Second Ending

22

This was Wednesday.

This was three days since Andy had invaded Bud’s apartment, one day since he’d taken any drugs. One day since yesterday morning, and yesterday morning he’d been left alone with a deck of heroin and a syringe. One day, and more than two months since he’d attended that party at which he’d “blown out his brains.”

He had stuck to his promise. He had sworn avidly before Helen and Bud, and he had not touched another drop, and he had not even sought the drug, and Bud could see the toll he was paying for his abstinence.

It had not been easy to live with Andy Silvera. Andy Silvera was a sick man, sick with the physical torment of withdrawal, sick with the memory of the drug still etched on his mind. Bud had not managed any studying the night before. It was impossible to study with Andy around. But this was Wednesday, and Wednesday carried a test, and the test was at 2:00 P.M. this afternoon.

This was Wednesday, and the walls of the apartment had closed in the night before, like the spiked walls in a neighborhood movie serial, wedging Andy and Bud closer together, biting at them. It was not easy to cater to an invalid — yes, damnit, an invalid — when you had your own worries, and Bud was seriously worried about his tests now. He had flunked one, flunked it in heroic proportions, and the next one hung over his head like a hatchet ready to descend. Sometime during the long night he had hit upon a plan. He would go to the school library this morning and cram for the afternoon test. It would be quiet there, and perhaps he could stuff enough knowledge into his head to rate a passing grade. The library opened at nine, and he would be there when the doors swung wide. But first he had to wash and dress and catch a quick breakfast. He began doing these things, starting with his shoes and socks while Andy kept up a running monologue, while the hatchet swayed dizzyingly above him. The hatchet owned a very keen blade. The hatchet was in the hands of Andy Silvera.

“Why can’t I play some records, Bud?”

“It’s too early in the morning,” Bud said.

“Why do you have to shout at me?”

“I wasn’t shouting. Andy, for Christ’s sake, go back to bed, will you? I’m taking a test today, and I’ve got studying to do, and I’m trying to organize some sort of study plan in my mind. So just, please, please, stop the babbling.”

“Why can’t I play the records?”

“Jesus, if you mention those records one more time... Look, Andy, go back to sleep. You can sleep all morning. I won’t be here. You can sleep then or play records or practice your horn, or whatever you want. But just relax now, will you? What the hell’s wrong with you, anyway?”

“I’m all right.”

“Then try to calm down.”

“Sure, calm down. I can’t calm down. I feel lousy, if you want to know. I feel as if I want to... to bang my head against the wall or something. It wasn’t like this last time. Last time it was bad, but not like this. I... I feel all... all...” He paused and shook his head. “My eyes are burning.”

“Lay down then. Go to sleep. I’ve got to dress. Andy, I can’t flunk this exam!”

“I want to listen to some records.”

“How can you—”

“Don’t argue with me. I’ll kill you, you bastard! I swear to God, I’ll kill you if you argue with me.”

“Now just a minute. Let’s just—”

“I’m sorry. Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. This headache, this—”

“Take an aspirin.”

“I took four already.”

“There’s some empirin-codeine in the medicine chest. You can—”

“That’s what I took. But I still have the headache. Why should I have a headache like this? I didn’t have a headache last time. Why should I have a headache now?”

“Have you been vomiting?”

“Yes. I got up twice last night.”

“Maybe your stomach’s empty. Maybe you should eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“How do you know? Why don’t you try? Take some coffee or something.”

“All right, a little coffee maybe.”

“If you put it up now, maybe I can have a fast cup before I go.”

“All right, some coffee.”

“And look, can we knock off the chatter until I get out of this place? I’m trying to think, Andy, believe me. I’m not making a big thing out of nothing. I’ve got to tackle this or I’ll fall flat on my—”

“Oh, who the hell cares whether or not you flunk!”

“It doesn’t matter what you—”

“I shouldn’t have said that either. I should care. I should care whether or not you flunk. Jesus, my head is splitting. Where’s the coffee?”

“In the kitchen cabinet.”

“I’ll make some coffee. Maybe that’ll help. Did you say you wanted some?”

“If you can deliver it fast.”

“All right, I’ll make some coffee.”

Bud buckled his belt and went into the bathroom. He turned on the tap, and Andy followed him, standing in the doorway.

“Is this apartment damp or something?” he asked.

“Damp?” Bud said. “What do you mean?”

“Damp, damp! Jesus, do I have to spell out everything? What does damp mean if not damp? Moist, wet, clammy, damp! How else can you say damp? Don’t you know what damp means?”

“I know what damp means,” Bud said, wearily picking up the bar of soap.

“Well, is it or isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t. Why?”

“I’ve got this aching in my bones. I feel pain all over.”

Bud began soaping his face. “That’s the drug.” He spat into the sink. “That’s leaving the drug.”

“Then why didn’t I feel this way last time?”

“I don’t know. I thought you were going to make some coffee.”

“I am. Where is it?”

“I told you. In the kitchen cabi—”

“I’m going to take another one of those pills. All right?”

“Sure.”

Bud threw open the cabinet with a soapy hand. He reached for the empirin-codeine bottle and handed it to Andy.

“I’ve got to knock this headache out some way. It’s banging my head apart. Gong, gong, inside my head, like a goddamn crew of riveters. I’ve got to beat this headache.”

He shook two of the tablets onto the palm of his hand. “I need a glass of water.”

“Jee-sus Christ!” Bud exploded.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all! I’m trying to wash so I can get out of this place! Goddamnit, can’t you go into the kitchen? There’re a hundred glasses there. You can take any damn one you like! You can use twelve of them if you want to.”

“All right, don’t get excited.”

“You’re enough to—”

“Just don’t get excited. It’s not my fault I’ve got a headache.”

Andy left and went into the kitchen. Bud rinsed his face. He heard the water tap going in the kitchen, and then Andy’s voice calling, “Where’s the coffee?”

“In the cabinet,” Bud said patiently. He shook the water from his hands and took a towel from the rack. There was a peculiar odor to the towel. He sniffed at it, recognized the smell of vomit and quickly threw the towel into the hamper. He took a fresh one from the shelf, squeezed his eyes shut tightly and began drying his face. When he took the towel from his eyes, Andy was standing in the doorway again.

“I’ll use this pot. All right?”

“Use any damn pot you like,” Bud said.

“If I’m bothering you, I’m sorry. I’m awfully sorry, but you haven’t got the headache I’ve got, and your joints don’t ache all over. Someday you ought to try this, if you think it’s any fun.”

“I didn’t say it was fun,” Bud answered, taking his toothbrush from the rack.

“I can read it all over that haughty smug face of yours,” Andy said. “What the hell have you got to be so proud of, anyway? You’re sucking money out of the government, and you think—”

“Listen, this is still my house. If you don’t like it, you can damn well leave!”

“You think I’m crazy about this dump? I’ve slept in better flophouses in the worst cities in America! What the hell do you think you’ve got here, a palace?”

“Nobody said—”

“You make me sick. You think you’re a big shot, don’t you? Just because you took in a friend, just because you’re allowing me the extreme pleasure of sharing this dump with you. Well, get off that kick, Dick. Stop patting yourself on the back for something any goddamn human being would do!”

“Sure,” Bud said. “I see everybody scrambling to take you in. I see the mad rush in the street outside. There’s a real riot scene down there, everybody dying to lend Andy a helping hand.”

“No, not everybody,” Andy said.

“Not anybody, if you want to know the truth!” Bud snapped. “Not a living soul but Bud Sucker Donato!”

“It kills you to be doing this, doesn’t it?” Andy said. “It just tears the living guts out of you. When’s the last time you helped anybody but yourself, Big Heart? When’s the last time you gave a thought to anything but that own miserable hide of yours?”

“Look, Andy, cut it out. I don’t have to take this kind of crap from anybody, least of all you!”

“Why least of all me? What am I, some kind of cockroach that crawled out of the closet? Look at me, you bastard! Put down that toothbrush and look at me!”

Bud turned wearily.

“What am I, some kind of germ or something? Just because I’m an addict? What makes you any better than me? I’m a human being, too! You son-of-a-bitch, you owe me this apartment!”

Bud’s eyes opened wide. “I owe you this apartment? I owe it to you! Jesus Christ, that takes the—” He stopped suddenly. “Are you still harping on that three hundred you lent me? Is that what gives you the idea? I paid you back, pal, in spades.”

“I wasn’t even thinking of the loot. You’ve got a real high-type mind, College Boy. You’re concerned with a hell of a lot, all right. You’re concerned with Bud Donato, and that’s all, and everybody else be damned, everybody else go to hell.”

“And you can lead the parade,” Bud said heatedly.

“Sure, and you’ll be waiting there to greet us. And you won’t give a thought as to why you’re there. You’ll think you’re there, man, because you flunked a Milton exam. You won’t even suspect the real reason.”

“And what is the real reason, mastermind?”

“Because you don’t know why you owe me this apartment. You don’t know why, and brother I bleed for you.”

“All right, I owe you the apartment. Go make the coffee. I want to brush my teeth.”

“Sure, brush your teeth. And brush the taste out of your mouth while you’re at it. You must be one hell of a guy to live with, all right. How’d you manage it all these years? I can barely stand it, and I’ve only been here three days.”

“You can leave whenever you like.”

“Sure. You’d just love that, wouldn’t you? That would make things simple again, wouldn’t it? You’d have nothing to worry about then. You wouldn’t have to settle up with anybody, not even yourself. You’d tell yourself you offered your hand, and it was bitten. But I’m not leaving, Bud. I’m staying right here. I’m staying because you owe me a place to stay.”

“All right, all right, we’re all human beings, and I owe you—”

“No, we’re special human beings, you bastard! Somewhere back there we touched hands, and we touched minds, and we crossed lives. And maybe you can write that off the way you’d write off a bad debt, but you can’t do it if you’ve got anything in here.” He thumped his chest suddenly. “You owe something to every goddamn human being on earth, but you owe more to those you singled out.”

Bud put down the toothbrush and stared at Andy, startled by his sudden passion.

“That’s what,” Andy said, trembling. “That’s what.”

“Sure,” Bud said. “Go make the coffee.”

“In one ear and out the other. Mustn’t let any common sense filter in among all those notes for calculus, must we? Keep it all clear and clean for the important things in life, the college courses. Forget all about what you owe people! Hell, everybody else has forgotten it, why be any different?”

“Look, Andy—”

“You make me sick. Just shut up and leave me alone, will you? I’ll be out of here as soon as I land that job, and then you can—”

“Amen,” Bud said.

“Don’t vilify it, crumb,” Andy said, and he went back into the kitchen.

Bud began brushing his teeth. He could still smell the vomit in the bathroom, and the vomit made him feel suddenly ill, that and what Andy had said. What the hell had he meant? Touched hands, touched minds, crossed lives. Everybody crosses his life with someone else’s. That was nonsense, pure nonsense. Then why does it upset me? Well, it shouldn’t upset you. You’re doing all you can, aren’t you? You’ve given the rotten bum an apartment, haven’t you? Are you supposed to hold his hand for him now? What does he want you to do, hold him over the bowl when he vomits, the way Helen...

Yes, Helen did that.

Yes.

But who wants the smell of vomit on his hands? Who wants the smell of it in his house? Who wants Andy here, and what do I owe him, what the hell do I owe him? We walked out of each other’s lives, we left it all behind a long time ago, I’m not responsible for him any more, I never was responsible for him, you don’t have to be responsible for anyone else, why should you be, who the hell says you have to be?

What are you supposed to do, what the hell are you supposed to do? Throw everything over for somebody else? Forget you yourself exist, is that what he’s asking me to do? Who’s coming today? Who’ll be with him while I’m gone? Helen, Carol? No. He’ll... he’ll be alone. But he won’t go back to it, he won’t, and what do I care, why should I give a damn, these tests are important, I’ll get out of school next year, and if not that, what? The semester afterwards. But what if Andy flunks out? There’s no semester afterwards for him, there’s the same semester, year in and year out, if he flunks out, he won’t flunk out, hands touched, minds touched, lives crossed. Why don’t people touch each other? Except shaking hands. You shake hands, and you say, I am touching you, we are friends. You only touch friends. If you accidentally touch a stranger in the subway, she calls a cop if she’s a woman, and he punches you in the nose if he’s a man. Hands do not touch enough, and eyes do not meet enough, Jesus, but what am I supposed to do? Jesus, why did he have to come here, why did he have to pick on me? Because we were friends, and our hands touched, sure, put it in poetry, Andy, put it in flowery language and it sounds good as hell, but who’s going to take those tests for me? Who’s going to see everything he worked for shot to hell?

He walked out of the bathroom. He began putting on his shirt, and then he looked at his watch. He still had a little time. It seemed like such a long morning all at once. He walked into the kitchen. Andy was standing near the stove watching the heating water. “Andy,” he said.

“Yes?”

“You... you should practice your horn a little. You... you haven’t picked it up since you got here.” That was not what he wanted to say. He didn’t know what he wanted to say.

“I don’t feel like practicing,” Andy said. “I feel... lazy. And my eyes burn. How can I read music if my eyes burn?”

“Well, you know, if you keep making excuses—”

“All right,” Andy said wearily, “I’m making excuses. I tell you my eyes burn. All right, that’s an excuse. This headache is an excuse, too. My whole life is an excuse. I’ll bet I have a fever. You want to bet I’ve got a fever? Have you got a thermometer?”

“In the bathroom,” Bud said gently.

“I’ll bet I’ve got a fever. Goddamnit, you think I’m clowning around, but you never tried dropping heroin, did you? Well, this is the worst it’ll ever get. Where’d you say that thermometer was?”

“In the bathroom.”

“How much do you want to bet I’ve got a fever?”

“I don’t want to bet.”

“You’re chickenhearted, you bastard. I’ll get the thermometer. I’ll show you.”

He went out into the bathroom and rummaged around in the medicine chest. When he came back into the kitchen, he was shaking down a thermometer.

“Don’t you ever have any steam in this dump?”

“Steam? In May?”

“I’m chilly.”

“I thought you had a fever.”

“I’ll bet I have, but I feel chilly, too. Maybe the coffee’ll warm me up.” He went over to the stove, still shaking down the thermometer. “Won’t it ever boil? Jesus.”

He put the thermometer into his mouth. He paced nervously, clenching and unclenching his hands.

“You’d better sit down,” Bud said. “If you haven’t got a fever, you’ll raise one that way.”

Andy ignored him. He continued to pace, and then he mumbled around the thermometer, “Y’iming this?”

“You’ve got about two minutes to go.”

“Eesus.”

“This quiet is wonderful,” Bud said, smiling. Andy didn’t answer him.

“’R mush longer?”

“You can take it out now,” Bud said.

Andy took the thermometer from his mouth and studied the numbers on it. “There, what’d I tell you?” he shouted triumphantly. “A hundred point five. Is that a fever, or is it?”

“Shall we get a doctor?”

“No, this is cold turkey, friend, that’s what this is. There ain’t a doctor in the world can help me. Dammit, why don’t they give you any steam?”

“Maybe the coffee’ll help you. I think we can pour it now.”

“My back hurts,” Andy said. “Listen, aren’t you chilly? Do we have to have that window open?”

“No, not if you don’t want it.”

Andy went to the window and closed it. Bud began shoveling coffee into the cups. “I’ve still got the chills,” Andy said. “They should give you steam when it’s cold outside.”

“It’s not cold outside. It’s a lovely day.”

“Then why the hell am I shaking all over?”

“Maybe you’ve got malaria,” Bud said, smiling.

“Ha-ha, very funny,” Andy said. “Jesus, I’m itchy.” He scratched his arm violently, and then he studied the area and held his arm out to Bud. “Look at this, will you? A bump! Right under the skin. Jesus!” He opened the throat of his shirt and looked down at his chest. “I’ve got the damn things all over me! Goddamnit, I’ve itched before, but this is the worst yet.”

“Come on, take your coffee.” Bud sat at the table and looked at his watch again.

“Even my back aches from this headache, would you believe it? I can feel it right through here, and all through my body, pound, pound, pound. If I get through this, I’ll never look at another ounce of heroin as long as I live. This is murder, pure unadulterated murder. Why should I have it so bad, huh? It was only a sixteenth I shot up, and now it’s like I’m going cold turkey from scratch. Is that fair? I put in a week off the stuff, didn’t I? So I shoot a little, and now there’s hell to pay, my arms and legs aching as if I’ve got rheumatism, and my back, and my damn eyes burning me, and this rotten headache. Is that fair, should a guy have to suffer this much for a lousy sixteenth? I’d rather have syphilis, I swear to God.”

“Maybe you’ve got a little cold,” Bud said.

“I always have a cold. Addicts always have colds, didn’t you know that? But this isn’t a cold, man. This is cold turkey, that’s what this is, and a son-of-a-bitch it is, too. This shouldn’t happen to your worst enemy. This shouldn’t happen to me, that’s for sure.”

He sat at the table, picked up his cup, and took a sip.

“Oh, you lousy son—”

“What’s the matter?” Bud said.

“It’s too hot. I can’t swallow it. I can’t—”

“Maybe you’ve got a sore throat.”

“My throat does feel sore,” Andy said, “but, oh, Jesus, is this hot!”

“Then don’t drink it,” Bud said.

“I’ll vomit if I drink it, anyway,” Andy answered. “What’s happening to me? Why should I have this hell? Isn’t it enough that I’ve seen the light? What is this? My punishment? Can’t a man go off the junk without losing his mind? Oh, my head, my ever-loving head, it’s going to bust right in two. Do you think my fever has gone up?”

