Some Came Running (125 page)

Why the hell did that always keep coming up? Christ, it was only a mood, wasn’t it? He could only stare at Gwen anxiously and rack his brain to try and find out what he had done wrong. While at the same time, before this immensity of reserve of hers, he did not dare to ask.

Finally, when Gwen announced at nearly one that she had to go to bed because she had to work tomorrow, he did ask. Just blurted it out. He had had several more drinks by then, and was also in a state of almost totally unnerved panic.

“What’s the matter, Gwen?” he said, as she got up, and he got up himself. “What’s wrong, anyway? What’s happened over here?”

“Happened?” Gwen said pleasantly, smiling almost shyly. “Wrong? Why, nothing. Nothing that I have noticed anyway.” She looked at him embarrassedly and carried all the coffee cups to the sink.

“But there is!” Dave insisted, and followed her. “There is too something wrong. You’re— You’re not warm to me anymore. You’re— But, hell, I don’t have to tell you! You know it yourself.”

Gwen did not say anything, and ran water in the cups, appearing to be almost blushing. “There’s nothing wrong.”

“Why did you suddenly decide to go away? Last week you weren’t planning anything like that; when I saw you last.”

“There doesn’t have to be something wrong just because I decide to leave the college for a while,” she said. “Please, Dave.”

“But why?!”

Gwen was still staring down into the sink. “I go away every so often to study somewhere. I’ve been here almost five years this time, without a break. It’s about time I went again. That’s all.”

Dave was still staring at her, trying to get her to look back at him, but she wouldn’t. “Are you trying to tell me you’re not in love with me anymore?” he said. “Is that it?”

“I suppose so,” Gwen said embarrassedly. “Yes. Yes, it is. I was hoping you would understand without our having to go into all of that and embarrassing both of us.” She leaned forward and ran her index finger along the rim of one of the cups.

“But
why
? What have I done
wrong
?” he said. “Is it because I didn’t come over for a week? You know I was working on the—”

“Good heavens, no!” Gwen said, “of course not.”

“Then
what?
What have I
done
?”

Gwen raised her finger up and dried it on the dishtowel; then she turned to face him, her own face embarrassed. “Is it necessary for someone to do something wrong for another person to fall out of love with them?” she said.

“Oh!” Dave said, breathless. “Oh. No. No, I guess not. I guess I hadn’t thought of that. You mean you’ve found yourself another new guy already.” If she had been a heavyweight, and had hit him in his soft fat stomach, she could not have paralyzed him more.

Gwen was still staring at him embarrassedly, her face incredibly shy, girlish almost, he thought, and for a moment he really felt sincerely sorry for her. It must, after all, be hell on somebody—to be like that—a nympho.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, “yes. At least, I think so.” She didn’t say anything for a moment. “I’m sorry, Dave.”

“Well,” he said. “I— Well. Is it anybody I know?” he said coldly.

Gwen’s eyes flashed. “That really isn’t any of your business, is it, Dave?” she said. “After all, you and I have never actually
been
anything to each other, have we?” She looked at him apologetically. The implication was clear.

“Well, if we haven’t it was only because you wouldn’t even—” then he stopped himself. “Well, no,” he said. “No, I guess it isn’t, really. And that’s why you never would sleep with me, isn’t it?”

“I told you once,” Gwen said, “I told you once that I wanted never to hurt you.”

“Well,” Dave said, still paralyzed, and angry. “Well. Yes. Yes, you did tell me that, didn’t you?” Not hurt him! God and Jesus! He pulled a rigidly held mask down over his face. Not hurt him! “Well, I guess there isn’t anything else to be said, is there?”

“No,” Gwen said, and again for a moment he felt desperately sorry for her; as sorry as for himself. “No, I guess there isn’t.”

“Okay,” he said. “But there’s one more thing: Will you continue to help me with my book?”

Gwen made an embarrassed shoulder movement. “I will as long as I’m here,” she said; “however long that may be.”

