Irwin Shaw - Short Stories - Five Decades

“You want to know what I was thinking about?” Charley asked softly, falling in beside her.

“Excuse me,” Katherine said, throwing her head back, all tears gone, looking at a point thirty feet up in the evening sky. “I’m in a hurry.”

“I was thinking of that night two months ago,” Charley said quickly. “That party Norah O’Brien gave. That night I took you home and I kissed your neck. Remember that?”

“No,” she said. She walked at top speed across the street corner, down the row of two-story houses, all alike, with the children playing potsy and skating and leaping out from behind stoops and going, “A-a-a-a-a-a-h,” pointing pistols and machine guns at each other. “Pardon me, I’ve got to get home and mind the baby; my mother has to go out.”

“You weren’t in a hurry with Harold,” Charley said, his eyes hot and dry, as he matched her step for step. “You walked slow enough with him.”

Katherine looked briefly and witheringly at Charley Lynch. “I don’t know why you think that’s your business,” she said. “It’s my own affair.”

“Last month,” Charley said, “you used to walk home with me.”

“That was last month,” Katherine said loudly.

“What’ve I done?” Pain sat clearly on Charley Lynch’s face, plain over the freckles and the child’s nose with the bump on it where a baseball bat had once hit it. “Please tell me what I’ve done, Katie.”

“Nothing,” said Katherine, her voice bored and businesslike. “Absolutely nothing.”

Charley Lynch avoided three small children who were dueling seriously with wooden swords that clanged on the garbage-pail cover shields with which they protected themselves. “I must have done something,” he said sorrowfully.

“Nothing!” Katherine’s tones were clipped and final.

“Put ’em up, Stranger!” a seven-year-old boy said right in front of Charley. He had a pistol and was pointing it at a boy who had another pistol. “This town ain’t big enough for you and me, Stranger,” said the first little boy as Charley went around him, keeping his eyes on Katherine. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours and then come out shooting.”

“Oh, yeah?” said the second little boy with the pistol.

“Do you want to go to the movies tonight?” Charley asked eagerly, rejoining Katherine, safely past the Westerners. “Cary Grant. Everybody says it’s a very funny picture.”

“I would love to go,” said Katherine, “but I’ve got to catch up on my reading tonight.”

Charley walked silently among the dueling, wrestling, gun-fighting children. Katherine walked slightly ahead of him, head up, pink and round and rosy-kneed, and Charley looked at the spot on her neck where he had kissed her for the first time and felt his soul drop out of his body.

He laughed suddenly, falsely. Katherine didn’t even look at him. “I was thinking about that feller,” Charley said. “That Harold. What a name—Harold! He went out for the baseball team and the coach threw him out the first day. The coach hit three balls at him and they went right through his legs. Then he hit another one at him and it bounced and smacked him right in the nose. You should’ve seen the look on that Harold’s face.” Charley chuckled shrilly. “We all nearly died laughing. Right square in the nose. You know what all the boys call him? ‘Four-eyed Oscar.’ He can’t see first base from home plate. ‘Four-eyed Oscar.’ Isn’t that funny?” Charley asked miserably.

“He’s very nice about you,” Katherine turned into the vestibule of her own house. “He tells me he admires you very much; he thinks you’re a nice boy.”

The last trace of the manufactured smile left Charley’s face. “None of the other girls can stand him,” Charley said flatly. “They laugh at him.”

Katherine smiled secretly, remembering the little girls’ conversations in the wardrobes and at recess.

“You think I’m lying!” Charley shouted. “Just ask.”

Katherine shrugged coolly, her hand on the inner door leading to her house. Charley moved close to her in the vestibule gloom.

“Come to the movies with me,” he whispered. “Please, Katie, please …”

“As I told you,” she said, “I’m busy.”

He put his hand out gropingly, touched hers. “Katie,” he begged.

She pulled her hand away sharply, opened the door. “I haven’t the time,” she said loudly.

“Please, please …” he whispered.

Katherine shook her head.

Charley spread his arms slowly, lunged for Katherine, hugged her, tried to kiss her. She pulled her head savagely to the side, kicked him sharply in the shins. “Please …” Charley wept.

“Get out of here!” Katherine slapped his chest with her hands.

Charley backed up. “You used to let me kiss you,” he said. “Why not now?”

“I can’t be bothered,” Katherine pulled down her dress with sharp, decisive, warning movements.

“I’ll tell your mother,” Charley shouted desperately. “You’re going around with a Methodist! With a Protestant!”

Katherine’s eyes grew large with fury, her cheeks flooded with blood, her mouth tightened. “Now get out of here!” she said. “I’m through with you! I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want you to follow me around!”

“I’ll walk wherever I goddamn please!” Charley yelled.

“I heard what you said,” Katherine said. “I heard the word you used.”

“I’ll follow whoever I goddamn please!” Charley yelled even louder. “This is a free country.”

“I’ll never talk to you as long as I live,” Katherine stamped for emphasis, and her voice rang off the mailboxes and doorknobs of the vestibule. “You bore me! I’m not interested in you. You’re stupid! I don’t like you. You’re a big idiot! Go home!”

“I’ll break his neck for him!” Charley shouted, his eyes clouded, his hands waving wildly in front of Katherine’s face. “I’ll show him! A violin player! When I get through with him you won’t be so anxious to be seen with him. Do you kiss him?”

“Yes!” Katherine’s voice clanged triumphantly. “I kiss him all the time. And he really knows how to kiss! He doesn’t slobber all over a girl, like you!”

“Please,” Charley whimpered, “please …” Hands out gropingly, he went toward Katherine. She drew back her arm coldly, and with all her round, solid, well-nourished eighty-five pounds, caught him across the face, turned, and fled up the stairs.

“I’ll kill him!” Charley roared up the stairwell. “I’ll kill that violinist with my bare hands!”

The door slammed in answer.

“Please tell Mr. Harold Pursell,” Charley said soberly to Johnson, the doorman, “that a certain friend of his is waiting downstairs; he would like to see him, if it’s convenient.”

Johnson went up in the elevator and Charley looked with grim satisfaction around the circle of faces of his eight friends, who had come with him to see that everything was carried out in proper order.

Harold stepped out of the elevator, walked toward the boys grouped at the doorway. He peered curiously and short-sightedly at them, as he approached, neat, clean, white-fingered, with his glasses.

“Hello,” Charley stepped out and faced Harold. “I would like to talk to you in private.”

Harold looked around at the silent ring of faces, drained of pity, brimming with punishment. He sighed, realizing what he was in for.

“All right,” he said, and opened the door, holding it while all the boys filed out.

The walk to the vacant lot in the next block was performed in silence, broken only by the purposeful tramp of Charley Lynch’s seconds.

“Take off your glasses,” Charley said when they reached the exact center of the lot.