“I don’t know.”

“How will this day ever end? How will this goddamn day ever pass?”

“It’ll pass,” Bud said.

“I’m going out of my mind.” He scratched himself again, digging at his flesh. “Don’t sit there and watch me.”

“I wasn’t watching you.”

“I’m going to take another of those pills,” Andy said. He put down his cup and walked into the bathroom. Bud heard the cabinet door open, and then the water running, and then the water being turned off suddenly. He glanced at his watch. It was time to go. He went into the living room and took a jacket from the closet. Andy was coming out of the bathroom, his eyes wide.

“My... my skin,” he said. “Look at my skin.”

“What’s the matter with it?”

“Can’t you see it?”

“It looks fine to me.” He shrugged into the jacket.

“It’s... it’s yellow,” Andy said. “Like... like I’ve been taking opium. Jesus, my skin is turning yellow!”

Bud looked at him carefully. “It is a little yellow.”

“Jesus, I haven’t taken opium in... Jesus, does H do it, too? I... I don’t feel so good, Bud. I... I’d better lay down. Jesus, my skin is turning yellow. Oh, my God, my skin is turning yellow.”

“Rest a while,” Bud said. “Come on.” He took Andy to the made-up sofa, waited until he was comfortable, and then started for the door. “I’ll see you later,” he said.

Andy nodded. “Oh, my back,” he said. “Oh, Jesus, this is murder!”

And then, despairingly, he said, “I wish I was dead.”

23

Andy watched the door close.

He was alone.

It was very good to be alone. The idea of being alone excited him. There was no one to watch him now, no one to snap at him and yell at him, no one to see. He was alone, and that was how he wanted to be, and yet the apartment was deathly still and ominously bleak, and he dreaded his aloneness while relishing it. Alone, he thought. Alone. He rubbed his fists into his eyes.

His eyes burned very badly now. His body ached as if someone had spread him on a medieval torture rack. He could feel the aching, and the burning of his eyes, and the headache, and the itching, and the words “cold turkey” rushed through his mind over and over again until he could almost see the plucked turkey hanging in a butchershop, stripped of everything but its flesh, naked to the world.

He was naked to the world.

He had thrown it all away, all of it, and now he was naked to the world, trying to wipe the slate clean, and it seemed in his aloneness that he would never wipe it clean, never in a million years, never in a million light-years. He was alone and naked, and he was sick. And he knew why he was sick.

He was sick because he’d taken a shot, and now there was nothing else to take. He was sick, and he was very low. He was so low he had to reach up to tie his shoelaces. There was a monkey on his back, and, gee, ain’t that a jazzy way of saying it, real gone, a little organ grinder’s monkey in a sharp red jacket perched on his back. How clever, how George, these hopheads sure know how to put things, hey!

But it’s not a monkey, kid, it’s not a cute little organ grinder’s monkey at all. There’s no tambourine involved here, kid, and you don’t feed this monkey with pennies left over from an ice-cream soda, kid, because he’s not a monkey at all.

He’s a gorilla.

I don’t know if you know very much about gorillas, kid. Gorillas aren’t very friendly animals, not my gorilla. I tell you the truth, I don’t know anything about the African variety of gorilla, I only know the New York variety, the kind who is on my back. He’s not friendly at all. He gets angry as hell for no good reason, and he’s liable to rip you all to pieces with his sharp teeth and sharp claws if you don’t feed him.

And it costs a lot of money to feed this gorilla of mine.

He’s got a special-type diet, and there are men trained to prepare his food, and they’ll give you all the food you want — provided you have the money. You have to have the money because this gorilla, he’s pretty attached to you, you know? He’s right there on your back, and he’s very heavy, not like an organ grinder’s monkey at all. He’s so heavy that sometimes you think you’ll fall flat on your face from carrying him, flat to the sidewalk, and he’ll still be on your back, smelling of gorilla sweat, smothering you with his jungle breath. He never gets off your back. He sits there with his sharp little fangs, and he looks almost human, this gorilla of mine, but he’s not human at all, he’s the most inhuman beast there is.

And he gets so hungry, so very goddamned hungry, and when he begins to bellow for his food, dad, you’ve got to go out and get the loot. It doesn’t matter how you get it. You can hock everything but your shoes, and you can hock those, too, the gorilla doesn’t care. He hears those fellows out in the kitchen banging their dishes, and he knows they’re mixing up his lunch, and he’s so goddamn hungry that his stomach is aching. If you’ve got nothing to hock, he doesn’t care about that either, because this gorilla, you understand, he doesn’t think like everyday human beings do. He’s not a person, you know, he’s just a jungle beast, so he doesn’t know about hocking things, and he doesn’t care, so long as he eats. So if you’ve got nothing to hock, you steal. If you have a gorilla, I can guarantee that you will steal. You will steal, and you will mug, and you will roll, and you will mingle with the scum of the earth, you will do anything to feed that gorilla because he is the boss, and not you.

He is giving the orders. And he only wants to eat.

I wish I had known all about gorillas a long time ago. I wish I had known because then I wouldn’t ever have wanted one for a pet. Of course, gorillas have little brothers, and the little brothers could be called monkeys, and maybe that’s what you had in mind, kid, the little monkeys called reefers. They are cute as hell, kid, I’ll admit that. These little reefer monkeys are just so adorable you could squeeze them to death. And they don’t hurt you, do they? No, not much. So go ahead. Have one.

And kid, you are meeting the gorilla family. Kid, you are having a grand-scale introduction. You are on the way to mainlining it. Kid, you are getting hooked, kid, because you are not chicken and because you are not afraid of cute little monkeys. And once you’re hooked, your worries are over. You’re just not a person any more.

When you’re hooked, you’re dead.

It takes a lot of guts to make yourself dead, kid, more guts than you think, more guts than you were thinking of when you grabbed that cute little bammie. When you are dead, there is nothing but heroin. There’s a big H written across the sky, and that’s all there is. H, and it doesn’t stand for heroin, it stands for Hell.

There’s nothing brave about being in Hell. There’s nothing brave about it at all. And you won’t think you’re being brave, you won’t think anything, you will only think of H. And all the advantages of being alive will simply disappear because there’s nothing to your death but H. You will eat it, and drink it, and sleep it, and think it. And nothing else. You will not want a girl, or a car, or clothes, or movies, or beaches, or talk, or music, or anything but H. That is it. You will slowly and surely and without doubt sink into the gutter with your gorilla on your back.

There is shit in the gutter, my friend.

And the man who feeds your gorilla will drag you face first through the shit, and if you like the taste of human excrement, then being dead is for you. Being dead is wanting, wanting, wanting.

You will wake up wanting heroin and go to bed wanting it, if you go to bed. You will always and ever want it, and there will be no other thought in your mind but heroin. There will be a single purpose to your life, and your every waking minute is devoted to that purpose, and that doesn’t leave time for anything else, not even thinking about anything else, it does not leave time for anything but H, there aren’t enough hours in a day, you are married to H, you are married to death, you are married to the fat bastards who are eating steaks in fancy restaurants on the nickels and dimes and pennies you scraped up for them, the loot you dug up to feed your gorilla.

You are a sucker, my friend.

So come on. Get brave!

He lay on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. He needed something.

No, he thought, I don’t!

I’m through being a sucker, I’m through with it all, but, Jesus, I need something. He rose abruptly and went to the record player. The hell with Buddy-boy, he thought. The hell with him and his goddamn orders, I’m playing these records, and if he doesn’t like it, he can stuff it. He put the Kenton album on the turntable and then turned the volume up full. The music slammed into the apartment and he felt suddenly better. He listened to the moody brass of “Concerto to End All Concertos,” and he found himself moving his lips with the horns, tonguing with them, going through the motions. I can think better now, he thought. I can think better with all this sound around me, you have to have music around you, music makes a nice high wall, and you can add to the wall when you’re blowing. A big fat wall, especially when it’s loud, and Christ it is loud this morning, blast away, Stan!

He walked to the window, the sound all around him. He touched the pane of glass and felt the vibration of sound, and then he closed his eyes and tried to read the sound with the tips of his fingers, like a blind man. The music was very loud, and within the music, like a bleak hollow core, he felt lonely and deserted.

I’ll never break it, he thought. I’m kidding myself. I’ll never break it, and I know it. I died a long time ago, and now I’m just going through the motions. I died a long while back, and I slammed my own coffin lid shut the day I hocked my horn, and you don’t come back from the dead.

He looked down at the street, feeling more misery than he had ever known. There seemed nothing left, nothing whatever. He was alone in a vast directionless land, and he was lost, and there was nothing left for him anywhere, because now that he knew he wanted to break the habit, he knew with equal conviction that he would never break it. And knowing this, he stared down at the street, thinking, I am dead, I am a dead man.

He saw the people below him, moving on the sidewalk, and the new thought popped into his mind.

Why not?

If I am already dead, then why not, why not?

It must be nice to be really dead.

The apartment reverberated with sound now, and he wondered about the stillness of death, was it really as still as they pretended it was, could anything really be that still, so quiet that there was no sound whatever, not the sound of breathing, not the sound of a pin dropping, not the sound of a feather shifting, an empty soundless space of white, soft white.

They put you in the ground, he thought.

Of course, they put you in the ground, and there’s the rub. There are dead people on your right and on your left, and sometimes even above you, but if death is quiet and peaceful and non-feeling, then what difference does it make where they bury you or with whom? And even if there are people you don’t like, there are people you don’t like in life as well, so what difference does it make if only you can lay down and rest, and get rid of all the aches and pains, and the burning eyes, and the vomiting — and the wanting.

And you can kick the habit then, all right.

You can kick it because death is the Big Fix, the fix you never come down from. Christ, but dead men are lucky. They can have a platter of hoss right in front of them and a mile-high syringe, but they won’t be tempted, they’ll be only content. God, what is it like to be content? Can you be content that way? If you are dead, really dead, not the death of drug addiction, but really, really dead, does everything else stop? Is there just a hush, and a softness, and a restful peace you have never known before?

Oh, God, it must be terrific!

Oh, God, if I could only...

A knock sounded on the door. The knock annoyed him, and he frowned, and then he shouted over the noise of the record player, “Who is it?”

He heard a muffled answer from the other side of the door, but the voice made no sense.

“What do you want?” he shouted, becoming angrier. He crossed the room and went to the door, and then he shouted, “Who is it?” at the wood.

“Mr. Donato?”

“He’s not here,” Andy said. “Go away!”

“I want to talk to him,” the voice insisted.

“Just a minute, just a minute,” he said impatiently. He unlocked the door then and opened it.

A frumpy woman was standing outside the door. She wore a faded housedress and old house slippers. Her hair hung loosely on her forehead, as if it had been placed on her head haphazardly, like an old brown felt hat. She looked Andy over from head to toe and said, “Where’s Mr. Donato?”

“He’s not here,” Andy said. “What do you want?”

“Who are you?” the woman asked.

“I’m his friend. What do you want?”

“I’m the landlady here,” the woman said. “What are you doing in Mr. Donato’s apartment?”

“I came to burglarize it,” Andy snapped, and when he saw the woman’s mouth pop open, he quickly added, “I told you I’m a friend of his. I’m staying with him for a few days.”

“Are you the one what’s playing the records?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I am.”

“Don’t you have no sense? Person can’t hardly hear herself think. Turn it off.”

“What for?”

“Or turn it down, either one. I got tenants who are still asleep.”

“It’s time they were up,” Andy said. He stared at her for several seconds, becoming very angry now, resenting her intrusion and her petty tyranny. “I like it loud.”

“Now look here, young man,” the landlady shouted over the roar of the record player, “I’ve never had no trouble with Mr. Donato, and I don’t expect none from his friends. Now go in there and turn it down.”

“Maybe you didn’t understand me,” Andy said tightly. “I said I like it loud.”

“Well! Of all the—!” The landlady put her hands on her wide hips. Her face turned red, and she stared at Andy silently for several moments. Andy stared back coldly.

“Turn it down!” she said finally, spacing the words with cold even precision.

“Go to hell, you fat bitch!” Andy said, and he began to close the door in her face.

The landlady shoved the door back with a heavy arm. Her brows shot down like angry falcons. Her eyes blazed. “I’ll turn it down myself, snotnose!” she shouted, and she started into the room. Andy took her arm and swung her around.

“Stay out of here,” he said. “Keep your nose out of here.”

“Let go of me!” the landlady screamed.

Andy shoved her back through the open doorway. “Go back downstairs and hit the bottle, you hag,” he said, and then he slammed the door.

“I’m calling the police!” she shouted. “You wait and see! I’m calling the police!”

“Call them!” he yelled at the closed door. He locked it and thought, Go ahead, call them. You rotten fat water sack! What are you trying to do, take even the records from me? Haven’t you stripped enough from me already? What more do you want? Can’t I even listen to music? Are you denying me that, too? What more do you want from me? What more?

Oh, Jesus, what’s the use?

What’s the use of even trying, why don’t I just...

Why don’t I...

If...

Yes, but...

He made up his mind in the flash of an instant.

It was almost as if he had been debating it all his life, and now he made up his mind, and he knew just what he was going to do, and he felt suddenly glad because in the directionless waste there had been presented a direction, a goal, and he hurried now to fulfill that goal.

He went into the bathroom, again as if the means had been decided a long, long time ago. He went directly to the medicine chest and opened it. He found Bud’s razor, and he opened it and removed the single-edge blade, and he stood with the blade in his fingers for a long time, staring at its sharp cutting edge.

He looked up into the mirror over the sink then, staring at his reflection.

Yellow skin, yellow skin. Look at it. Jesus, look at it.

He shook his head and then held out his wrist. The skin on his arm was a pale yellow, everything turning yellow, it didn’t pay, it didn’t pay.

He didn’t want to get blood all over the floor.

He at least owed that to Bud. So where? Over the toilet bowl? Over the sink?

He threw back the shower curtain. Yes. Yes, that was the ticket. Turn on the shower, not too hot, not too cold, put the wrist under it, and then slash it. The water washes the blood down the drain, and everything is clean that way, and you don’t even realize you’re bleeding.

Quickly he turned on the cold-water faucet, and then he adjusted the hot water so that he got a lukewarm mixture.

Well, he thought, this is it.

Well.

He sat on the floor beside the tub. His mind was peculiarly blank. He put his left wrist under the water. The water was just right, perfect.

He looked at the sharp cutting edge of the razor blade in his right hand.

Slowly he put his right hand into the stream of water and brought the blade down toward the veins on his left wrist.

He should not have left Andy alone in the apartment.

Walking to the subway kiosk, he knew that. He knew that, and he almost turned and went back, but he didn’t. There was studying to do.

Yes, studying.

Yes, studying, and the studying is important. I have to pass that test this afternoon. If I don’t pass that test this aft— Stop rationalizing.

I’m not rationalizing. Nothing’s going to happen to Andy. He’s too shot to move. He went out and got some herein on Monday, and he took it yesterday, and he feels lousy, and he’s sworn to St. Peter and all the angels that he won’t touch it again, and Helen chewed him out good, and besides Helen has the syringe. What difference does that make? He can go out and get another one, the same place he got the last one.

But he won’t.

He simply won’t, and there’s no sense torturing yourself with what he’ll do or what he won’t do, because he isn’t going to do anything. He’s going to lay on that bed and look up at that ceiling, and in a little while he’ll fall asleep. And he looked shot enough to sleep through the whole day, if not the whole week, provided he doesn’t have to vomit, in which case he’ll go right back to bed afterward, anyway.

So don’t worn^- about Andy. You don’t have to worry about Andy.

Andy can take care of himself.

Sure.

Oh, sure.

Andy can certainly take care of himself, all right — that should be obvious to anyone who has a pair of eyes. Andy has been taking care of himself for a good long time now, and Andy has done one fine job of it. Andy has descended to one level above the crawling reptiles. So it’s obvious he can take care of himself.

He took care of himself fine yesterday.

He cut out of that apartment on Monday. He cut out and rounded up a bagful of heroin, and yesterday he took care of himself fine. All you have to do is leave Andy alone for a half hour, and he takes care of himself. On Monday he got the stuff and on Tuesday he shot it up. What’s he going to do for an encore, poor bastard?

He’s going to sleep.

Yes, that’s what we keep telling ourselves in these parts, mister. That’s what we keep telling ourselves, and that’s what we keep trying to believe — that Andy is going to sleep like an innocent babe on a Daumier breast, but we can’t rightly believe it, because the truth is we don’t know what the hell Andy will do next.

And we don’t care.

Well, that may sound a little callous. We do care, actually.

We just don’t care very much.

There’s a difference, you know. But don’t we care very much? And if we don’t care, why are we worrying about him? We aren’t ten minutes from the apartment, and he’s all we can think about, because we don’t know what that poor tortured son-of-a-bitch is going to do next, and we do care, we do care what he does, we do!

I have to study, oh, God, I have to study, I can’t worry about him.

He’ll be all right.

He’ll... be all right.

Bud slipped a dollar bill under the grilled window of the change booth and waited for his change. He pocketed all but a dime, inserted it in the slot, shoved through the turnstile, and went down to the platform.

