on her fingers. “For making a fool of yourself. For probably frightening her half to death. For driving her out of the library. Enough?” She started shoving me.
“Ridiculous,” I told her. “I won’t do it.”
“I suspect otherwise,” Harriet answered, giving me one final push. I stood up. “Go on,” she whispered. “Before you lose your courage.”
Annabelle was staring down into her coffee cup when I got there, her head resting in her hands. She didn’t look up.
“I’m sorry for bothering you in the library,” I broke in. “I apologize.” I walked away.
“You didn’t bother me,” she called. I turned and faced her. She tried to smile, but smiling was never one of Annabelle’s strong points, so she didn’t quite bring it off.
“Anyway,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” she answered, sitting erect, staring past me. She always did that, stared past people. Never at them. As though there was some third person around and it was him she was looking in the eye and not you.
“That makes everything even,” I said.
“I don’t like Athens much either,” Annabelle said. And then, softer: “Can you sit down?”
“Sure,” I said, and I did. I sat there for about ten minutes while she finished her coffee, talking about not much of anything. I could see Harriet across the way, watching me, applauding and laughing, but every time I made the move to go, Annabelle started off on something else. So there wasn’t a thing I could do but wait until finally she got up and left, trying that smile again, nodding good-by. I walked back to Harriet.
“Her name is Annabelle,” I said, sitting down. “And she doesn’t like Athens. She wants to major in philosophy and the coffee here is weak.”
“And she lives in Connecticut,” Harriet said, taking up where I left off. “Her family is very rich. This is her third college. She’s five foot eight, has insomnia, and never wears a girdle.” She giggled. “Want more? I have spies.”
“No,” I said.
“And I’m proud of you,” Harriet finished, patting me on the head. “For being so polite.”
Which I may have been, but Annabelle sure wasn’t. Because the next day, when we passed her in Patriot’s Square, she didn’t even nod to me.
“Well, goddamn,” I said, turning to watch as she hurried away.
“She’s trapping you,” Harriet explained.
“Yeah,” I answered. “Well, she better watch it. It looks like I’m getting away.”
“Nonsense,” Harriet said. “Admit it. Your curiosity is aroused.”
“Not mine,” I told her, and we walked on.
But it was. And I made it a point to find her, which I did, the next afternoon, while Harriet was rehearsing. She was hurrying back from town through Patriot’s Square, going very fast, as was usual. I called out to her. She didn’t stop so I took off, cutting through the square, finally catching up.
“Why didn’t you talk to me yesterday?” I said right off.
“When?”
“You know damn well when. Yesterday.”
“I didn’t see you,” she answered, staring off at her third man.
“Why don’t you look at me?” I said.
She turned then, began walking away. I grabbed her by the arm. She shook free. The March wind was blowing strong through the square and she shivered with the cold. We were both quiet for a while.
“I’m sorry,” I said finally.
“There’s no need to apologize,” she answered. “There’s no need even to talk to me.”
“Sure there is.”
“What?”
“I’m curious.”
“Be curious with somebody else, then,” she said, starting to walk again.
“Hey,” I called out. She stopped. “What are you doing tonight?”
“What do you care?”
“I told you once. I’m curious.”
“What about the other one?”
“You let me worry about that. What are you doing tonight?”
“Not a thing,” she answered. Then she left me there.
I told Harriet the whole story a little later and whether she was mad or not I never knew, because all she did was smile, congratulate me, and head me toward the coffee shop. We didn’t talk much, mainly because I was nervous, wondering what I was going to say that night to make conversation. I thought about it all through supper, not even listening to my mother and father as they buzzed away. And when I got dressed, I thought about it too. I thought about it so much that by the time I picked Annabelle up to take her to the movies, I was as tense as she was. The way things turned out, though, it was time well wasted.
Because we didn’t say anything.
Hardly a word. I tried, at the start, on the walk downtown, to make chitchat. She never answered, but only nodded, shook her head, or shrugged as the occasion demanded. We walked very fast, and inside of a couple minutes we were at the theater. We sat down, her rigid, me slumped, and gazed at the silver screen while Gregory Peck followed that girl around Rome. Then, after the shorts, the cartoon, and the previews, we left.
Stopping for a minute out on the sidewalk. “Some coffee?” I asked. She shook her head. “Hungry?” Again the shake. “What would you like to do?”
“Go home,” she answered.
“You got it,” I said and we started off, walking even faster than before. We walked through Patriot’s Square, passed the college buildings, right up to her dorm, without a word.
“ ’Night,” I said at the door and walked away.
“Wait,” she called. I stopped, turning. “What day is today?”
“Blue Monday,” I answered.
“I’ll go out with you again next Monday,” she said.
I couldn’t help laughing. “What makes you think I’ll ask you?”
“Oh, you’ll ask me,” she said, and hurried inside.
It being still early, I headed for a bar and stayed there, drinking until it closed. Then I went home and had a few glasses of dry wine. Then, finally, to bed. But sleep was a long time coming, because I kept thinking of Annabelle and seeing her face, her throat, the way her sweater quivered when she breathed. For like Harriet had said, Annabelle was a beautiful girl.
