Meyer Levin - Compulsion

“He’s wacky!” Myra called. He walked into her room.

Myra thrust herself up against him and kissed him briefly, moving the tip of her tongue, and gyrating her abdomen to show she knew how to be wicked. She broke off and pulled back, looking at him intently with her huge brown eyes. “Is anything wrong, Artie?”

The girl made him impatient sometimes with her understanding looks. He said, “Nah, I just got the willies,” and she said he had to hear her new sonnet. “My Unfaithful Lover” was the title; Artie picked it up and read out loud. “I share my lover with the wingspread sail-”

She shared her lover with the sleet, the gale. He said it was swell.

They were, of course, not lovers. And yet she was in love with Artie; she had loved him since she was a little girl. They were remote relatives, fifty-eleventh cousins they called themselves, Myra always explaining, with a bubble of laughter, that anyone whose family owned Straus stocks was a cousin. Her father had been one of the founders.

She called Artie “lover”, as a kind of promise within herself that it would one day be he. She was sure she knew the Artie others didn’t know; she knew an Artie who was not always shining and being smart, but who was torn. This she cherished as a love secret. Artie was much deeper than he let on.

So now he said there was nothing wrong, he just was sick of the world, had a touch of the blues, and that reminded Myra of a terrific place she had heard about, downtown, where they had a wonderful blues singer. It was in a cellar on Wabash. Why not go there tomorrow?

He agreed; maybe they would make it a double date.

Myra groaned. Not Judd.

Well, he had sort of agreed to help Judd celebrate his Harvard exams tomorrow. Why did she always have to pick on Judd?

“Maybe I’m jealous.” Myra laughed without meaning anything. But she simply couldn’t see why he let that dreary drip hang around.

It was not a new argument. Especially if you went in a crowd, she said, Judd was so unlikable, with his conceited ideas, and his eyes that never blinked.

Aw, Artie told her, Judd was a brilliant little sonofabitch, and the reason he was so unpopular was that people knew they were inferior to him.

“I don’t care how brilliant he is, he gives me the creeps,” she said.

Well, Artie admitted, maybe he let Judd hang around so much partly out of pity because the guy had no friends.

The bell rang; it was her date. Artie grabbed the sash from Myra, and holding it around his waist, shimmied into the other room. Her mother had just opened the door, and Artie swayed toward the young man there, announcing, “I’m your date. Myra has just been kidnapped.”

“Don’t mind him. He’s my wacky cousin, just dropped in from Elgin,” Myra said, taking the sash, and then Artie solemnly declared that he was sorry he couldn’t join them on their date – he had an appointment to hijack a shipment from Canada. He gave her a passionate kiss in front of the young man and her mother. “Don’t drink any wood alcohol,” he admonished, whisking out of the apartment, laughing.

Why did he let Judd hang on to him? Her question resounded as he walked. Ever since the beginning, every piece of trouble had been on account of Judd, and now Dog Eyes had brought him to the edge of real danger.

Walking on Stony Island, purposely past the police station, Artie was now conducting the trial of Judd Steiner. All-powerful, in his hands was the life-or-death decision.

Take the second summer Judd came up to Charlevoix. They hadn’t seen each other much that year, because that was the year Artie had transferred to Ann Arbour. Morty Kornhauser, from the Ann Arbour chapter of Alpha Beta, was visiting him just then, too.

Sunday morning, Judd had to walk into Artie’s room through the connecting bathroom, to wake him up. They were going canoeing to an island where Artie knew a couple of girls – fishermen’s daughters. As Judd started pulling him out of bed, Artie made a playful grab, and then they were wrestling and fooling around.

And Morty had to walk in. Morty had a sneaky way of slipping around. Who the hell knew how much he had watched, before Judd finally noticed him standing there with his mouth open like at some goddam stag show?

Artie made the best of it and said, “Want to join the fun?” But that prig Morty said, “No, I don’t indulge, excuse me” – and walked out.

For a while they lay silent, except for that silly giggle Judd had. There was nothing to laugh about; Morty was the biggest tattler at the frat. Then, when they were putting on their trunks, Judd remarked, “Hey, didn’t that sonofabitch say he can’t swim? It might be dangerous for him in a canoe.”

Their eyes caught, and Judd let out his giggle. With three boys in a canoe, anything could happen.

They hurried down to breakfast, so as not to give Morty a chance to talk to anyone. Then, rather sullenly, he walked down with them to the boathouse.

When they were a good way out on the lake, Artie stood up, complaining, “For crissake, Judd, you don’t know your paddle from your asshole,” and Judd insulted him back and started a scuffle. Before Morty knew what was happening, they were all in the water.

They saw the bastard come up thrashing. He glared at them, and with his mouth full, sputtered, “…on purpose!” and then went under, thrashing. They swam away. But Judd looked back, treading water. Morty was flailing, but keeping his head up.

Artie saw it, too. The whole damn thing was Judd’s fault, he swore. He’d heard the bastard wrong. “I don’t swim” didn’t mean “I can’t swim”.

Morty came ashore some distance from them, and they hurried over to him solicitously. Panting, he gasped out. “You did it on purpose. I know, you filthy degenerates!” His eyes were narrow, meaningful.

When they told the story of the accidental overturning of the canoe, he was silent. And that night he discovered he had to cut his visit short and return to Lansing.

Then the bastard wrote his letters.

He sent them to their brothers. One to Max Steiner, and one to James Straus. They were neatly typed, sanctimonious letters – “unpleasant as the subject may be, I feel it is my duty” and “by chance came upon an exhibition of unmentionable character” and “not my place to give advice but perhaps you are unaware of-”

Brother James brought it up on the tennis court, just before starting to play. “Say, Artie, what was your friend so sore about when he left here, that Kornhauser kid?”

“Why? Has Morty been telling any stories?”

“Well, he wrote me a letter.”

“That stinking little crapper. Sure he was sore. We took about forty bucks away from him, shooting craps, up in my room, Saturday night, so he got mad and the little bastard even tried to suggest the dice were loaded-”

James had on his knowing smile.

“Is that what he wrote about?” Artie demanded.

“Oh, it was some junk about you and Judd.” In the look James gave him, everything was included. All the things James had covered up for him – the swiped things, the dose. But he wouldn’t spill this either; James had to imagine himself a real guy, protecting his kid brother. “It’s all a dirty lie!” Artie exclaimed. “Morty’s just a dirty trouble maker!”

James said, “Listen, Artie, this is for your own good. That Judd’s a freak. You know, funny. Maybe you fellows had better not be seen so much together. People make up all kinds of stories-”

“Why, that dirty-minded lousy – Why, for crissake I know what it is he made a story out of. Why, we were just horsing around.”

“You try to let Morty drown?” James asked coolly.

“Why, he fell out of the canoe. Why, that-” Their eyes met. Artie grinned.