The downtown express trains flashed by, loaded to the gunnels, carrying the workers crammed in like rolled anchovies. The uptown platform was not very crowded, but, as usual, the uptown train was a long time coming. He stood on the platform and watched the noisy express trains rumble past, and he tried not to think of Andy alone in the apartment. The platform was dim, a subterranean mole’s hole stretching the length of Manhattan. He paced the platform impatiently, momentarily distracted when a pretty blonde in a tight silk dress descended the steps and walked to the gum machine. She put in her penny and then stooped over to pick up the gum that clattered into the receiving slot, and he watched the way the silk tightened across her firm buttocks, and then he turned away from her and thought about Andy again.

Nothing would happen, he was sure of that.

You had to place some trust in the guy or he’d begin to feel like a vegetable. You had to assume he now knew what he was doing and what he shouldn’t be doing, and you had to express some faith or you’d defeat him from go. You had to assume he’d simply lie on that couch until he fell asleep. I wish I was dead.

What?

Hadn’t he said that? Wasn’t that what Andy had said? As I was leaving the apartment?

I wish I was dead.

A faulty use of grammar, lacking the subjunctive, I wish I were dead, were, was, the thought is the same, and the thought is suicidal.

Let’s not leap to conclusions, my friend. Lots of people say I wish I were dead, but hardly anyone means it. I’ve said it many times myself, I wish I were dead, and I certainly didn’t mean anything of the sort.

And Andy wasn’t feeling so hot, the headache and all, so naturally that was the thing for him to say. A most natural thing to say. The same thing you or I or that blonde, Jesus, but she’s stacked, would say under similar circumstances, not meaning a word of it, just an expression, just an old cliché, just a peculiar American colloquialism, nothing to it, hell, meant nothing at all.

But what is he going through right now, and does he feel it’s worth while, and might he really contemplate suicide, and contemplating it, might he not actually attempt suicide, alone in the apartment, alone, Jesus, he’s all alone and he said, I wish I was dead.

He heard the distant thunder of the approaching uptown train. The blonde walked close to the edge of the platform. At the other end of the station the red light turned green, and then the train came into view, its front lights piercing the blackness of the tunnel. The station rumbled as the train bore down on it. A newspaper lying on the platform flapped wildly and then was swept up against the trash basket. The blonde’s tight skirt pressed against her thighs and her legs as the train swept into the station, drowning all sound with its roar. The doors slid open.

He hesitated on the platform.

The blonde had already entered the train. She sat and crossed her legs and then took a copy of Baby and Child Care from her purse.

The door was closing.

He reached out and caught at the rubber guard on the door. The door resisted him for a moment. He shoved it back and then slid into the car. The conductor pressed his button, and the train lurched out of the station.

He sat down and spotted John Front almost instantly. He turned sideways on the seat, trying to hide, but Front had already seen him, and there was nothing to do but sit it through. Front rose from his seat and staggered up the length of the lurching train, wearing his usual loud sports jacket, his usual wide enameled grin.

“Donato! Hey there, Donato!” he said, and he staggered up the aisle and plopped his ample buttocks into the seat alongside Bud.

“Hello, Front,” Bud said.

“You got a test this morning?”

“No, this afternoon. I wanted to do some studying at the library.”

“Best place in the world for it, fellow,” Front said. “I’ve got a lulu at nine. History of the English Language. You ever take that course?”

“Yes,” Bud said.

“You have that four-eyed bitch for it?”

“Altman?”

“That’s the number,” Front said. “I think I’ll strangle her when the course is done with.”

“Do that,” Bud said.

“You think I won’t? I could strangle her with my bare hands.” Front clucked in sympathy with his own homicidal drives. “Grimm’s Law,” he said. “Pee on Grimm. He should have stuck to fairy tales.”

“His brother Wilhelm twisted his arm,” Bud said.

“Say, you’re a regular font of knowledge, aren’t you? What does b become?”

“What?”

“B. What does it become. P?”

“I don’t remember.”

He did not want to listen to Front. He had tried to shake the guilt of having left Andy alone in the apartment, and he could not do that, and now Front had come along, and he did not want to listen to him. He wanted to go back to the apartment. At the same time he realized his need for studying. He had to study. He had to get some quiet where he could study. The test was at two, and he had to cram until just about that time, a pattern in complete antithesis to his usual study habits, but any port in a storm. He had to study and he couldn’t be worrying about Andy, but at the same time he felt this overwhelming urge to get back to the apartment. I wish I was dead, Andy had said. Thanatopsis. Stop relating everything to college-boy courses, stupid, if Andy kills himself it will have nothing whatever to do with a college education or a lack of same.

“...she can barely speak English herself. That’s what gets me. She comes around with this Southern drawl, and she tries to explain the history of our language. Sometimes I think she was a contemporary of Grimm’s. She’s grim enough to be his sister. Hey, you get that, Donato?”

The train was pulling into another station. He wanted to get up, wanted to get out on the platform and then mount the steps and cross over to the downtown side. He wanted to do that, and he saw the faces of the people waiting on the platform as the train pulled in, and he heard the sound of Front’s voice, and then the train shuddered to a stop, and the doors slipped open, and the people were getting aboard, and Front was saying, “D becomes th or some damn thing, so how the hell am I supposed to get it straight in my head when all of her pronunciations sound like some sort of Southern molasses? I tell you, Donato—”

Bud rose suddenly. “See you, Front,” he said, and he rushed for the doors.

“Hey!” Front shouted, and then the doors closed behind Bud, and Bud could no longer hear his fellow student’s voice.

Up the steps and cross over, he thought.

Take too long. Should I grab a cab? Jesus, cab’ll get caught in traffic. Why am I doing this anyway? Never mind why! Just do it. Hurry, hurry!

The phone. Call Andy. No, he won’t answer. If he doesn’t answer, I’ll go crazy, not knowing what’s going on. He may simply be sleeping, and if the phone rings it’ll wake him. How about Carol? She works on the West Side. She can get there faster. What’s her number? Where does she work? Think. What was the number Louise gave me? What was the name of the outfit? Come on, College Boy, apply your study methods to something practical. Think, think!

Benson. Benson something.

That was Carol’s office. Benson what?

He spotted the phone booth, ran to it, and then began thumbing through the Manhattan directory. Benson, Benson, Benson and, Benson and... Benson and Parke! He traced his finger across the page, got the number, rushed into the booth, deposited a nickel, and dialed it.

“Benson and Parke, good morning.”

“Miss Ciardi, please,” he said.

“One moment.” He waited, thinking, I’ve been through this before, this is déjà vu. I’m living through it all over again. This is what Hell is — living through endless phone calls — “What extension is that, sir?” — endless phone calls and being channeled through hundreds of extensions — “I don’t know” — and waiting for operators to look things up — “That’s extension fifty-one, sir” — and then the ringing, and then...

“Bookkeeping.”

“Miss Ciardi, please.”

“This is Miss Ciardi.”

“Carol?” He was confused for a moment. For a moment he didn’t remember why he had called her, or what he wanted to say. “Carol, is that you?”

“Yes. Who—”

“This is Bud. Carol, I left him alone in the apartment. I know I shouldn’t—”

“Buddy, why, why? Oh, Buddy, for God’s sake, why’d you do that?”

“I’m going back there now, Carol. But it might take a while. Can you get over there?”

“I just got into the office,” she said, almost to herself. Then, more strongly, “Yes, I’ll go. Bud, you shouldn’t have left him. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know. Get over there, will you?”

“Yes, I’ll leave right now.”

“Good. I’ll see you.”

He hung up and glanced at his watch. He could hear a train approaching on the uptown side. He ran for the steps and then over the tracks, descending on the other side just as the train pulled into the station.

24

The record player was going full blast when Bud arrived, and Carol was waiting in the hallway. She rushed to him as he mounted the steps.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. The door is locked, Bud. I knocked, and I shouted, but he’s got the music up so loud... Bud, I thought I’d go out of my mind waiting for you. What do you suppose... do you think...”

“I don’t know,” he said. He took out his key hastily and unlocked the door. The music assaulted the open doorway. “Andy?” he called.

There was no answer.

“Look in the kitchen,” Bud said. “I’ll take the bathroom.” He crossed the living room, snapped off the machine, and then walked to the bathroom door. He tried the knob. The door was locked.

“Andy?”

In the sudden silence of the apartment he could hear the shower running behind the closed door. Why, sure, he thought. Hell, he’s just taking a shower, that’s all. Sure.

“Andy? This is Bud. Open up, will you?”

From beyond the closed door, all Bud heard was the steady drumming of the shower.

“Andy!”

“Go away,” Andy said.

“Andy, what are you doing in there?”

“Go away.”

“Andy, for Pete’s sake...”

“Leave me alone,” Andy said. His voice was very low, barely audible.

“You going to open this door, or do I break it in?” Bud asked.

Andy didn’t answer.

“Andy?” Bud waited. “Andy, I’m going to break it in.”

Carol was in the living room now. She stood beside Bud, her hand to her mouth.

“Okay, Andy,” Bud said. “Okay.” He backed off a few paces and then lurched forward, throwing his shoulder against the door. The door did not budge.

“Andy, goddamn it, open this door!”

He threw his shoulder at it again, and then he backed off, lifted his foot, and rammed the flat of his shoe against the lock. The lock snapped, and Bud stumbled forward, carried by the momentum of his push. He pulled himself up short against the sink, and then he saw Andy sitting on the floor near the tub, his hand under the shower.

“Andy, what the hell...”

Carol was behind him now. She looked over his shoulder, saw Andy, and then almost instantly saw the razor blade in his right hand. She opened her mouth and screamed, a piercing, penetrating scream that filled the small room with echoes.

“Oh, God,” Bud said. He reached into the tub and turned off the shower.

“Go away,” Andy said. “Leave me alone.”

The razor blade in Andy’s right hand was stained with blood. And now that the water had been turned off, Bud could see a thin narrow red streak across Andy’s left wrist.

“Is he... is he all right?” Carol asked. She kept the knuckles of her hand pressed tightly against her teeth. She was not crying. Her eyes were brimming, ready to let loose, but she staunchly held back the tears.

Bud looked at Andy’s wrist. It didn’t seem to be bleeding very heavily. He looked at the narrow line more closely.

“Leave me alone,” Andy said. “I want to die.”

“You won’t die from that,” Bud said. “You’re lucky you’re even bleeding.” He felt suddenly let down. Even in suicide, Andy had failed.

Andy looked up. His eyes seemed yellow now, too, the white stained against the deep brown pupils.

“Come on,” Bud said, “let’s tape that up.” Disgustedly, he went to the medicine chest. “He barely got through the skin, Carol. He couldn’t have borne down very hard.”

Andy was crying. The tears began suddenly, and he made no effort to control them. “Can’t even kill myself right,” he said. “Have to foul up even that. Buddy, my head hurts. Buddy, I can hardly see my head hurts so much. And my eyes are burning, why’d I have to foul up, why should I have so much pain in my body?”

“Take it easy,” Bud said. “We’re going to get you a doctor. As soon as I tape up your wrist we’re calling a doctor.”

“No!” Andy said sharply. “No doctor! I don’t want a doctor around here telling me what to do and what not to do. You call a doctor, and I’ll kill you.”

“Give me your wrist,” Bud said calmly. He wadded the absorbent pad in place and then began taping the wrist.

“Bud, no doctor, please. I don’t want a doctor. They don’t understand, you follow me? Doctors, I mean. They don’t know what’s inside a man, they don’t understand. No doctor.”

“Andy,” Bud said, “you need help.”

“Call Helen then. Call her. She’s been through this. She knows. Call her. Please.”

“What’s her number?” Carol asked.

She listened while he gave it to her, and then she went to the phone.

“Helen’ll know what to do,” Andy said. “Am I very hot? Bud, feel my head. Am I very hot?”

Bud put his palm on Andy’s forehead. “You’re hot,” he said. “Do you want to take your temperature?”

“No, no. Must be all this excitement. Jesus, it looked like such a good idea. I mean, I really wanted to, do you know what I mean? I could just picture being dead, Jesus, it must be great, it must be great just to lay there and not have a goddamn—”

“Don’t talk like that,” Bud said sharply.

“I’m alive, ain’t I? I goofed, didn’t I? I slashed the blade across my wrist, and all I drew was a little blood. It seemed funny to me because I thought, Jesus, you should bleed more, you know? But I guess I was scared. I guess I didn’t really slash away because I was scared death would... well, I don’t know what I was really scared of, except, suppose... suppose it wasn’t what I... well, how could you know, Bud? So when I drew that razor across my wrist, I guess I didn’t push very hard. I didn’t feel anything, would you believe it? I just saw the blood come out behind the razor and then the water was washing it away, and I thought, Good, you’re going to die, and all the while I knew I wasn’t really going to die, but the idea of dying was a good one, and so I tried to tell myself, Yes, you are going to die, all the while knowing differently, and all the while afraid that I would die because death, too... it might be... I don’t know... I... oh, hell, there’s nothing I can do right.”

“You’re shaking the habit,” Bud said. “You’re doing that right.”

“Am I? Am I doing it right? I shot up yesterday, didn’t I? That’s some way to shake it, all right. And what happens when it gets rougher, like Helen said it would get? What do I do then? Slash my wrists whenever it gets rough? The funny part was I didn’t even feel like taking a shot this morning. I was just laying here, and all of a sudden there didn’t seem to be anything left for me, and I thought how great it would be to be dead, really dead. Why did I have to miss? Why couldn’t I have done it the right way?”

“Shut up, Andy,” Bud said.

Into the phone Carol said, “May I speak to Helen Cantor, please?”

“Have you got her?” Andy said.

“I’m waiting.”

“She’ll know what to do. You don’t mind, do you, Carol? That I want her to come over?”

“No.”

“It’s just... she’s been through this, you know? She’ll know how to handle it. She knows the tricks.”

“I don’t mind,” Carol said. She waited. The boys were silent. “Hello?” she said at last. “Helen? This is Carol... No, everything’s all right... that is, well he tried to... he cut his wrist... No, he’s all right... He wants you to come over... He doesn’t feel well... Do you think you can?... Yes... well, yes... all right, fine... We’ll be waiting for you.” She paused. “Helen?... thank you.” She hung up.

“Is she coming?”

“Yes. She said she’d take a cab. She should be here in a few minutes.”

“A wonderful girl,” Andy said. “A rock. Solid as a rock. Jesus, a wonderful girl, Helen.”

“Lay down,” Bud said. “Get some rest. God, you’re burning up.”

She was wearing green, a green woolen dress that picked up the color of her eyes. She looked very cool and very efficient when she walked into the apartment, and Bud couldn’t help contrasting her calm demeanor with the way he and Carol looked. There was despair on Carol’s face, a sadness she could not hide. She was struggling valiantly to keep from crying, and the struggle put a pained look on her face, and the pain robbed her of her beauty. Her blond hair hung limply, even her clothes seemed to have grown suddenly stale. Her shoulders were hunched, and she kept her arms folded tightly across her chest, as if she were huddling against the cold.

He looked at Carol, and then he looked at Helen and the contrast was so vivid that he felt a sudden uplifting of his own spirits. Helen was a rock. Andy was right. In Helen there was strength. You could count on Helen, you could always count on Helen. He had not, until seeing her, realized how much the suicide attempt had shaken him. It had been a pitifully weak attempt, an attempt that magnified Andy’s own weakness. It had drawn only a little blood, but it had still been a harrowing experience, and he trembled now as he thought of what could have been, and he was extremely grateful for Helen’s presence.

She walked to the sofa where Andy lay stretched out.

“How’s the patient?” she asked.

“Hello, Helen,” he said.

“You goofed, huh, dad?”

Andy smiled weakly. “I goofed.”

“I’m kind of glad you did. It wouldn’t be the same around here without you.”

“Thanks.”

“No more of that, huh?”

“No, Helen.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She put her hand on his forehead, and her face clouded momentarily. “You’re—” She didn’t complete the sentence. She turned to Bud. “Have you called a doctor?”

“No. No, we didn’t know what to do. We... we thought we’d wait until you got here.”

“We’d better get one,” she said.

“No, Helen,” Andy pleaded. “No doctor.”

“You lay back and relax, Buster,” she said. “Do you use anyone in particular, Bud?”

“No, I’ve never... I mean, I haven’t got a family doctor.”

“I’ll call the nearest one. Where’s your phone book?”

“On the end table. Underneath. Where the phone—”

“I see it.”

“Helen, I don’t need a doctor!”

“We’ll call one, anyway. Just for kicks, okay?”

“I don’t see why...”

Helen went to the end table and took the Classified from where it rested on the lower shelf. She was opening the book when the knocks sounded on the door.

“Who is it?” Bud asked.

“Police,” the voice answered. “Open up.”

“Wha—” Bud looked to Helen.

“Answer it,” she said.

“But wha—”

“You won’t know until you answer it. There’s nothing illegal going on here. Go ahead, answer it.”

“All... all right,” Bud said.

He felt very weak and tired. He pulled back his shoulders and went to the door. Police. What could the police... He opened the door. Mrs. Heald, his landlady, was standing there with two patrolmen. Mrs. Heald looked very angry. The patrolmen looked indifferent.

“I see you’re back,” Mrs. Heald said heatedly.

“Yes. Yes, I am,” Bud said, puzzled.

“Is your friend gone?”

“My—” He stopped. Did she know about the suicide attempt? Was that why the police were here? God, would they... why was all this happening to him? Why did trouble follow upon trouble? Couldn’t he have a clear stretch of hours without trouble? “My friend,” he stammered, and his mind went blank, and he was suddenly incapable of cohesive thought. He stared at Mrs. Heald’s seamed and angry face, stared at the imperturbable faces of the patrolmen.