The next day, I gave Harriet a blow-by-blow as we walked down for lunch. “And the hell of it is,” I finished up, “that I’m going to take her out next Monday.”
“It’s understandable,” Harriet said.
“But we can’t even talk to each other.”
“A very old story, Euripides. You’re just being torn between the flesh and the spirit. I,” and she curtsied, “represent the spirit.”
“Who wins?” I asked her.
“The spirit hasn’t got a chance,” she answered, and with that we went in for lunch.
So things went along as usual for the next few weeks. With just one exception. Monday nights I took out Annabelle, and I still don’t know why, exactly, seeing as our evenings together weren’t too hot. As a matter of fact, they were awful, with little talk and much tension. I took her to the movies twice and dancing once, which was really bad, seeing as she wore high heels that night and consequently was taller than I was. But I kept on, losing interest in her I suppose, though you can never be sure.
Then, toward the end of March, something special happened. Harriet had a birthday. That was the beginning. After a lot of talk, we decided not to make a big deal but just to spend a quiet evening, maybe having a decent dinner in one of the restaurants outside of town. I was to pick her up at seven, wearing a necktie, and please, would I shine my shoes. That was all she asked. Everything was set.
At about 6:30 I was getting dressed, alone in the house, when the front doorbell rang. I went to the landing and yelled that it was open and to come in. A second later, Annabelle was standing in the hallway.
“What’s up?” I asked her.
“It’s Monda
y,” she answered, walking up the stairs, stopping close by me, on the landing.
I fidgeted awhile. “Jesus, Annabelle,” I said finally. “I’m sorry. I’m busy.”
“But it’s Monday night,” she said again.
“I told you I was sorry.”
“Busy how?” she asked.
“Harriet’s birthday. We’re going out.”
“I suppose that takes precedence?”
“It sure does,” I said, starting back to my room. “If you want to wait around a little, I’ll drive you home.”
“If she won’t mind,” Annabelle said, following me up. The first thing she did when she got to my room was to take off her camel’s-hair coat and fling it across the bed, tucking her sweater inside her skirt. I watched. Then she hurried across to my dresser and picked up the stuffed dog I’d bought as a present for Harriet. Which are good things to give women, stuffed animals, being cheap, but sentimental, and therefore much appreciated.
“For me?” Annabelle asked.
“Fat chance,” I told her.
“I bet it’s a present for Harriet. For her birthday.”
I nodded.
“Sweet,” Annabelle said. “No one can deny that.”
“Listen,” I told her. “If you don’t like it, walk home.”
That shut her up for a while, so I went on getting dressed, which took me longer than it should have. I was nervous, shaking some, because for once she was looking right at me, watching me close. I didn’t stare back, but whenever I passed the mirror above my dresser, I glanced in. Our eyes met in that mirror every time.
I was brushing my hair before she spoke again. “You look very nice,” she said. “Just like a gentleman.”
“Thanks.”
“But then, you’re a handsome boy, aren’t you, Trevitt?”
“Sure,” I said.” I’m a beauty.”
“Don’t go,” Annabelle whispered, out of the blue.
I turned and stared back at her.
“I don’t want you to go.”
I turned away, not answering. She came up behind me, put her arms around me, running her hands over my body, barely touching. I just stood there. She went to the door, flicked out the light. “And you won’t, either,” she whispered. “Not for a while.” We waited in the darkness, neither of us moving, getting accustomed to it. All I could hear was the sound of my own breathing.
Then she was on me.
I don’t know why or because or what or anything else. It just happened. But I do know I’ll die before I ever find anyone like her again. And it wasn’t the sex alone, though I have no complaint whatever on that score. It was what came after. That was the important thing.
Because, suddenly, all her tenseness was gone.
We were lying there, me with my eyes closed, holding her, when for no reason, she started to talk. About her family; their home in Connecticut, their summer place in Maine. About her past, her future. About what a good and faithful wife she was going to be. About her trips to Europe; about her room at home. On and on she went, whispering, sometimes almost laughing, sometimes serious. And then, after a while, she started humming a song I’d never heard. It was her bed song, she told me, and she’d made it up herself, long before.
I opened my eyes and looked at her as she lay there, beautiful, pale-white, her long black hair outlined around her face like a dented halo. And as I watched, she raised one of her perfect legs straight up into the air, pointing her toes. She ran her hands along that leg, just as high as she could reach, touching it gently, skimming it, humming all the time, almost smiling.
Annabelle belonged there, in bed. She was always happiest then, and I sometimes thought it was a shame she couldn’t stay there, live out her life there, from first to last.
I wasn’t exactly miserable either. Even if I’d wanted, I couldn’t have stopped looking at her, she was that lovely, pale-skinned and naked in the moonlight. I felt like taking a deep breath and hollering Hallelujah! For I’d had more than my share of women by that time, except that with the others, as soon as it was over, I only wanted to tuck in my shirt, zip up my pants, and run. But not with Annabelle. Beautiful she had always been. But carefree, calm; that was my doing. I had done that for her. And right then I just knew I could take on the whole civilized world single-handed and come out smelling like a rose.
