Irwin Shaw - Rich Man, Poor Man

‘Your air is mussed.’ she said. ‘You look much better with your hair mussed.’

‘Maybe my language is mussed,’ he said. ‘Maybe you didn’t understand what I said in the bedroom.’

‘I understood.’ She turned the radio off, sat down in an easy chair, holding the glass of bourbon in her two hands. ‘You want to marry me.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Let’s go to the movies,’ she said, There’s a picture I want to see just around the corner …’

‘Don’t be flip.’

‘It’s only on till tomorrow night and you won’t be here tomorrow night’

‘I asked you a question.’

‘Am I supposed to be flattered?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I am flattered. Now let’s go to the movies …’ But she didn’t make any move to get up from the chair. Sitting there, half in shadow, because the one lamp that was lit threw its light obliquely from the side, she was fragile, vulnerable. Looking at her he knew that he had been right to say what he had in bed, that he hadn’t spoken just from a flicker of tenderness on a cold afternoon, but from a deep and abiding need.

‘I will be broken,’ he said, ‘if you say no.’

‘Do you believe that?’ She was looking into her glass, swirling the drink around now with a finger. He could see only the top of her head, her loose hair gleaming in the lamplight.

Yes.’

Tell the truth.’

‘Partially,’ he said. ‘I partially believe it. Partially broken.’

It was her turn to laugh. ‘At least you’ll make somebody an honest husband,’ she said.

‘Well?’ he demanded. He stood above her and put his hand under her chin and made her look up at him. Her eyes seemed doubtful, frightened, the small face pale.

‘The next time you come to town, give me a ring,’ she said.

That’s no answer.’

‘In a way, it is,’ she said. The answer is I want time to think.’

Why?’

‘Because I’ve done something I’m not particularly proud of,’ she said, ‘and I want to figure out how I can be proud of myself again.’

‘What’ve you done?’ He didn’t know whether he wanted to know or not

‘I’ve overlapped,’ Jean said. ‘It’s a female disease. I was having an affair with a boy when I started with you and I haven’t broken it off. I’m doing something I thought I’d never do in my whole life. I’m sleeping with two men at once. And he wants to marry me, too.’

‘Lucky girl,’ Rudolph said bitterly. ‘Is he the girl roommate you share your apartment with?’

‘No. The girl is an authentic girl. I’ll produce her for you if you want’

‘Is that why you never let me come to your place? He’s there?’

‘No, he’s not there.’

‘But he has been there.’ With surprise, Rudolph realised that he had been wounded, deeply wounded, and worse yet that he himself was intent on turning the knife in the wound.

‘One of the most attractive things about you,’ Jean said, ‘was that you were too sure of yourself to ask questions. If love is going to make you unattractive, forget love.’

“What a goddamn afternoon,’ Rudolph said.

‘I guess that wraps it up.’ Jean stood up, put her glass down carefully. ‘No movies tonight’

He watched her put on her coat. If she walks out now, like this, he thought, I’ll never see her again. He went over to her and put his arms around her and kissed her.

You’re all wrong,’ he said. There’ll be movies tonight’

She smiled at him, but tremulously, as though it cost her an effort. ‘You’d better finish getting dressed,’ she said. ‘I hate to miss the beginning of a picture.’

He went into the bedroom, combed his hair, put on a tie and got into his shoes. He looked briefly at the tumbled bed,

now a confused battlefield, as he put on his jacket

When he came out into the livingroom again, he saw that she had slung her camera equipment around her. He tried to argue but she insisted upon taking the stuff with her. ‘I’ve been in this place enough,’ she said, ‘for one Saturday.’

As he drove along the rain-drenched highway the next morning on the way to Billy’s school, through sparse early traffic, he was thinking about Jean, not about Billy. They had gone to the movie, which was disappointing, had eaten supper afterward in a joint on Third Avenue, had talked about things that hardly mattered to either of them, the movie they had seen, other movies, plays they had seen, books and magazine articles they had read, rumours from Washington. The conversation of strangers. They had avoided mentioning marriage or overlapping lovers. They were both unaccountably weary, as though a great physical effort had drained them earlier. They drank more than they usually did. If this had been the first time they had gone out together, they would have thought each other dull. When they had finished their steaks, in the emptying restaurant, and had a cognac apiece, he was relieved to be able to put her into a taxi, walk home alone and turn the key behind him in the silent apartment, although the raw colours of the decor, and the arty spikiness of the furniture made it look, like an abandoned float from last year’s Mardi Gras. The bed now was just messy, the neglected tangle of a slatternly housewife, not the warm abode of love. He slept heavily and when he awoke in the morning and remembered the night before and his errand for the day, the sooty December rain outside his window seemed the appropriate weather for the weekend.

He had called the school and left a message for Billy that he would be there around twelve-thirty to take him to lunch, but he arrived earlier than he expected, a little after noon. Even though the rain had stopped and faint cold sun was filtering through the clouds in the south, there was no one to be seen on the campus, coming or going into any of the buildings. From what Gretchen had told him about the school, in fine weather and a more clement season it was a place of beauty, but under the wet sky, seemingly abandoned, there was something forbiddingly prisonlike about the cluster of buildings and the muddy lawns. He drove up to what was obviously the main building and got out uncertainly, not knowing where to find Billy. Then, from the chapel a hundred yards away he heard young voices singing strongly, ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.

Sunday. Compulsory services, he thought. They still do that in schools. Christ. When he was a boy Billy’s age, all he had to do was salute the flag every morning and pledge allegiance to the United States of America. The advantages of public education. Separation of Church and State.

A Lincoln Continental drove up to the steps and stopped. It was a richly endowed school. Future rulers of America. He himself drove a Chevrolet. He wondered what would have been said at faculty teas if he had arrived on his motorcycle, which he still owned, though he now seldom used it. An important-looking man in a smart raincoat got out of the Lincoln, leaving a lady in the car. Parents. Occasional faint weekend communication with a future ruler of America. From his manners, the man had to be at least the president of a company, ruddy and brisk, well exercised. By now Rudolph could spot the type.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Rudolph said, in his automatic speaking-to-company-presidents voice. ‘I wonder if you could tell me where Sillitoe Hall is?’

The man smiled widely, showing five thousand dollars worth of exquisite dental work, ‘Good morning, good morning. Yes, of course. My boy was there last year. In some ways the best house on the campus. It’s just over there.’ He pointed. The building was four hundred yards away. ‘You can drive there if you want. Just down this driveway and around.’

‘Thank you,’ Rudolph said.

The hymn rang out from the chapel. The parent cocked an ear. They’re still praising God,’ he said. ‘All in favour of it. We could stand more of it.’