“I don’t hear any record player,” one of the patrolmen said.

“It was going full blast!” Mrs. Heald shouted. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Donato. And the way he talked to me. The young snotnose! I’m old enough to be his mother. Shouting at me, and pushing me out of the apartment! It’s a wonder I didn’t fall down and break my neck. What kind of friends do you have, anyway? What’s going on in this room, anyway?” She stared into the room, seeing Carol, and seeing Helen at the telephone. Bud could hear Helen’s voice. She had located a doctor. She was giving the address now. Her voice was calm and level.

Helen is a rock, he thought, Helen is a rock, and he could think of nothing to say to Mrs. Heald or the patrolmen.

“Who are you?” Mrs. Heald shouted, pointing her finger at Carol.

Carol turned, frightened. “I’m... I...”

“What’s going on here, Mr. Donato?” Mrs. Heald screamed. “I run a clean house. I don’t like these goings-on. I don’t like it one bit. I want your friend arrested. I want him arrested this minute!”

“Now, calm down, lady,” one of the patrolmen said. “The record player ain’t going now.”

“It was going, and I’m not going to lose my tenants because of a... a bunch of bums. Now you arrest him, do you hear me? Where is he, Mr. Donato? Where have you hidden him?”

“We... we haven’t hidden him anywhere, Mrs. Heald,” Bud said. “If he was playing records, well, well gee, I’m sorry, but you see I wasn’t here when it happened, so I don’t know—”

“And what are these girls doing here at this hour of the morning? I don’t like this, Mr. Donato!” Her voice was high and shrill now. “I don’t like it, do you hear me?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“Disturbing the peace! That’s what your friend was doing! And that’s against the law. I want him arrested! I want him—”

“I wish you’d keep your voice down,” Helen said, coming to the door.

Mrs. Heald’s eyes flared. “What! What! You young snip, I’d like to tell you—”

“Officers,” Helen said gently, “I’ve just finished calling the doctor. There’s a very sick person here, and all this shouting isn’t going to help him.”

“Well, miss,” one of the patrolmen said, “we got this complaint about the record player, so—”

“And long enough it took you to get here!” Mrs. Heald screamed. “God forbid somebody was getting murdered! God forbid we really needed a policeman!”

“He won’t play the records any more, officers,” Helen said. “I promise you. We’re waiting for the doctor now. Do you think—” She smiled pleasantly.

“Come on, Sam,” one of the patrolmen said, “the guy’s a sick man.”

“Aren’t you going to arrest him?” Mrs. Heald shouted.

“He’s sick, lady! For Pete’s sake, the records ain’t going now, are they?”

“What difference does that make? They were going! Are you just... just...”

“Come on, Sam.”

The patrolmen walked away from the open door. Mrs. Heald stared into the room, fuming. She looked at Bud and said, with great dignity, “I think you had best look for another place to stay, Mr. Donato.” She turned on her heel then and started down the steps.

“Mrs. Heald!” Bud called. He turned back into the room. Helen was standing beside him, her face impassive. “I... I’ve got to talk to her,” Bud said. “Jesus, I can’t get kicked out of here. I’ll... I’ll be right back.”

Helen smiled briefly. Carol seemed struck dumb. She huddled on one side of the room, her face white. Bud ran out of the room, and Helen closed the door.

“Mustn’t lose the apartment, must we?” she said quietly. “I’ll bet Mrs. Heald thought our young Bud was running a brothel here.”

Carol nodded. She was beginning to tremble now.

“Get a hold of yourself,” Helen said sharply.

“I’m sorry. I... he... he almost killed himself.”

“Hardly,” Helen said. She walked to the sofa. Andy was breathing regularly and heavily. “He’s asleep,” she said.

“Helen, I... I...” Carol shook her head. “I... I feel...”

“Stop it!” Helen said, a cutting edge to her voice. “For God’s sake, stop it! It’s bad enough Andy is a mess. Now stop it.”

“Yes, yes, I must. I know I must. If only I could be... be... but he tried to kill himself... he almost killed himself. Helen, I... I love him so much... if he...” She shook her head again, and she began trembling violently, and Helen went to her and put her arm around her shoulders and said gently, “He’ll be all right, Carol. Please try to get hold of yourself.”

“Yes.” Carol nodded. “Yes, I will. Yes.”

They were both silent for several moments. Carol sat in the butterfly chair. Helen sat on a corner of the sofa. She rose once to arrange the blanket around Andy, and then she sat again.

“Do you think he’ll be here soon?” Carol asked.

“He said he’d come right over.”

“Good.” Carol’s eyes blinked. “I want to thank you for... for all you’re doing.” She paused. “Are... are you in love with him?”

“What?” Helen said.

“Andy. Do you... love him?”

“Why...” Helen was staring at Carol, a surprised expression on her face. “Why, no.”

“It doesn’t matter. I just wondered. Your coming here and... and helping. I wondered why you would bother unless you... loved him.”

“No, I don’t love him.”

“Did you and he...” Carol lowered her eyes. “Forgive me, I have no right asking.”

“It won’t make you any happier to know, will it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Andy needed someone, Carol. He needed someone very badly. I think he always will. It’s very hard to turn your back when someone needs you.”

“Yes.”

“He’ll be all right. Don’t worry.”

“Do you really think so?”

Helen hesitated. “Yes, I do,” she said.

“I hope so. I wish I... I wish I could do more for him. I feel so helpless just sitting here and watching him and not being able to do anything.” She shook her head, and they were silent for several moments. Then, uncomfortably, she said, “I know about what happened. I mean, long ago. With you and Andy.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Oh, he didn’t tell me. Andy didn’t. And Bud didn’t, either. Do you know Frank?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, of course you do. Frank told me in one of his letters. During the war. He told me casually, as if he thought I already knew about it. I think, though, I think he knew I didn’t know. I think he just wanted to tell me, I don’t know. I never liked him much after that. I don’t think he’s a nice person.”

“No, he isn’t.”

“It must have been terrible for you. You must have hated Andy very much. For... for what he did to you.”

“No. Only for what he took away from me.”

“Bud, you mean. Yes. You should have got together again. In all my letters to Bud, I always mentioned you. I always said he should call you. I always thought you should be together.”

“We did get together again,” Helen said quietly.

“Oh? I didn’t know that.” She paused. “Then why—”

“There’s no percentage in hatred, Carol,” Helen said suddenly. “I hated him so viciously I—” She stopped, shaking her head.

“Andy, do you mean?”

“No. Not Andy.”

“I... I don’t understand.”

“Well, let’s forget it.” She sighed heavily.

“Andy’s asked me to marry him,” Carol said. She smiled weakly, the first smile Helen had seen on her face since she’d come into the apartment.

“Good. Did you accept?”

“Oh, yes.” The smile broadened. “Yes, I did.”

“I’m very happy for you. He’s a wonderful guy, Carol, but... just stick with him. He needs someone by his side, that’s all.” She paused. “Most of us do.”

“I think he’ll be all right. I mean, once the doctor comes. I don’t think this is anything serious, do you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Probably all the excitement. He’s been through a lot in the past few days. Well, you must know. You’ve been through it, too.”

“Yes,” Helen said. She looked at Andy. His mouth was open, his eyes closed. He was breathing heavily. “Yes.” A frown passed over her brow as she watched Andy. She reached out and touched his forehead.

“Is he still very hot?” Carol asked.

“Yes, he is.”

Carol shook her head. “I wish the doctor would hurry.”

The door opened, and Bud came into the apartment. He smiled weakly.

“All squared away with your landlady?” Helen asked.

“Yeah,” he said. He felt embarrassed over having crawled to his landlady, felt even more embarrassed now that it was all over. “Yep, we got it all settled. Seems Andy was playing the records pretty early. You can’t blame her, I guess. I mean, she does have other tenants.”

“Yes.”

“And she’s really not a bad person.”

Helen smiled pleasantly. “She seemed like a bitch to me,” she said.

“Well, well, I suppose. But you can’t blame her for wanting to keep an orderly house. Hell, things haven’t been exactly... well, quiet around here, have they?”

“Far from it,” Helen said.

“Yeah, so you can’t blame her. I explained it all to her.”

“Did you tell her your friend was a drug addict?”

“Why, no. No, I didn’t.” Bud frowned. “I didn’t think it was any of her business.”

“It isn’t.”

“Then why’d you ask if I told her?”

“I thought you might have.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“All right.”

He was suddenly miffed. There was something exasperating about Helen’s calmness. There was such a thing as carrying this rock idea too damned far. It was all well and good to be cool and detached, but not if it made everyone around you feel awkward. He looked at Helen and coolly asked, “When’s the doctor coming?”

“Soon.”

“Did he say when?”

“As soon as he could, he said. He’ll be here.”

“You’re pretty damn calm about all of this, aren’t you?”

Helen returned his stare. “Someone has to be,” she said.

“Sure, and it might as well be you. You’re a rock.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He turned away from her and went to the window, wondering why he was so annoyed.

“He’ll be here soon, Bud,” Carol said.

“Well, let’s hope so.”

Go ahead, he thought, sit there like a rock. Helen Cantor, the Rock of Gibraltar. You weren’t such a steadfast rock when we...

Let’s not think about that.

“You should have asked him when he was coming,” he said.

“I did,” Helen answered. “He said he’d be here as soon as possible.”

“You should have told him it was an emergency.”

“I told him Andy seemed very sick.”

“You should have made it stronger!”

“What’s eating you?” Helen said sharply.

“Nothing,” he snapped back.

“Then don’t take out your own guilt feelings on me!”

“Guilt feelings! What the hell are you talking about?”

“Figure it out for yourself.”

“Because I left him alone, you mean? He didn’t kill himself, did he?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“All right, then leave me alone. You think I have nothing to worry about but Andy? I’ve got a test at two o’clock, and I haven’t even cracked a book for it!”

“Why don’t you go into the bathroom and study now?” Helen asked.

“How the hell can I study when we’re sitting here waiting for the doctor?”

“That’s your problem,” Helen said coldly.

“Yes, and Andy’s problem is his problem. And I don’t mind telling you I didn’t ask to be dragged into it, and I’m not happy about being dragged into it.”

“Poor little Buddy,” Helen said mockingly. “Everybody comes to him with their problems.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Buddy, dear Buddy,” Helen said, “everything in life is a problem. Every damn waking minute of it. When you get rid of one, there’s another one right around the corner. Don’t you think it’s time you recognized that?”

“I recognized it a long time ago. And my problem right now is a test at two P.M. And there’s another one right around the corner on Friday.”

“Very big problems,” Helen agreed. “Practically insurmountable.”

“Don’t get sarcastic.”

“I was sympathizing.”

“You’ve got a peculiar brand of sympathy.”

“Bud, I was only trying to tell you—”

“Helen, can’t you see I’m—”

They stopped talking simultaneously. They stared at each other across the length of the room. He wanted to explain to her that he hadn’t meant to sound the way he’d sounded, but he couldn’t find the right words. He stared at her, and she still seemed very calm and very composed, and he admired her strength, and he envied her strength, and he was somewhat embarrassed by it.

He thought back to the way she had handled the policemen at the door, the way she had stepped into the apartment and created order out of despondent chaos. He thought of her cool efficiency and his own fumbling awkwardness, and he wondered how someone as levelheaded as Helen could possibly have turned to drugs.

And he knew why.

He knew why, and he turned from her because he could not bear looking at her face.

He knew why, and he told himself it wasn’t so, he had had nothing to do with it, hadn’t she labeled it herself yesterday — a personality defect, hadn’t she said so? But he could see no defect in her now. She seemed superior to everyone in the room now, superior to any situation. And if she was so strong now, why did she once turn to heroin?

He could not blame himself. That was stupid. Besides, he had done everything that had been asked of him, handled it the way it should have been handled — how else could anyone handle it? — and yet he knew he had not done everything possible, but he shouldn’t even have been asked, more should not have been asked of him.

And yet she had become an addict. True, she had broken the habit and that took strength, so how could someone as strong as Helen have turned to drugs, and again he knew the answer.

No, his mind screamed, no!

Problems, sure, problems, and there are enough of your own without having to worry about everyone else’s. What do you owe people? Didn’t I see it through, didn’t I do what I should have done, wasn’t I honorable? Then why ask more of me, Helen, why ask more?

Helen, couldn’t we have left it the way it was? Why did Andy have to come back, and why did he drag you along with him, and why are you both in my life again? I thought you were out of my life, I thought I had escaped it, touched hands, touched minds, crossed lives.

Helen, I loved you, you know that, don’t you? Helen, I loved you with every fiber in my body, but I just couldn’t... I had other things to worry... I had...

I know, I know, I know.

You needed me, but people are always needing, and how much of yourself can you give, and when do you stop giving, and where does it end? Doesn’t it ever end? Are you always face to face with it? Where’s the goddamn doctor? Do you turn around and find life staring at you always? It can’t be that way. How could you stand it if it were always that way, how could you stand it?

When do you rest? When do you find peace and contentment? Is that why Andy tried to take his own life? Jesus, what a hell of a juvenile thing to try, but he wanted peace, I guess, he didn’t want to... to face it... face what?... you don’t know what you’re talking about any more, you don’t know.

Helen, try to understand. Sit there in your big superior strength and understand that I was free — free from that night the navy let me go, free from that moment on, and I wanted to stay that way, I had to stay that way, so understand, understand, please understand

25

sock chorus, i

JULY, 1946

It was very hot, even for July, and the rotating fan overhead only rearranged the thick blue smoke in the place. The smoke hovered like early morning mist over a meadow, swirling up where the fan pulled it reluctantly into its vortex. There was noise in the place, too, thicker than the smoke, buzzing over the tables like hungry flies around a felled horse.

Every now and then a high shrill laugh pierced the smoke and the hovering hum, a laugh that bubbled from the lips of a redhead at a table near the bandstand. The redhead was sitting with a Negro, and the Negro kept leaning over the table with a perpetual small smile on his face, talking in hushed whispers, as if he were confiding state secrets. The redhead would listen carefully, her lips moving ever so slightly as she watched his lips, like an actress anticipating her cue. And then the cue would come, and her laugh would burst into the smoke-filled room like a skyrocket, dripping its incandescent shrillness from the ceiling, and the Negro just kept leaning over the table and smiling his small smile and telling his state secrets.

Bud was sweltering in his blues. He was sweltering, and he also felt a little stupid. He kept cursing his mother for having given away all his clothes while he was gone, and he tried to listen to what Andy was saying, and all the while the redhead kept erupting into the room with that infuriatingly high laugh of hers.

“...started by a guy named Dizzy Gillespie, Bud,” Andy said. “You should see him. He wears a little beard right here under his lip, a sort of a goatee, a little triangular thing. We call it a ‘Dizzy kick’ in the trade. He wears a red beret, too. Those are his trade-marks — the kick and the beret. When all this first started, I bought a beret, too, but you can’t keep your hair combed too well if you wear one, do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” Bud said. “These navy hats are the same.”

“Carol didn’t like it, either. She said it looked silly and affected. She digs bop, though. Bop really sends her.”

“I’m anxious to hear some of it,” Bud said.

“Oh, you will, man, that’s what we’re here for.” He glanced at the bandstand. “The—” Bud heard the redhead’s laugh starting again, and Andy shifted his eyes ever so slightly in the direction of her table, and he tilted his head a little, as if he were straining to hear what the Negro was saying. The laugh ended abruptly, and Andy, liberated, said, “The combo should be back any minute. I think you’ll like this, Bud. You have to get used to it, just like anything else, but you’ll like it. All it is, really, is playing around with chords. Well, you’ll see. Did you do much playing in the navy?”

“A little,” Bud said. “There was another piano player on my ship, and we scared up a piano whenever we could. We played some nice boogie together. We were the hottest thing in Sasebo and Yokosu—”

“Yeah, well, boogie’s dead and gone now, you know that, don’t you? If you play boogie now, the crowd throws stones at you.”

“No, I didn’t know that,” Bud said.

Andy nodded. “It’s a damn shame I missed you on V-J Day. That was after I quit Jerry Black, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I was with a guy named Marv Lipton then — he changed it from Marv Lipschitz — a nowhere outfit, but at least I got to see D.C., and that was a wild town then, man. So tell me, how does it feel to be home for good?”

“You want the truth?”

“Sure.”

“Lousy.”

Andy burst out laughing, and then he glanced quickly at the table with the redhead and the Negro, and Bud got the feeling he was laughing for their benefit, as if to show them he was having a good time, too.

“It can’t be as bad as that,” Andy said, bringing his eyes back to Bud’s face. He had learned a trick with his eyes, Bud noticed, a way of squinching them up in wry amusement, so that it gave the peculiar expression of his eyes smiling while his mouth did not. His mouth had not changed at all. It was still a remarkably immature mouth, a weak mouth, even though the rest of his face had lengthened into angular maturity. And, of course, the muscle ring was still there, stronger now than it had ever been. He was wearing his hair long, and from what Bud had noticed when he’d turned his head, he sported a D.A. in the back.

“Are you listening to me?” Andy asked suddenly.

“Yes, of course.”

“Oh, I thought you were studying me,” he said. “Have I changed much?”

“Not very,” Bud told him.

“Haven’t I grown up?” he asked, and he did his eye trick again, the edges of his eyes crinkling while his mouth remained expressionless, the warm amber-flecked brown glowing with secret amusement.