I had no idea what the time was, but when I finally did force a look at the clock, it was way past when I told Harriet I’d meet her.
“Annabelle,” I whispered. “I’ve got to go.”
She shook her head.
“Please. I’ve got to. I’m late now.” I could feel her starting to tense. After a few seconds, she nodded. We got dressed fast. By the time we were in the car, she was staring at that third man again.
Ten minutes later I parked outside Harriet’s dorm and ran up the walk, holding that stuffed dog behind my back. She was downstairs in the parlor, waiting.
“I’m sorry,” I said right off. She didn’t answer but just looked at me. “I had to get a book from the library,” I explained. “For my father.”
She smiled. “That was nice of you.”
“Sure. I’m a regular prince.”
“Tell me then, prince. What was the name of the book?”
Which took me by surprise. “I don’t know,” I said. “I forget. But listen, Harriet...”
“No,” she interrupted. “You listen. I’ve been sitting here over an hour. But that’s all right. I don’t mind that. It’s your lying I mind. I don’t like being lied to. Not by you or anyone else. I don’t—”
I quick grabbed her, pulled her to her feet. “You shut up,” I said. “You shut up and listen. There’s just one thing. One thing I want to know. Do you love me?”
And now it was her turn to be surprised. “I can’t say,” she answered after a while.
“Sure you can. Yes or no?”
She was quiet for a long time, looking straight at me. “I guess no, then,” she said.
“O.K.,” I said. “All right. Fine. Then you got no strings on me. Here,” and I tossed her the stuffed dog. “Happy birthday.”
She held onto that dog for all she was worth. I put my arm around her, whispered in her ear. “Come on, baby,” I said. “Come on now. Let’s go. It’s time to eat.” I led her out.
The next morning I phoned Annabelle and asked to see her that night. She hemmed and hawed awhile, finally accepting. And that night again we went to bed, the two of us, up in my room. Then afterward, after she’d talked some and hummed her song, she pulled me close.
“No more Mondays,” she whispered. “From here on, it’s every night. You’ll see me every night, starting now.”
“Is that so?” I answered, going along with her.
“Yes. And you won’t see her any more.”
I sat up in bed. “You’re kidding.”
“I never do,” she whispered.
“Well, you got the wrong guy, Annabelle.”
“Oh, you don’t have to,” she said. “But it’s going to be one of us or the other.”
It was Harriet that went.
Actually, I let her break off with me, which she did one terrible night full of tears and parting, her crying, calling me about every name in the book, staring at me, never taking her eyes from my face. I didn’t say a word, seeing as most of what she called me I deserved, but only stared back at her since I felt at least I owed her that much. And when she ran away from me, I figured it was over. But it wasn’t. For she took to following me around campus, whether I was alone or not, it didn’t matter because wherever I went, there, half-a-block behind, would come Harriet. Eventually, though, she got hold of herself and we had a pleasant chat, laughing and talking. Then I didn’t see her for a while, since she was always at The Athenian or rehearsing in the theater, getting ready for the spring play.
But I was busy, too. Because, when you went out with Annabelle, you were with her all the time. I took her to classes, met her after them, walked her ever
ywhere, was with her every night. And mostly it was just the two of us, for she wasn’t the kind of girl you liked being with in company.
So I began checking up on what my folks did. Which was funny, because all my life until then, I hadn’t cared how they came and went. Now I followed their every move. My father was never home during the day, so he was no problem. Sometimes my mother stuck around the house, but more often she had meetings to go to. I got so I knew her schedule by heart and even today I can still quote the hours the PTA met, and the teachers’ wives, and the Red Cross. And when my mother left the house by the front door, Annabelle and I would sneak in the back.
Which was all right with me. Even though being with her was usually pretty dull, seeing as she was most always tense and quiet. But the times in bed made up for all that. I never knew when it would happen and I suppose I liked it that way, for it was the same as a year-round birthday party, with presents being showered on you when you least expected. And up in my room, it was perfect. For when she’d start to hum, raising one of her long legs straight into the air, I knew there couldn’t be a canary left alive in this world, because I’d swallowed them all.
So everything went along fine, until the night of the opening of Harriet’s play. First we had an argument. She didn’t want to go. I told her she didn’t have to. Then it turned out she didn’t want me to go. I told her I was going whether she liked it or not. Finally, she came along, being late when I picked her up and nasty all the way over.
Once we got there, though, I didn’t mind. Because of Harriet. I’m not a judge of acting and don’t pretend to be, but just the same, I know that Harriet was an actress that night. Her part called for her to be in love with a doctor, a nice enough guy but who didn’t care a hill of beans for her. It was so sad watching her eating her heart out that I wanted to jump right up on that stage and make him propose. And that night, in spite of her too-big nose and her too-close-together eyes, Harriet was beautiful. On the stage, she was something to see.
But Annabelle didn’t think so. During intermissions, all she said was how terrible the ugly girl was playing the daughter. She knew Harriet’s name all right, but she never used it, never called her anything but “the ugly girl.” I just let her talk, not answering. With Annabelle, it was the best way.