“I don’t know,” Bud said. “Have you?”

“I’ve done a lot of things since the last time I saw you,” Andy said, and now there was no trickery in his eyes, only the glow now, and the glow was not an amused one. It burned with an inner light, an almost eerie light. “A hell of a lot of things. And there’s a hell of a lot more to do yet.”

“I guess so,” Bud said.

“What don’t you like about being home?” Andy asked.

“Everything. My mother gave away all my clothes, and it’s hot as hell in these blues, and I feel as if I don’t know anybody any more, not even you, and I’m scared I’ll curse at the dinner table.”

“I know that joke,” Andy said. “It’s a good one.” He laughed that too-loud laugh again, and this time he glanced unmistakably at the redhead and Bud felt a momentary prick of irritation.

“You’ll get used to the changes,” Andy said, and the redhead burst into laughter, and Bud suddenly realized that Andy and the redhead were bellowing out mating calls, and it annoyed the hell out of him because they were supposed to be old pals out on the town in a great big glorious reunion, and here he was making birdcalls at a strange redhead. If Andy’d wanted to go hunting, that would have been fine with Bud, and he’d certainly have gone along with him. But it had been Andy’s suggestion to come to this place on Fifty-second Street where they could “talk and listen to bop. You’ll like bop, Buddy.”

He had not listened to any bop so far, and the talk had consisted of the kind of inane drivel you pass back and forth with a stranger on a chow line. He didn’t mind polite casual conversation but he had really hoped to get down to brass tacks with Andy, had really hoped his friend would set him straight on what had happened since last summer, and here he was carrying on with the redhead.

“I hope I get used to it,” he said patiently. “So far it’s been one hell of a big disappointment.” His eyes met Andy’s pointedly.

“The changes, you mean,” Andy said abstractedly, and then he swung his chair around so that he could get a better look at the redhead, and Bud turned his head and saw that she had one elbow propped up on the table and that she was leaning over, and that she was wearing a very low-cut Shantung dress, and that she was really not a bad looker at all — none of which facts exonerated Andy so far as he was concerned. “Well,” Andy said, “tomorrow we’ll go on a picnic or something, huh? With Carol, and maybe she can get a girl for you.”

“Thanks,” Bud said. “Tomorrow I’m going shopping.”

“Say, tomorrow’s Saturday, isn’t it?” Andy said. “Well, I couldn’t go, anyway. I’ve got a fitting for band jackets. With the new band I’m on — Jam Jerralds. You ever hear of him?”

“No,” Bud said.

“Well, he’s got a B band, but things are beginning to get a little tighter in the field, now that the war’s over. He’s not small time, you understand — used to play with Tommy Dorsey and Claude Thornhill — but he’s not big time, either, like he doesn’t play the Paramount. He cuts a lot of disks, though, and there’s extra loot in that. And even though he plays trumpet, he gives his trumpet men solos, too, so it sounds like a good deal. We’ll be leaving week after next, you know. Hey, here come the boys now!”

Bud turned and saw the musicians climbing onto the bandstand — three colored fellows who waved out at the crowd. One of the musicians stopped to talk to the man with the redhead, and Andy watched him and said, “I know that guy. I met him at a session in Harlem. He blows a wild tenor sax. He really blows up a storm.”

The piano player and the drummer made themselves comfortable, and a fourth musician came from behind the drape near the bandstand, climbed up to his chair, and picked up his trumpet. The tenor man called off the beat, and then the piano and drums got to work on something very soft with a lot of high treble and cymbal work. It took Bud several moments to realize they were fooling around with “How High the Moon,” and then he listened more carefully, hearing the intricate variations the piano man was lacing around the basic chords.

“Can you hear how cool it is?” Andy asked, and Bud nodded and listened, absorbed, following the progression now and marveling at it. The tenor man put his horn to his lips and came in, blowing very easily, effortlessly performing the same sleight-of-ear with the chords. It was fascinating to listen to, and Bud lost himself in it and he wouldn’t have noticed the redhead walking past their table if Andy hadn’t suddenly (swung around in his chair. He looked up then and watched the girl walk across to the Ladies’ Room. She wasn’t wearing a girdle, and the Shantung hugged her body, and Andy glued his eyes to her and didn’t turn away until the door to the john closed behind her.

“How’s Carol?” Bud asked pointedly.

“She’s great. Did you dig that redhead? Mmmm, man. Edible.”

“Are you still going together?”

“Why, sure,” Andy said, surprised. “Hell, we’re gonna get married one of these days. What makes you ask?” Bud shrugged noncommittally, and Andy apparently caught on then because he said, “The redhead, you mean? Daddy, you’re dead when you stop looking.”

“Sure,” Bud said.

“Oh, man, Carol and me are like that.” He held out two fingers and pressed them together. “Just like that. But there’s a lot to do, man, you know? Hell, I’m a young kid.”

“I know.”

“Buddy,” he said seriously, “we’re only young once, and when that’s gone, what’s left? You take a look at my old man and you’ll see what I mean. Some things you can only do when you’re young. And, dad, I’m going to do them all.”

“Go ahead,” Bud said. “Do them.”

“Oh, I will, don’t worry.” Andy paused. “When are you going to find someone like Carol?”

Bud smiled foolishly. “I’m still looking.”

“You think you’ll ever find what you want?”

“There’s always another streetcar,” Bud said, shrugging.

“Sure, but only if you’re going someplace.”

“Huh?”

“I mean, what the hell, there must be some girl.”

“Not yet,” Bud said.

“What about Helen?”

“What about her?”

“Nice kid.”

“If you like nice kids.”

“Seriously, Bud.”

“No,” Bud said.

“Why not?”

“What do you mean, why not? Does there have to be a reason? It’s just no, that’s all. Helen and I were through long before I went into the navy. You know, you and Carol make me laugh. Just because a guy hangs around with a girl for a while, you think he’s—”

“Is it because she’s Jewish?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”

“I just asked.”

“Well, don’t.”

“Then what is it with Helen?”

“Jesus, I don’t know what you want me to say!”

“Is it because of... her and me?”

“Partly, I guess.”

“Man, you know the percentage of women who are pure when they get married?”

“No,” Bud said.

“Well, it’s damn slim. You ever write to Helen?”

“No.”

“When’d you see her last?”

“When I was in on V-J Day.”

“And you never called her again?”

“I went overseas. Even if I had wanted to call her, I couldn’t have. And, besides, I didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“Look, can we drop this? If you don’t mind, I’d like to drop it.”

“All right, all right,” Andy said placatingly. “Hey, you mind if I sit in with these guys?”

“No, go right ahead.”

“You want to try your hand?”

“At bop? You’re kidding, Andy.”

“Got to learn it if you expect to pick up where you left off.”

“I don’t expect to,” Bud said.

“What do you mean?”

“Just that I’m not planning on being a musician. The piano is a lot of fun but... well, I’m going to college.”

“Man,” Andy said, “the only thing to be is a musician.”

“Well, I don’t feel that way. Frank doesn’t, either. We’re both enrolling at City College next week.”

“All the way up there?”

“It’s a good engineering school. Frank wants engineering. Besides, I may take my own apartment.”

“Tony’s continuing with his music,” Andy said defensively.

“Yes, I know.”

“Have you seen him yet?”

“I stopped by this afternoon. He’s still got his Florida tan.”

“He’s nowhere, you know that, don’t you? As a musician, I mean. No ideas. He’s the corniest bastard in the world.”

“Well,” Bud said noncommittally.

“I think he’s registered at Juilliard. How they ever took a crumb like him is beyond me.”

“I thought you liked Tony.”

“Who said I didn’t? What’s that got to do with the way he blows his horn. Tony thinks all there is to being a musician is knowing how to read music. Man, you’ve got to achieve, you’ve got to express. If you don’t express with your music, you might as well be dead.”

“He’s not so bad.”

“He’s the world’s worst,” Andy said. “I’m gonna sit in.”

“Go ahead.”

Andy shoved back his chair and walked past the redhead’s table and then to the bandstand. The tenor man’s face lit up when he saw Andy. He stepped down from the stand and took his hand and shook it heartily, and Andy clapped him on the shoulder and said something, and they both laughed. Then Andy gestured toward the trumpet chair, and the tenor man nodded his head happily, and the trumpet man came down and shook hands with Andy. He handed Andy his horn, and Andy took the holstered mouthpiece from his jacket pocket, unsnapped the holster and then fitted the mouthpiece to the horn. The trumpet man wandered off toward the bar, and Andy clambered up to his chair, and the tenor man called off the beat, and they went into “Body and Soul.”

Andy’s playing had changed considerably, in keeping with the new style. The old forcefulness of his horn was gone now, replaced by a quietly intricate playfulness, a tour de force of his chord knowledge. The same grasping quality was there, though, a restless searching feeling, as if he were groping for the answers to life through his music. It was a peculiar sound to listen to, a lonely sound somehow, and yet a sound that demanded empathy, a sound you wanted to help, a sound that forced you to identify with it, as if Andy’s struggle were your own struggle and the struggle transcended the mere medium of music. Bud listened to it, admiring as always Andy’s artistry and feeling this peculiar mounting, reaching sensation within himself, so that he wished he could help Andy somehow, wished he could get up there with him and help him push the notes through the horn, help him battle his way out of the maze and climb up above the obfuscating clouds to where everything was very clean and very blue, up there to where you could breathe deeply and wash out your lungs. But you couldn’t get there. You fought with it, and you willed it, but it was always out of your grasp, you were chained to earth, and there was always this despairing disappointment when Andy stopped blowing, this feeling of almost, almost having touched it, and yet within this disappointment there was a compensating factor of almost-achievement, just a little way to go now, just a little farther and you would be there, if only you could stick with it, if only you could blow away the mist and find what you were looking for, this knowledge that here was promise and it was...

Better to have...

Even... even a promise... because most have...

Nothing at all.

His music drained you. It left you washed out and tired, but it also left you happy in a strangely sad way.

The boys played through a set, and then Andy came back to the table with the tenor man.

“Bud,” he said, “like you to meet Eddie Cann, one of the best tenor men in the business. Eddie, meet my boy, Bud.”

Eddie extended his hand and Bud took it. “Pleased to know you, man,” Eddie said.

“Same here,” Bud answered.

“My boy won’t approve of this,” Andy said, “but who’s the carrot-top at the next table, Eddie?”

Eddie glanced over his shoulder. His eyes were very white in his brown face, and a sheen of sweat clung to his forehead. He grinned broadly and then said, “Iris, man. You dig her?”

“I dig her,” Andy said.

“She a real music-lover,” Eddie said. “What I mean, a real one.”

“I’m hip,” Andy said. “How about an intro?”

“Gone, man. Come on over.”

“Come on, Bud,” Andy said.

“I want to get home,” Bud said.

“What for?”

“I’ve got a lot of clothes to buy tomorrow.”

“My boy’s up for readjustment exercises on the morrow,” Andy said to Eddie. “Look, Bud, stick around a while longer.”

“No, I’ve got to go.”

“You don’t mind, do you? I mean, my sticking around like this. That chick has eyes that are the biggest, you know that, don’t you?”

“I kind of figured.”

“Yeah, well... anyway, you’re home for good now, so what’s the rush?”

“No rush at all. Have a good time.” He lifted his jumper and pulled his wallet from where it was jackknifed over his waistband. He put a ten and a five on the table and said, “That ought to cover it.”

“Oh, come down, man,” Andy said. “This is on me.”

“No, let me take it,” Bud said. “I’m flushed with mustering-out pay.”

“Suit yourself,” Andy said airily. “You sure you’re not sore?”

“Nothing to be sore about.”

Their eyes met. “Look, man,” Andy said, “stick around, huh?”

“No,” Bud said, “you don’t need me—” he paused — “any more,” he added softly.

“What?” Andy said.

“Come on, dad,” Eddie Cann said, “let’s meet Iris.”

Bud watched while Andy went over to the next table. Eddie introduced him to the redhead, and he sat down beside her, and the redhead gave him her undivided attention, leaning over the table. Bud took a cigarette from his jumper pocket, lit it hastily, and then started out of the club.

He was angry, but in a strange way he was relieved too. A great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and he could not have described what that weight was if he’d tried.

He only knew that the air outside the club smelled very clean and very sweet — the way oxygen must smell at high altitudes, high above the earth, where everything was unpolluted, where birds Hew in complete and absolute abandon.

26

sock chorus, ii

OCTOBER, 1946

In October, with the leaves a molten red and gold, with the air crisp and biting, with the weather ideal for a freshman enjoying his first semester of college, a Hunter College House Plan invited a City College fraternity to a gathering at Roosevelt House.

Bud and Frank were pledging in the City College fraternity, and so they went to the gathering.

Bud had never held a very high opinion of anyone who went to an all-anything school, and he appreciated even less the girls who inhabited a convent like Hunter College. He was surprised, therefore, to find himself having a good time. Some of the boys from his frat had smuggled in a fifth of Old Grand-dad, which they’d discreetly poured into the punch bowl, and he and Frank had visited the bowl often. Some of the House Plan girls had lugged along their boyfriends, a few of whom were Hunter College Veterans — why would anyone want to go to an all-girls’ school, ask a silly question you get a silly answer. Most of the boys, though, belonged to Bud’s frat, and so he felt right at home. He danced with several of the House Plan girls, and he kept hitting the spiked punch bowl, and he was enveloped in a warm rosy glow of comparative comfort when Frank came up to him at about ten o’clock.

“Guess who’s here?” he said.

“The Maharaja of Mee-aho,” Bud said.

“No, come on, get serious.”

“Who?”

“Give a guess.”

“Julius Caesar.”

“Very funny.”

“Who, then?”

“Guess.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Are you expleting or guessing?”

“Frank, why don’t you drop dead?”

“Helen Cantor,” Frank said.

“What?”

“Helen. She’s here. Talked with her a few minutes ago. She goes to Hunter now, how do you like that?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Hell, no. Don’t tell me you’re interested! I thought you were all wrapped up making Carol comfortable while friend Andy is on the road.”

“Lay off that Carol routine, will you? We’re friends, period.”

“I’m only an observer,” Frank said, winking.

“Well, you’re crazy. For Christ’s sake—”

“Crazy like a fox. Anyway, Helen’s here.”

“Good for Helen.”

“I thought you might be interested. She looks very collegiate. She’s wearing a little button marked hostess. She looks too clean to suit me. I guess Andy didn’t teach her very much that night, eh, Buddy?”

“Knock it off,” Bud said.

“What’s the matter, pal? You still sensitive.”

“No, I’m not still sensitive. Helen and I... oh, what’s the use explaining anything to you?”

“You know what’s wrong with you?”

“No, tell me. What’s wrong with me?”

“You take your friend’s girl on platonic dates, you eat yogurt, and you bay at the moon.”

“Frank,” Bud said seriously, “you are really very witty this evening. You are so witty, I can hardly stand you. It’s a wonder you can even stand yourself.”

“I think I’m pretty damn sharp,” Frank said. “You going over to say hello?”

“Maybe.”

“She looks too clean,” Frank said sadly.

“Well, that’s life.”

Frank didn’t pick up the opening. “Yeah,” he said dully. “I’m gonna dance.” He walked away from Bud and over to a brunette in a fuzzy pink sweater. Bud watched him for several moments, and then he turned and walked over to the punch bowl. A girl was standing with her back to him, near the cups. He reached for a cup, and the girl turned, and he did not recognize her for a moment, and then he did, and his eyes went wide with surprise, even though Frank had told him she was there.

There was sudden joy on her face, and then the joy retreated, as if it had been carefully and calculatedly pulled back. They stood a foot apart from each other, and neither spoke, and then Helen shook her head in bewilderment and said, “Bud, what are you doing he... I...” She shook her head again, and then she gave a short confused laugh, and Bud said, “Hello, Helen.”

“I... forgive me... I didn’t expect to see you here. How are you, Bud?”

“Fine, thanks. And you?”

“Fine.” She paused and studied his face. “You didn’t write.”

“No. I was busy.”

“Growing up?”

Bud shrugged, and then smiled noncommittally. “Do you belong to this House Plan?”

“I’m Recording Secretary.”

“Well, bully for you.”

“Indeed.” He was smiling, and she realized that she was smiling, too, and she wondered why there wasn’t more tension between them, and she searched his face again. He seemed so very much at ease — no, that wasn’t the word she wanted, not simply at ease with her, or with his surroundings, at peace, yes, yes, he seemed to be at peace with himself — and on impulse, and because she somehow sensed a change which she could not as yet describe, she tentatively asked, “Are you still busy?”

“What?”

“I mean... right now.”

“Not at all,” he said.

“Well, I’m supposed to be a hostess. Come on, I’ll introduce you around.”

She took his hand unconsciously, and only after his fingers closed on hers did she realize what she’d done. And yet she felt no embarrassment, no uneasiness. The taking of his hand had been the most natural thing in the world for her to do, it seemed. And recognizing the validity of her intuitive gesture, she purposely submerged any conscious doubts, and she found herself thinking she would take this as it came, expecting nothing, and therefore avoiding any disappointment that might result from great expectations. They walked together to where a knot of boys and girls were standing near the record player.

“Here’s Helen now,” one of the girls said. “Helen’ll know. Helen, what was the theme of Freshman Sing last year?”

“Comic Books,” Helen said instantly.

“There, you see?” the girl said.

“I still think it was the Gold Rush,” a bespectacled boy said.

“Oh, what do you know about Sing, anyway?” the girl answered.

“Kids, this is Bud Donato,” Helen said. “Bud, meet, left to right, Gladys Aronowitz, Marcia Steele, Dave Annunziato...” The boy with the spectacles extended his hand, and Bud took it.

Helen gestured to a tall thin boy with a crew cut and brown eyes.

“Rick Dadier, Bud.”

Bud took his hand. “Nice knowing you, Rick.”

“Same here,” the boy said. He dismissed Bud almost instantly. “Helen, have you seen Anne? I’ve been— Never mind, never mind, there she is. Excuse me, will you, Bud? Nice meeting you.” He left the circle and headed over toward where a pretty blonde was chatting with what appeared to be a faculty adviser.

“Whatever the theme was,” Annunziato said, “it was lousy.”

“You’re prejudiced,” Gladys said. “You expect freshmen to be lousy, and so your stereotyped picture prejudices your entire outlook. If you—”

“Would you like to dance, Bud?” Helen asked, seeing his discomfort.

“Yes,” he said eagerly.

They went onto the floor together, listening to the music, and then — surprisingly — flowing into it instantly, the way they always had done, as if their training were able to survive the longest separation. She thought back to the last time she’d seen him, at the block party, and the awkward stumblings they’d experienced that night, and she felt again this sense of everything’s going perfectly, and she was frightened for a moment that it was going too perfectly, that something would happen to spoil it, that this change she sensed in him was not a real change at all.

“Since you are Recording Secretary,” Bud said, “I surmise you are now going to Hunter.”

“Yes. And since you are here, I likewise surmise you are going to City.”

“Yes.”

“Round one,” Helen said. “Draw.”

“How do you like it? School, I mean?”

“Very much. I’ve turned into a regular bookworm.”

“Have you?”

“Yes. You wouldn’t recognize me, Bud.”

“You look the same to me.”

“Oh, well, I didn’t expect it would show.”

“How have you been, Helen?”

“Fine, Bud. Are you glad to be home? That’s a stupid question, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s fairly stupid, yes,” he said, smiling.

“That’s what I love about you. Your frankness.” She had used the word “love,” and the word had not pained her, and it seemed not to disturb him, but it caused them both to fall into a momentary silence. And then, as if the word generated his next question, he asked, “Are you married, engaged, pregnant?”

“None, thank you.”

“Well, that’s good.” He seemed genuinely pleased. He seemed, in fact, almost relieved.

“Is it?”

“Well, sure. Maybe we can... get together sometime.”

“Maybe,” Helen said. She did not press it further. She kept expecting the bubble to explode. “Who spiked the punch bowl? One of your boys?”

“Yes.”

“We can use more spiked punch bowls at Hunter. The only spiked things at Hunter are the shoes on the girls’ feet.”

“Well, you’ve got men now.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Maybe I’ll transfer.”

“You’d be in your element. Something like twenty to one, I’d imagine.”

“You still dance very well,” he said.

“I thank you, sir.” She paused. “We didn’t dance well together at all the last time we...” She hesitated, wondering if she should touch upon so hazardous a subject. Again her intuition took over, and she threw caution to the winds. “I meant, at the block party.”

“Oh, yes. Did you have a good time with Tony that night?”

“He took me straight home,” she said.

“Oh, I see.”

“I wanted to be with you.”

“That doesn’t make much sense.”

“It did, at the time. Things are a little different now.”

“How do you mean?”

She looked up into his face. “You seem changed, Bud.”

“I’m not, really.”

“Well, you seem so. Besides, maybe it isn’t right to question a person’s motives so thoroughly.”

“Which means?”

“Which means... perhaps I should have behaved differently the last time we were together.”

“Which further means?”

“How should I know? Why don’t you pay attention?”

He laughed and squeezed her closer, and she laughed with him, reflecting that this was the first honest laugh she’d had in as long as she could remember.

“I should have written to you, Helen.”

“I know you should have.”

“Isn’t it funny?”

“What, Bud?”

“I feel as if I’d seen you only yesterday and not— It’s more than a year, isn’t it?”

“That’s our fate, Buddy. We meet every year, on schedule. We exchange a few words and then both go off to our separately revolving worlds, bitter and disillusioned.”

“You sound like an English major.”

“I’m not. Psych.”

“No kidding?”

“Certainly. Do you know something?”

“What’s that?”

“Half the Psych majors at Hunter are afraid they’re neurotic or psychotic. That’s why they take the major. It’s cheaper than a psychiatrist. What’s your major?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m just drifting with the tide.”

“Well, the tide seems to agree with you. You’re looking well.” She smiled. “And I’m glad to see you’re beginning to dress sensibly.”

“What was wrong with the way I dressed?”

“Nothing. But those pegged pants, really, Bud!”

“Andy still pegs his slightly. Says it gives the pants leg a better look.”

“How is Andy?”

“He’s on the road again. Fine, the last time I heard. Headed for Sioux City, I think. Had you seen him recently?”

“Not for a long time. He’s a nice boy. A little confused, but nice.”

“Confused?”

“Yes, well... I mean, I don’t think he knows what he wants exactly.”

“Does anyone?”

“I suppose not,” Helen said. “But everyone’s not as talented as Andy is. There’s a difference.”

“The trouble with Psych majors—” Bud started.

“Yes, and I promise I won’t discuss basic feelings of insecurity at all tonight, all right? And please forgive my babbling, but this is the annual meeting of the Cantor-Donato Society for the Prevention—”

“Don’t, Helen.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“I’m enjoying myself. Let’s not spoil it.”

“I don’t want to spoil it, Bud.”

“Neither do I.”

She looked up at him, convinced now that her intuition had been correct, glad now that she’d followed it, surprised when her thoughts found voice.

“I do believe you have grown up, Bud.”

“Oh, sure,” he said, smiling. “Almost old enough to vote. Big college man, my own apartment, saving for a car, got a—”

“Did you move out of your folks’ place?”

“Few weeks ago. Would you like to—” He cut himself short. “Never mind.”

“What were you going to say?”

“I was going to ask you if you’d like to see the place. But I realized how it would sound. That’s the worst part about having your own apartment. Everyone thinks you should have etchings to go with it.”

“And you, of course, have no etchings.”

“Of course not.”

“I’d like to see it, anyway,” Helen said.

“You would?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes. Understand, of course—”

“I understand,” he assured her.

“Let me make my farewells and get my coat.” She paused. “Bud, if I’m throwing myself at you, please stop me.”

“You’re not.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure, Helen.”

“All right, I’ll be with you in a moment.”

It had been very cold outside, and the radiator in Bud’s apartment was sizzling and inviting when he opened the door and snapped on the light.

“Come in,” he said. “This is it.”

Helen stood in the doorway and examined the room. “It’s not what I expected,” she said. “It’s not a reflection of your personality.”

“I know. It’s a furnished room, a reflection of my landlady’s personality. Someday you’ve got to meet my landlady.”

“She won’t mind, will she? My being here, I mean.”

“She probably will, but the hell with her. Take off your coat.”

“I wouldn’t want you to get into trouble with your landlady. Not with apartments as difficult to find as—”

“My landlady will have no cause for worry,” Bud said, smiling.

Helen took off her coat and looked around. “It’s very nice, Bud. And I’m beginning to see touches of your personality already.”

“Like for instance?”

“Like the school pennants over the table, for instance. Princeton? Why Princeton?”

“Wish fulfillment,” Bud said.

“And the pipe rack on the table. I didn’t know you smoked a pipe.”

“I don’t. I keep them there for atmosphere.”

“And the record player, and the album of Woody Herman stuff next to it. And isn’t that a fames album I see on the floor there near the chair?”

“Yes,” he said.

“And, of course, the Petty-girl calendar. This wouldn’t be your apartment without a Petty-girl calendar.”

“A friend of mine left that here,” he said. He went to the closet and hung their coats away. “So,” he said, “what can I get you? I’ve got rye, and I’ve got some sherry, take your choice.”

“The sherry sounds safe,” Helen said.

“Sherry it is, then. Put on some records, why don’t you?”

He went into the kitchen and she called, “How does this work?”

“Turn the gizmo to ten-inch, switch the other gizmo to seventy-eight r.p.m., and then just pile the records on and throw the switch.”

“Will you trust my choice?”

“Certainly.”

“I’m picking all ballads.”

“Fine.”

He came back into the living room and handed her the glass of wine. “Forgive the kitchen tumbler. I haven’t any stemware.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Helen said, smiling. “Shall we toast?”

“If you like.”

“I never let an opportunity to toast go by. It’s like getting a free wish on a star, and you get the drink in addition to it. What shall we toast?”

“You name it.”

“No, the man should make the toast.”

“To us?” he asked.

“Well, it’s somewhat clichéd, but I suppose it’ll suffice. To us. And to... well, to us.”

They clinked glasses together and sipped at the sherry.

“It’s good,” Helen said.

“It should be chilled.”

“Should it? I don’t know much about wines.”

“Neither do I. But I like it chilled.”

“You’re not a connoisseur?”

“Nope, ’fraid not.”

“You’ve developed honesty. Did you always have that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Answer me something honestly.”

“Shoot.”

“Why’d you ask me up here?”

“I wanted you to see where I lived.”

“All right.”

“Do you believe me?”

“Yes,” Helen said. “This is very good wine.”

“Ninety-eight cents for the bottle.”

“It’s still good. Music is good for wine, too. This is very nice, Bud.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Tell me all about you,” she said. “My God, it’s been such a long time.”

“There’s not much to tell.”

“There must be.”

“No, Helen, really.”

“Why didn’t you write to me, Bud?”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“I was angry. I didn’t think you’d treated me fairly.”

“Maybe I didn’t.”

“I got just what I deserved,” Bud said, “only I didn’t realize it at the time. I thought... well, I figured your rejecting me was a slap in the face, even though... well, I can’t say I was being very sincere about anything that night. And then your going home with Tony, that added insult to injury. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said, and she did understand, and all her fears seemed to be gone now, and she wondered what it would have been like if she’d approached their last meeting with this same trustfulness, and she knew instantly it would have been impossible. This Bud was not the Bud of a year ago, not the impatient sailor she’d met on V-J Day. And it was Bud himself who somehow generated this warm trust within her now, and she knew with firm conviction that everything would be all right between them this time. This time nothing could possibly happen to them.

They were silent for a long time, listening to the music. The quiet voice of a singer came from the speaker, whispering at them.

“More wine?” Bud asked.

“No, I’ve got to be going soon.”

“I’ll be seeing you again, won’t I, Helen?”

“Are you chasing me out already?”

“No, no, I didn’t mean—”

“Do you want to see me again?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, not next year?”

“Not next year.”

“Well, fine.”

“I’ll be busy for the next week or so. I’m in charge of decorations for the Fall Ball, and we’ve got meetings almost every damn week end arguing about one thing or another. They’re really excuses for get-togethers, I suppose, but anyway I’m all tied up until the— Say, would you like to go with me?”

“Where?”

“The Fall Ball. It’s not as pretentious as it sounds. It’s just a dance in the gym. It’s on the eighth, that’s a Saturday night.”

“I’ll consult my calendar,” Helen said.

“All right, and I’ll give you a ring and—”

“I was kidding, Bud. I’d like very much to go.”

“Well, fine, fine. Then... then that’s settled.”

“Yes.”

A new record dropped into place.

“Skylark,” the voice sang,

           “Have you seen a valley green with spring...”

“Oh, I love this,” Helen said.

“Where my heart can go

           a-journey

                ing...”

“Reminds me of Andy,” Bud said.

“Does it? Why should it do that?”

“I don’t know.”

They listened to the record, absorbed.

“And in your lonely flight,

     Haven’t you heard

           the music

               of the night...”

“I really must be going, Bud,” Helen said.

“Sure,” he answered. He went to the closet, taking out their coats and folding his own coat over the arm of the chair. He held Helen’s coat for her, and she slipped into it quickly and then turned.

“Bud...” She was standing very close to him, and she lifted her face and her eyes and very softly said, “This was very nice.”

“I enjoyed it,” he told her.

“I almost... I almost don’t want to go.”

She looked at him curiously, as if she wanted him to say something further, as if she were testing him somehow, wanting him to make the suggestion, wanting him to say, “Well, honey, you don’t really have to go, you know.”

“It’s late,” he said, and then he began putting on his coat.

She smiled briefly, a smile kindled by happiness. “Yes, it is late.”

They went to the door, and he opened it and took a last look around the apartment through force of habit. He flicked out the light switch then, and she took his hand. The light at the end of the hallway illuminated the doorframe in a pale golden rectangle. They stood in the doorframe, her hand in his.

“Bud?” she said, her voice very small.

“Yes?”

“Let’s not go yet.” He almost could not hear her.

“What?” he asked uncertainly.

“I... I don’t want to go yet.” She spoke the words with great effort, as it they were torn from her despite her wishes. She squeezed his hand gently and led him into the apartment, and then she closed the door, and the soft golden rectangle was gone, and there was only the darkness, and she close to him in the darkness, and then she lifted her face to his and kissed him. They were very bulky in their overcoats, moving with the grace of dinosaurs.

“Bud, Bud,” she whispered, and her mouth found his again, and he pulled her closer to him, feeling the warm moistness of her lips.

“Helen, I didn’t want—”

“I know, I know, but I love you so much, Buddy, so very, very much. Please kiss me, darling.”

He kissed her again, and his hands went beneath her coat and onto the warm silk of her dress and the swelling fullness of her breasts. She kissed him again, putting all of her love for him into her kisses, and then they broke apart and walked to the modern sofa. She took off her coat, and she could hear him taking off his coat in the darkness, and she waited for him on the sofa.

He clicked on the record player again, and the record resumed where it had left off, and she could hear him moving toward her, and she waited for him expectantly, knowing she had waited for this moment for a very long time. He sat beside her, and she leaned back into his arms, and his hands found her breasts again, and his hands on her felt very natural and very good. He kissed the side of her neck, the music flooding the apartment.

“Bud, about Andy... I... what I’m trying to tell you... I don’t want you to think—”

“I’m not thinking anything, Helen. Except what a fool I’ve been. Helen, I think I love you. Helen, I love you, Helen.”

And he felt again the way he’d felt that night long ago in Club Beguine, when she’d been in his arms, when the sky was a challenge to their youth, when the strength of youth had rushed through his body. He felt this same surge of emotion now, an emotion almost too painfully sweet to bear, a feeling of wanting to hold her where she was forever, of wanting to protect her, and love her, love her...

His fingers were gentle on the buttons at the neck of her dress, hesitant fingers, surprisingly tender, boyish. He unbuttoned the dress to her waist, and his hands lingered on the nylon net of her brassiere for just an instant, and then she helped him with the zipper on the side of her dress, arching her back toward him.

The record player was very loud in the stillness of the room.

“Skylark,” it sang,

“I don’t know if you can

     find these things,

          but my heart is riding

               on your wings...”

He did not see her for the next few weeks. He was very busy, as he knew he would be, with the Fall Ball, and his time was really not his own. They called each other frequently, though, spending hours on the telephone, getting to know each other again, looking forward to November eighth, when they would see each other again.

She called on November sixth.

She said, “Bud, this is Helen.” Her voice sounded curiously distant.

“Oh, hi. I was just thin—”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Bud. I wish I didn’t have—”

“What is it, Helen?”

He heard her catch her breath.

“I’m pregnant.”

27

sock chorus, iii

NOVEMBER-DECEMBER, 1946

The Fall Ball was in full swing inside. They could hear the music sifting through the banks of windows and passing through the russet leaves on the trees around them. They sat in a darkened corner of the stone steps in front of the building, and they heard the laughter and music inside, and they spoke in hushed whispers. Helen’s hands were thrust deep into the slash pockets of her coat, and her collar was high on her neck. The stubs of six half-smoked cigarettes rested at her feet. She kept staring at the ground, listening to Bud, but not looking at him.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m sure.”

“Well” — he paused — “what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. Did you mean what you said?”

“About what?”

“That you loved me?”

“Yes. You know that, Helen.”

“Do you still love me?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to marry me?”

“I want to marry you, Helen. Yes, I want to. But not now, and not... not this way. Unless you want to. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“What... what else can we do?”

“You can take some pills.”

“Oh.”

“Well, you can.”

“I know. What good will pills do?”

“We can go skiing and sledding and things like that. We can try to... to do away with it.”

“Stop calling it ‘it.’ You make it sound like some monster or something.”

“What do you want me to call it? Buddy, Jr.? Helen, be sensible.”

“I’m trying to be sensible. You’re not helping very much.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Is marriage out of the question?”

“I’m a Freshman, Helen, and I haven’t got a pot to...” He paused. “If you want me to marry you, I will.” He paused again. “It’s just... I... I haven’t anything to give you.”

“You can give me love,” she said.

“You can’t eat love.”

“I can work. After the baby comes, I can work.”

“I... I don’t think that’s the solution, Helen. Please try to understand me, honey. I... I just don’t think something like this would work. We’d always be... be wondering if we’d have got married if... if we weren’t forced into it. I... I don’t like the thought of being forced into it.”

“You don’t want to marry me, is that it?”

“I didn’t say...”

She looked up at his face and into his eyes. “I wouldn’t force you into anything, Buddy. You know that.”

“This isn’t the right way, can you see that, Helen? This is starting with two strikes against us.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Helen said. “Will you get the pills for me?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Do you know where to get them?”

He swallowed. “No, I don’t.”

“Do they exist, these pills of yours?”

“Why, sure they do.”

“I’ve heard of pills to bring you on if you’re late — but there isn’t anything to bring you on if you’re pregnant. You know I’m pregnant, don’t you, Bud? I hate to use that word because it has such an ugly sound, but I am pregnant, there’s no question about that, the doctor told me—”

“I know you’re pregnant, Helen. What are we talking about if not the fact that you’re pregnant?”

“You can speak a little more quietly. I don’t want your whole faculty to know about it.”

“No one can hear us.”

They were silent for a long time. The music seeped out onto the campus, mingled with the rush of the wind and the rustling leaves. A campus lamppost captured their shadows and hurled them onto the steps.

“Will you try to get the pills for me?” she asked.

“Yes. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Suppose the pills don’t work?”

“Well, we can do other things. Strenuous things. It shouldn’t be too difficult to—”

“And if these... strenuous things don’t work? What then?”

“Well...”

“Are we discounting the possibility of having the baby?”

He waited several moments before answering. “I... I don’t think marriage would be a good idea.”

“I didn’t mean marriage. I meant having it and making some arrangement for its adoption. That’s done, you know. It wouldn’t—”

“It sounds... awfully involved, Helen... I don’t think we should get so... so involved.”

“I see.” She paused. “I just wanted to know where I stood, Bud.”

“You understand...”

“I understand completely. Do you want me to have an abortion?”

“There won’t be any need for that. The pills will work.”

“You’re sure they’ll work,” she said flatly. “You know for certain that they’ll work.”

“No, I don’t know for certain. But I—”

“Do you know anyone who would do an abortion?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Are you washing your hands of this, Bud?”

He seemed honestly surprised. “Of course not. I’m going to get the pills for you, Helen. Now don’t worry.”

“Yes, but what happens after that? Buddy, I’m scared. I’m scared stiff.”

He put his arm around her. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Helen. Now don’t start getting rattled.”

“I can’t help it. I am rattled. I don’t want to be pregnant. Not if you don’t want it. Not if... Buddy, I’m scared.”

“Look, we’ve got time yet. I’ll try to get the pills. After that... well, we’ll see.”

“And you do love me?”

“Yes,” he said. “I do love you.”

“Have you got a cigarette?”

He took a package from his pocket, lit one for her, and then put it to her lips. “You shouldn’t smoke in your condition,” he said, trying to make his voice light.

“Don’t joke about it, Bud. God, don’t joke about it.”

“I’m sorry.” He was quiet for several moments. “I can’t understand how it happened, can you?”

“No.”

“It it weren’t a fact, I’d swear—”

“It is your baby. You know that, don’t you?”

“I never once thought it wasn’t.”

“Well, if you did think so, it’s not so.”

“I never thought otherwise, Helen.”

“Well, in case you did, I want you to know. I don’t want you to have any doubt on that score.”

“It isn’t fair,” Bud said, shaking his head.

“No, it certainly isn’t fair.” She paused. “I wonder how many other people have said those same words about this very same thing. It isn’t fair. It shouldn’t happen to me.” She sucked in on the cigarette and released a long plume of smoke. “But it has happened, hasn’t it?”

“It would seem so,” Bud said.

“And first we’re going to try the pills, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And if they don’t work, we’ll... we’ll jump around and things.”

“Yes.”

“And then...?”

“Then we’ll see.”

“I’ll have to have an abortion,” Helen said. “I just know I will, and that’s what scares me. I was even scared when I had my tonsils taken out. Bud, an abortion is a major operation!”

“It’s not such a difficult thing.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I don’t know really, but I’ve heard stories. It’s like... like having a cyst removed. Something like that.”

“They’ll have to cut me, won’t they?”

“I don’t know.”

“Buddy, Buddy, I’m scared. Hold me. Please hold me.”

Miltie Abrahms had a mother who was a nurse. Miltie was a boy in Bud’s hat, a nice enough guy except that he was a Speech and Dramatics major, and sometimes he got a little too dramatic about things. He was a very thin boy who fancied himself to be another John Carradine, which he was not. He wore his hair long, combed into a high crown at the front of his head. He owned a widow’s peak of which he was uncommonly proud, and which Bud suspected he twee zed to keep from looking fuzzy. He also owned pale gray eyes, and those eyes stared across the cafeteria table at Bud now, cold and emotionless.

“Yes,” Miltie said, “my mother is a nurse. Why do you ask?”

“A friend of mine needs help,” Bud said, hoping Miltie would not see through the “friend” routine.

“Yeah? What kind of help?” The gray eyes did not leave Bud’s face. There was a flicker of interest behind them now.

“He’s... ah... he’s been going with a girl.”

“He knock her up?” Miltie asked.

“He... he thinks so. He asked me if I could help him, and so I thought of you. Because your mother is a nurse, you know.”

“What does your... friend... want? An abortionist?”

“Well, no, no. I don’t think he wants that. Do you know anyone? I mean, would your mother know anyone?”

“No,” Miltie said flatly.

Bud tried a smile. “My friend doesn’t want that, anyway. He... ah... he... just wants some pills.”

“What kind of pills?”

“Pills to... to... you know.”

“Who’s this ‘friend’ of yours?” Miltie asked.

“You don’t know him.”

Miltie smiled. “Lots of people have ‘friends’ who get caught. Thank God it’s not you, eh, Bud?”

Bud’s smile broadened falsely. “You can say that again, pal. So... can you get them for me? For my friend?”

“Sure,” Miltie said. “Anything for a friend. Or a friend’s friend, eh?”

“Thanks, Miltie,” Bud said. “I appreciate it.”

One pill every three horns, Miltie told him, until the bottle is finished. The bottle should be finished in two days. If anything was going to happen, it would happen by the end of that time. Miltie also added that these pills were no damn good if the girl was really and truly pregnant. They’d only help her if she were naturally late.

Bud didn’t tell this to Helen. He gave her the instructions, but in his heart — despite what the doctor had said — he still believed there might possibly have been some mistake. He offered the pills to her, and she seized them eagerly as a cure-all. He did not consider the hope Helen would put in them or the torment failure would bring to her.

Responsibility had suddenly reached down for him again and clenched him tight in a hairy, oil-smelling fist. He did not want responsibility, and his first urge was a panic-stricken need to run! He did not run. He recognized the responsibility, and though his feet urged him to get the hell away as soon as possible, his mind forced him to hold his ground. He loved Helen. His mind kept repeating it over and over again, he loved Helen, he loved Helen, he loved Helen. But this was not like love, this was not pleasant, this was not romantic, this was cold, bare facts, this was facing a pregnant woman and being expected to have all the answers, and having none of them, none of them at all. And when she looked at him and asked, “What do we do now?” with her heart in her eyes, what could he tell her? What could he say? Could he say, “Helen, we can’t get married because it’s no good”? Could he say that? He had already said that, and he had seen the pain in her eyes, but didn’t she know he was right, and didn’t she know it couldn’t be good that way? And didn’t she know he loved her?

But what were the boundaries of his love, and where did love end and responsibility begin, and why should responsibility be forced upon him, he was too young for responsibility, he wanted to go to sleep someplace and wake up when it was all over, he wanted to forget he was a part of it, forget all of it, but how could he leave her, leave her in a ditch, so wide, so wide, would they ever cross it, should he marry her?

He was face to face with responsibility, and responsibility would not budge an inch.

The failure of the pills was inevitable. When it came, even though he expected it, he was disappointed. Helen was frantic. What do we do now? she asked. And he gave his ineffectual answers.

They went bowling, and they went horseback riding, and they prayed for snow so that they could ski or sleigh, but no snow came. It was a dry, bitter-cold November, and snow was for lovers, and they had ceased being lovers and become only plotters. They took long walks, and they went swimming at the St. George, but at the end of November, Helen was still pregnant.

They had another long talk, this time in Prospect Park, sitting on a bench, huddled against the cold November wind.

Helen puffed incessantly on her cigarette. Her face was worried. She had gained a little weight in the past month, and she had already begun to experience morning sickness. There were dark circles under her eyes, and the eyes above those circles were dull and lusterless.

“Everybody can tell,” she said. “They just look at me, and they can tell.”

“No,” he answered. “You don’t show at all, Helen.”

“I know I do. Buddy, Buddy, what a mess!”

“I know.” He put his arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder and sighed heavily.

“I spoke to my aunt,” she said.

“About...”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, it’s all right. She’s more than an aunt, Buddy, always has been. And I could never have gone to my mother with something like this. If she ever found out, it would kill her. I had to... had to go to my aunt, Bud, and... my aunt knows someone. She knows someone.”

He felt a sudden gladdening of his heart. He turned to look down at her. “Someone to... to help us?”

“Yes.”

The fist of responsibility loosened its grip slightly. “Who?” he asked.

“She wouldn’t tell me. But she’s going to arrange it. We’ll... we’ll need money, Bud.”

“How much?” he asked quickly.

“Three hundred,” she said.

“I’ll get it.”

“Are you sure you want me to... to do this?”

“I can’t see any other way, can you, Helen?”

She hesitated for a long time, and then she sighed. “No, I guess not.”

“You can use my apartment,” he said.

“No. My aunt’s place will be all right. She prefers it that way. This person... this person who will do it, he knows my aunt. He might not... might not go to a strange apartment.”

“I’ll be there with you, Helen,” he said, feeling a sense of lightness now that the responsibility had released its grip, feeling almost happy, feeling as if he had cheated responsibility.

“You don’t have to, Bud. I think she’d rather you didn’t. This is... illegal, you know.”

“Yes. But I’ll come.”

“No. It’s... it’s going to be a mess. I wish you wouldn’t. Just call me afterward, Bud. At my home. Just call me and let me know you’re there.”

“Are you frightened?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be.”

“I am.”

“Don’t be, Helen.”

“Buddy...”

“What?”

“I... I wish there were another way. Buddy, when I think of this, I get cold sweat all over me. Even now, just talking about it, I’m beginning to shiver.”

“Helen, please, don’t get excited. Try to relax, try to—”

“I’m sorry, Buddy, but I am excited. I’m not looking forward to this, you know. I can’t be calm about the whole thing. Am I supposed to be calm about it? Buddy, Buddy...”

“Helen, please don’t cry.”

“I’m... I’m sorry.”

He held her close, letting her cry it out, and then he asked, “When is it going to be, Helen?”

“Next... next month.”

“Why so late?”

“He can’t do it before then.” She paused. “He’s... he’s busy.”

“I’ll have the money by then. Don’t worry.”

“I know you will. I wasn’t worrying about that.” She shook her head, and then she bit her lip, holding herself in, not wanting to cry again. He held her in his arms, protecting her from the wind.

He could not ask his parents for the money, and he didn’t know just who he could ask until he thought of Andy, who was on the road.

His wire read:

He waited all that day, and the return wire came late that night.

He never told Andy why he needed the money. He paid it back to him the next time — and the last time — he saw him. He paid so soon because of an unexpected dividend on his GI insurance, but he never told Andy why he needed the money, and Andy never asked.

He gave the money to Helen, and then they sat back to wait. They saw a lot of each other now, and he tried to comfort her whenever they were out together. He could not completely understand his new role, but he felt something like a bystander, watching the drama with no concern whatever, feeling the responsibility all gone now, and knowing it had been replaced by a tremendous feeling of relief. And with the relief came a deep anticipation, as if he were waiting for something, knowing he was waiting for the day of the abortion, and yet sensing this something else he was waiting for, wanting it to happen soon so that he could... what, what?

He told himself he didn’t know.

He told himself he was happy with the way things had worked out, and he told himself he still loved Helen, and yet he could not shake this feeling of waiting.

It happened on a December night.

He called her afterward, and she began crying on the phone, saying only, “It’s all over, all over, Bud. It’s all over.”

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, and with that word the last fingers of responsibility released their tenuous grip. He felt free. He felt free, and his freedom was a happy thing — but there was a faint shading of sadness in it. He did not question the sadness. He knew only that his brush with responsibility had been all too close, and now everything was all right, and now he could go back to being himself again, without having to worry about things, without having to take care of anyone. Why did everyone come to him to be taken care of, why, why?

He did not call Helen again.

He told himself he was being a coward. He told himself the unpleasantness was all over with now, now it would be the way it had been before, now it would be Bud and Helen, in love, enjoying themselves, happy, but he could remember the icy-cold fingers of responsibility, and so he called himself a coward, and he let it go at that, feeling ashamed of himself, but gradually putting the shame to rout in the days that followed. He had seen her through it. He had been with her until it was all over. He had not deserted until he’d known she was all right.

And now he was free.

He didn’t see her again until two days before Christmas. He was wrapping presents when the knock sounded on his door, and he shouted, “Just a minute.”

He went to the door and threw it wide, surprised when he saw Helen standing there smiling.

“Helen,” he said.

“Yes, Helen,” she answered thickly, and he realized she was drunk. “You going to ask me in?”

“Yes, of course. Come in, come in. Gee, this is a surprise.” He watched her carefully, and the surprise was not in her coming but within himself because he found he wanted to clasp her into his arms, hold her close.

“Sure, big surprise,” she said. She staggered into the room and flopped down into the butterfly chair, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Just love surprises, don’t you?”

“How are you, Helen?” he said. “I’ve—”

“I’m fine. I told you that, didn’t I? When you called me? When was that, Bud? Long time ago, wasn’t it? When you called, and I said I was all right, and you ran for the hills?”

“Helen—”

“Oh, it took me a while to figure it out, Buddy. A close call, wasn’t it? You almost became a man, didn’t you? But you got out of it, all right. Honorably, to be sure. Honorable to the end, the very end. Saw Helen to her doorstep, and walked on the outside all the way, and once you found out her skirts hadn’t been muddied, you headed for the hills. And Helen sat by the telephone. And at first Helen was too damn sick to think about anything, even you, even her lover who almost became a man. And then, when Helen was feeling a little better, she almost picked up the phone to call, and then she realized it was, a little strange, your not calling in all that time, and then she put two and two together.”

“I should have called, Helen.”

“Yes, yes, you should have. What are you doing, wrapping Christmas presents?”

“Yes. I was.”

“You going to offer me a drink?”

“What would you like?”

“Anything you’ve got. Any damn thing you’ve got.”

“Sherry?”

“Ah, sherry. Ah, yes, sherry. It started with sherry, didn’t it? Well, it started with sherry, so let it end with sherry.”

“It doesn’t have to—”

“I came to give you your present, Buddy. Thought you’d like to know all the details. You paid for it, didn’t you, Buddy, so you deserve the details. Where’s the sherry?”

“I’ll get it,” he said. He went into the kitchen and poured a glassful, his hand trembling. He did not know why his hand was trembling. He left the bottle on the table and brought the glass back to her.

“Thank you,” she said. “Here’s a toast to the Perennial Youth, Bud Donato.” She chuckled... “I used to think there was only one of you, only Andy, but now I know better. The lame leading the halt. Here’s to Buddy-boy, may he live a child always, and may he drop dead a child. May he never assume the responsibilities of manhood. Cheers, Buddy-boy.”

“Drink hearty,” he said.

“Choke, you mean,” she answered. She drained the glass. “Good sherry.” She put down the glass and eyed him soberly, steadily. “You want to hear all about it?”

“The only thing that counts is that you’re all right, Helen,” he said honestly.

“Ah, nobly spoken. You are the noblest Roman of them all, Bud. And I’m fine, just fine. Still hemorrhaging a little, but Helen’s going to be all right, all right. Helen was all wrong about a lot of things, but she’s going to be all right now. You glad to hear that, Bud?”

“I’m always glad—”

“We used my aunt’s apartment, Bud, just the way we planned. She handled everything. Got the man, gave him your money — three hundred dollars, can you believe it? Costs so much to do away with just a little embryo. Nice lady, my aunt. Got this man to do it, and he was supposed to come over at six o’clock that Friday night. I told you that, remember? You have any more sherry?”

“Helen, I don’t think you should have any more.”

“Now, now, don’t talk like a man with responsibilities, Buddy darling. Don’t talk like anything but Peter Pan.” Her eyes sparked. “Get me some more sherry! It’s the least you can give me!”

“All right,” he said. He went into the kitchen and came back with the bottle. He poured for her, and she held the drink without tasting it.

“Supposed to come at six, but six rolled around and he wasn’t there, and then it was seven, and seven-thirty, and he still hadn’t come, and I began to get a little nervous. My aunt told me to calm down, said he was a reliable man, said there was nothing to worry about, so we waited. He came at eight. He was a small man, a tense little man, not the kind of man you’d choose to deliver your baby, but he wasn’t there to deliver a baby, was he? He was there to kill one.

“I was cold with sweat when he came in. Wet all over, shaking, scared stiff. My aunt kept telling me everything would be all right, but I couldn’t stop shaking or sweating. He unpacked his instruments, and then I lay down on the kitchen table, Bud, the kitchen table — and he went to work. He didn’t use any anesthetic. He couldn’t, you see, because if anything went wrong he didn’t want any evidence of an operation. It—” she swallowed the wine hastily — “it hurt like hell. I don’t think anything can hurt more than he hurt me, but I couldn’t scream because we were committing murder in that apartment, so I just bit down on the back of my hand until it started to bleed, and he sawed away at my insides. I... caught a glimpse of what he took out of me, not a good look but enough of a look to know that it was something human, and then he took it away and disposed of it because what we did was illegal and he had to get rid of the evidence. I wanted to scream again when it was all over. I wanted to scream, but with relief this time, even though I could still feel the pain. I felt so relieved, so, so relieved — and at the same time I felt like a murderess. Do you know what it feels like to think you’ve killed someone, Bud? Do you have any compassion for what he took out of me? Your baby? Your baby?”

“Helen...”

“I went home afterward. My parents were out, and the apartment was very quiet, and I could feel my blood, as quiet as the apartment, my quiet, secret, guilty blood, and I waited for your call. And when you called, I cried on the phone, and I told you it was all over, but I thought only the hardship for us was over, Bud, the hardship all behind us. I didn’t think it was really all over, not all of it, not you and me. I thought we could grow from the pain, and grow from what we’d learned, and then you asked me if I was all right, and I said I was, and we talked a little more, and then I went to bed.

“My parents knew I was sick over the week end, but they didn’t know how sick. I was very sick, Buddy, too sick to think of you, and when I did think of you, I knew we were through, I knew you’d had the chance to grow up and you’d thrown it out the window. I’m still hemorrhaging, you know, but I’m going to be all right now. No postoperative care involved here, you know. You pay the man, and he kills your baby, and that’s the end of it. He leaves the murder on your conscience. You happy, Bud? This is your Christmas present. All the details you paid for. All your cast bread coming back on the wat—”

“Helen, I’m sorry I—”

She got to her feet unsteadily and went toward the door.

“It takes more than ‘I’m sorry,’ Bud, so much more. So don’t say anything. Stay there in your shell and be a little boy for the rest of your life. Helen took care of it for you, didn’t she? Sure, she did.”

“Helen...”

She stopped at the doorway, her hand on the knob.

“Helen took care of it, and now Helen doesn’t give a damn about anything any more, Bud, because Helen’s done the worst, Helen’s done murder. But don’t let that bother you. Don’t let anything bother you.”

She opened the door.

“Not even that I hate you like hell. Not even that I hate you, Bud. Don’t let anything bother you at all.”

She went out of the apartment.

“Merry Christmas,” she said dully, and then the door closed.

28

sock chorus, iv

JANUARY, 1947

Andy came home shortly after New Year’s.

He told Carol and Bud that he’d quit the Jerralds band in Sioux City, that he could no longer abide the eccentric, arbitrary rule of the leader, and they accepted his story as gospel. He certainly seemed earnest in his search for another job. He went down to the Union Floor every day, and every day there was a harried, expectant look on his face — and they didn’t know what the look meant.

When Bud got his dividend check, he called Carol and asked if Andy would be there that night. She told him yes, and he said he was coming out to Brooklyn with a surprise. He put three one-hundred-dollar bills into an envelope, sealed it, and then headed for Carol’s house.

They were sitting in the living room when he got there. Andy was staring at his shoes. Carol sat stiffly in her chair, her face cold.

“Hi,” Bud said. He went directly to Andy, and he handed him the envelope. “Here’s something I owe you,” he said.

Andy took the envelope, stared at Bud for an instant, and then said, “Thanks.”

“Boy, I had a hell of a time getting here. The lines were all tied up between Fourteenth Street and—” he stopped and looked at Carol curiously. “Is anything wrong?”

“Yes,” she said.

“What... well... what is it?”

“Ask him,” she said.

“She’s crazy,” Andy said.

“What’s the matter?”

“She’s crazy,” Andy said. “She greets me with a crazy story, and then she gets angry. Don’t listen to her.”

“What kind of a crazy story?” Bud asked.

“The real reason he’s home,” Carol said. “Ask him the real reason.”

“You left the band, didn’t you?”

“Sure, I left the band.”

“He didn’t leave the band,” Carol snapped. “I ran into Ox today. He says everyone in the music business knows about it. He told me all about it. All about why Andy left Sioux City.”

“What are you talking about?” Bud asked, puzzled.

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Andy said. “That’s the whole trouble.”

“What is it, Carol?”

“He was kicked off the band.”

“What!”

“I was not. Ox is crazy. What the hell does Ox know about what happened in Sioux City?”

“You were kicked off. Tell him why, Andy. Tell him why Jerralds fired you.”

“He didn’t fire me!”

“He fired you and a tenor man named Rog Kiner. Don’t lie, Andy. He fired you because you’re a dope addict!”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Andy said.

The room was suddenly dead silent.

Bud blinked. “What? What did you say, Carol?”

“I said he’s a dope addict. He’s been taking heroin. He’s been taking it for a long time now, ever since he met up with this Rog Kiner. He’s an addict, an addict, can you understand me?”

“No, I—”

“An addict!” Carol screamed. “Bud, for Christ’s sake, can’t you understand? He’s a drug addict.”

Bud glanced hastily toward the kitchen.

“No one’s home,” Carol said. “Don’t worry.”

“Is it true?” Bud asked Andy.

“No.”

“Then where’d Ox get it?”

“How the hell should I know?”

“Is he talking about marijuana? I know you were fooling around with—”

“Heroin,” Carol said. “Andy, Andy, what’s the matter with you? Don’t you know it’s poison?”

“No, I don’t know it’s poison. Look, what the hell is everybody so hysterical about? Do I look any different? Have I changed any?”

“You are taking drugs?”

“Yes, yes, I am,” Andy said impatiently.

“What for?”

“What the hell kind of stupid question is that? Why shouldn’t I, if I’ve got it under control?”

“Have you?”

“Of course I have. You listen to what Carol says, and you’ll go crazy.”

“But Ox—”

“Look at me. Do I look like an addict? Do I look like someone who’s hooked?”

“I don’t know what an addict looks like,” Bud admitted.

“Then how the hell can you talk about it intelligently?”

“Andy, look, we’re trying to help you. For Christ’s sake, don’t—”

“If you want to help, you’ll mind your own business. You don’t know anything at all about this, and yet you’re trying to tell me what to do. Well, I don’t need your advice or your help. I’ll get along fine, thanks. And that goes for you too, Carol.”

“Andy, how can you do this?” Carol said. “Don’t you know you’re ruining yourself?”

“Heroin is out of your league, Carol,” Andy snapped. “Forget about it.”

“Why are you doing it, Andy?”

“Because I like it, okay? That’s why. Any other questions?”

“You don’t need it, Andy. You’ve got a big talent, and a—”

“A big talent! Hah! Jesus Christ, you don’t know anything, do you? Look... look, will you leave me alone? Will you please just leave me alone? You don’t know anything about this.”

“I know it stinks,” Bud put in.

“You know nothing. Zero.”

“Why don’t you drop it?”

“What for?”

“Because it’s no good, and you know it’s no good.”

“I can drop it any time I want to.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“I like it. I like it fine. If it’s not hurting me, I don’t see what business it is of yours.”

“It’s hurting Carol.”

“Carol hurts too damn easily. I didn’t think she’d turn out to be such a goddamned pollyanna, that’s for sure.”

“If you love her, Andy—”

“Of course I love her! What the hell does that have to do with it? If she loves me, she’d take me the way I am, heroin or no.”

“You’re throwing your life away, Andy. Can’t you see...?”

“It’s my life,” Andy snapped. “What’s so special about my life, anyway, that heroin’s going to hurt it?”

“Andy—”

“Shut up! Jesus Christ, can’t the both of you shut up?” He rose suddenly. “I’m getting out of here. If I stay here another minute—”

Carol stood up. “Andy, where are you—”

“What the hell do you care? Out of here, that’s for sure. There’s about as much understanding here as— Oh, the hell with it.”

“Hold it, Andy,” Bud said firmly. “It’s not going to help if you—”

“Friend,” Andy said, “friend, you don’t know...” He stopped and shook his head. “Thanks for the envelope. I can use it.”

“Andy, look...”

“You don’t understand, do you? Not at all.” He shook his head sourly. “Jesus, let me out of here before I bust!” He walked to the door, and he slammed out of the house, and Bud stared at the closed door, not realizing he wouldn’t see Andy again for close to two and a half years.

She stood alongside him in the dimly lit hallway. The door was somewhere down in the bowels of a tenement, and she could smell the rank basement odor, and she was a little frightened, but he did not seem scared at all, and so she stood close to him in the darkness while he knocked on the door. She could hear her own labored breathing, the sound of Andy’s fist against the wood. There was no other sound in the hallway, no sound from beyond the closed door. The door opened a crack, and she saw an eye, and then a deep voice said, “Oh, Andy.”

There was no life to the voice. It was the voice of a dead man, and she felt a shudder start at the base of her spine, and then Andy’s fingers closed on her arm, and he was leading her into the apartment.

There was no music in the apartment. The apartment was slovenly furnished and very badly lighted. She stood alongside Andy, and her eyes grew slowly accustomed to the darkness, and she could make out the dim shapes sitting around the room. There seemed to be no life in anyone. A girl looked up at her and then turned her head away.

“Come on, Helen,” Andy said.

“What’s the matter with them?” she whispered.

“Huh?” Andy said. “Nothing. Come on.”

She looked at the people again. They seemed to own no spines. They seemed to have been dropped into their seats. They sprawled in their chairs loosely, disjointedly. They seemed to be listening for something. Their eyes were half closed, their faces pale in the darkness. She walked through the room, and they did not stir, except for the girl who looked up again at Helen as she passed. The girl was a thin blonde. She wore a dirty skirt and an old pink sweater. Her hair was stringy, and it hung limply on either side of a young face that looked old. Her legs were crossed, and she sat leaned over onto one side of the easy chair, her head at a curious angle. She wore mocassins and no stockings. Her arms, even in the darkness, showed the scar tissue of her habit.

Andy was walking into a small room with a sink. She followed him there. The counter alongside the sink was covered with bottle tops. The cork lining had been removed from the caps, and the insides were coated with a thin layer of what looked like chalk dust. Several of the caps were overturned, and she saw that the metal was burned and black. The twisted, curled ends of matches lay strewn over the counter top.

“What’s the matter?” Andy asked.

“I... didn’t expect this. You said a shooting party. I thought...”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“A twenty-piece orchestra with violins? Everybody in formal wear? For Christ’s sake, Helen!” His voice was suddenly harsh.

“Don’t get angry with me,” she said. “I just didn’t know.”

“All right, so now you know.” He paused. “Do you want to leave?”

“No.”

“You can leave if you want to, you know. Nobody’s forcing you to stick around.” His eyes blinked. “I’m staying.”

“I said I’d come with you, didn’t I?”

“Well, you’re here now. If you want to chicken out, go ahead.”

“I’m not—”

“I thought you wanted—”

“Andy, please...”

“Look, do whatever the hell you want to. I came here for—”

“All those people,” she said quietly. “Are they... addicts?”

“I never asked them.”

“They don’t look... healthy.”

“They’re as healthy as you are.”

“They look dirty,” Helen said.

“Look, are you going to start— Look, you had a snort, did you like it or didn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Helen said softly.

“If you don’t know, then what the hell are you doing here? Helen, look honey, you’ll like this. This is the only way. I mean, look, baby, snorting is for the sparrows, you know?”

“Yes,” she said in a small voice.

“Look, these people... they’re okay. Look, don’t let the neighborhood throw you. They’re okay, Helen. They’re... well, they’re my kind of people. Our kind of people.”

“Yes.”

“So... so you can’t expect, you know, real plush surroundings. Like... like if the cops busted in here, they’d find enough stuff to... well, look, Helen, holding’s against the law, so you got to... well, look, it’s good to be with your own, you know? You’ll see. But let’s get started, huh? Jesus, let’s get started.”

“Yes.”

“You all right?”

“Yes. But... they look so dirty.”

“Jesus!”

“Dirty,” she said again, and then a strange look passed over her face. She sighed heavily. “Let’s... do what we have to.”

“Well, gee, don’t say it like that. Hell, this is a lot of kicks. Jesus, you don’t have to say it like that.” He paused. “Hell, you’re not punishing yourself or anything, baby.” He chuckled loudly.

“No,” she said.

“Okay, okay. So, come on, let’s see a little smile. Come on, come on, live it up a little.”

She smiled weakly.

“There. There, now that’s a hell of a lot better.” He picked up two bottle caps from the sink. “Come on,” he said.

They went into the other room. The skinny blonde had moved. She was sitting up in the chair now. The room was more crowded than Helen had originally thought. There was a sickly-sweet aroma to the room, a nauseatingly sweet smell mixed with the stink of body sweat. She looked for a window, spotted one high up on the basement wall. A candle burned in the neck of a beer bottle, and she realized abruptly that this was the only source of light. Someone struck a match, and she saw the angular bones of a grayish masculine face, and then a cigarette flared into life, and then the match died, and there was only the flickering light of the candle again, and the blonde in the light lifting her skirt.

No one looked at the blonde. Her legs were very thin, pipestem legs with bony knees, covered with thick blond fuzz, sickly white in the pale glow of the candle. Helen stared at her and then blinked.

The inner soft fleshy white of her thigh was stained with the same blurred pattern of puncture marks that had been on the girl’s arms. Only here they seemed more destructive. Here, the flesh seemed more vulnerable. Here, the needle had attacked a secret flesh, a private flesh, and Helen stared, wanting to turn away, but fascinated and incapable of turning. The girl had something in her hand. It took Helen several moments in the dim light to realize what it was. A safety pin.

The girl moved with the awkward precision of a robot. She brought the pin down against the white flesh, and then she began poking at it, tearing at the flesh. Helen stared. A blue area of puffed skin capped the upper part of the scar tissue like a tarnished crown. The girl poked at the bruised area, piercing the skin, ripping it, and then quickly, she dropped the safety pin and picked up an eye dropper.

Helen felt suddenly ill. She turned away, her stomach churning. She could not watch. She wanted to run out of this basement room, wanted to get away from these people, but something inside her urged her to stay. She had to stay. She had to do... she had to do...

“Can’t see my friggin’ hand in front of my face,” someone mumbled.

A light snapped on. The blonde blinked her eyes against it. Her face was pitted. The eye dropper lay on an orange crate beside her chair now, a blackened bottle cap beside it. The girl was beginning to doze. In the light Helen looked at her exposed thigh, and again she felt her stomach churning.

A man came over to Andy. She looked at the man’s arms. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and she saw the scar tissue, and then she saw a series of festering scabs and sores.

“They picked up Alverra, you hear?” the man said.

“Yeah,” Andy said.

The man shrugged and went into the kitchen. Sitting on one of the chairs, another man began humming “Blues in the Night” off key.

“Come on, Helen,” Andy said. “Sit down.”

She followed him, and she sat. He was loading a syringe. She saw the milky white fluid ooze out of the bottle cap and into the glass cylinder. He depressed the plunger, forcing any air bubbles out of the syringe, and then he looked down at her. He took a piece of twine from his jacket pocket and wrapped it around her arm, and she watched as the vein bulged, blue against the white of her skin.

“You ready?” he said.

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly. This was what she wanted. This. Andy had what she wanted. Andy had offered what she wanted. This. These were her people.

She did not answer. She nodded, and then someone flicked off the light again, and she heard the whisper of shoe soles against the floor, and then the creak of wood as the person sat again. The vein slid with rubbery resistance beneath the needle. Andy clasped her arm more tightly, and then the needle pierced her flesh, and she felt only a slight pain, and then the needle was gone.

It hit her hard and fast.

She was beginning to float. She felt clean and strong and pure. She felt marvelously free. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything, anything!

It only took sixteen seconds for the drug to pass through her heart and her lungs and then roar into her blood stream. And in sixteen seconds she had stopped hating herself.

Andy did not remember much afterward.

He very rarely remembered much afterward.

Everything seemed blurred together in a haze of half-remembrance. But there was music, a faint music, there was always music, queer and weird, but a perfect music, half understood and half harmonious, but cacophonous too, but music, always music, all music, always the clear hard bite of brass, music he wished he could make himself.

And there was a ceiling somewhere very far off, and there were walls which slanted to touch the tiny square of ceiling so very far off. And there was a vast field of white.

He walked across the field, and he left no footprints.

There was sound everywhere in the field, but it was a soundless sound, a music he alone could hear. There were no trees in the field, no bushes, no growth of any kind. The sky was a pale blue, cloudless, a wash of color against the field of white.

He could touch the sky.

He was enormous against the white field and the pale blue sky, and he could reach up and touch the blue, and the God Father smiled at him when he reached the sky, so close to Heaven was he, and he could hear his own breathing, echoing and re-echoing to become a part of the i music, the way someone breathes when he is sucking in ether, and he could feel the warmth of the music all around him, a trumpet blowing soft and lazy, warm, moist, and he knew he was in another land, and this other land was good, and he did not want to go back because this was good, this was good.

He found the lunch pail, and he opened it, and there was a trumpet inside the lunch pail, and he touched the trumpet and the trumpet felt vibrantly alive to his touch. The Geld of white was wet now, and he walked through it with his rubbers on, and his feet did not get wet, but the white was scalding hot, whitely hot, scalding in its intensity, and he was suddenly frightened, and he ran with his trumpet clutched to his chest, the lunch pail clattering soundlessly to the hot Geld of white, the rubbers slipping from his feet so that the white burned the soles of his feet, and he thought in panic, I’m in Hell, in Hell, in Hell in Hell in, and he was no longer afraid, and then he was nodding, and then he was asleep, and there was only a very tiny insignificant red dot of blood among the puncture marks on his arm to show that a needle had entered his flesh at all.