“Well, that’ll be till the end of the school term, won’t it?” he said.

Gwen merely nodded, looking incredibly shy and girlish for a woman who got around as much as she did. Well, maybe that was what made nymphos—that girlishness: They just never grew up.

“Then that’ll give me until June to finish it, won’t it?” he said. “I only ask this, you understand, because I need your help with it. I have no pride when it comes to my work. The work is the only important thing, really; isn’t it.”

“I’ll be glad to help you all I can,” Gwen said, “till then.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Well, I guess I better go.” From the door on the landing, he left a parting shot: “I think I’ll be able to get it done by then.”

Of course, a lot of it was pride—backhanded pride—but just the same he did mean what he said: Nothing, in the end, was as important as the work. And, of course, he had had no way of knowing at the time that he wouldn’t be able to work at all, that it would just dry up.

He found out the next day. When he woke up, feeling fine, he remembered what had happened the night before, and plummeted. When he went into his little writing room to go to work, he couldn’t think of anything, not a sentence, nothing, nothing except Gwen. Gwen, Gwen, Gwen. That strange way she had looked: so embarrassed. And the odd sense of total confusion he himself had had. What had he done wrong? He knew that she had loved him, and loved him deeply. What had he done
wrong?
God and Jesus! Probably the only man in the history of the world who had been in love with a nymphomaniac—and had her equally in love with him—and then been unable to get her to sleep with him! Probably right now, she was out with this other guy, whoever he was. Right now they might be off somewhere—him making love to her! God, oh, God! Gwen, Gwen, Gwen! Finally, in sheer self-defense, he quit without having written a word and got rotten blind drunk. And the next day, with the worst hangover he could remember since before the war, he dragged himself hopelessly to the typewriter and the same thing happened. In five days, he did no work at all, each day getting a little drunker a little earlier, each day getting up with a little bigger hangover. Everything was gone. All he could think about was Gwen, Gwen, Gwen. He saw nobody, excepting only ’Bama, of course—and one day Dewey’s mother, Vona, when she came to clean. But he couldn’t even talk to ’Bama. How could he? How could he tell that iron man that it was a woman who was causing this?! It would have embarrassed him too much. Dewey and Hubie, drunk almost all the time now anyway, had practically taken over the kitchen of the house—on those days when Vona wasn’t there, of course. Dave would not go near them. He sat upstairs alone in his bedroom most of the time, staring out the window, now and then coming out from under the heavy sheets and layers of drunkenness and perpetual brooding to a vague awareness of where and who he was. And those moments were the most painful of all. He could not write anymore. It was all gone. Finally, in sheer desperation, he went back over to Israel to talk to Bob. He had gotten himself on that round of misery that forever turns back in upon itself, feeding itself with itself to grow larger and more healthy, more unbreakable. What had he done? What
could
he have done. He went over every single event that had happened to him in the year and three months since he had met her; and he could find nothing, in any of it, that would have made her just suddenly up and quit loving him. Bob, when he saw him in Israel, was not much help, either. Bob gave him sympathy—honest sympathy (even as dull-drunk as he was, Dave could see that), a great deal of philosophy, and no facts.

He found him, as usual, out in his workshop. Dreamily turning chair legs and fixing a strained ladder-back, his mind very obviously star galaxies away from what he was doing. It was, Dave thought dismally, hopeful just to see him. As if he were the one really real and unchangeable thing in a swiftly shattering world. There was always the off chance that you yourself, with some luck, might live long enough and acquire enough serenity to be like him. He went on in, out of breath, bleary eyed and mentally dead, and sat down on one of the stools.

“I’ve got to have some help,” he said.

Bob could not, however, tell him anything about what might have made Gwen get off of him.

“Is it that you don’t know?” Dave said; “or just that you won’t tell me?”

“Let me put it this way,” Bob said kindly. “I’m not at all sure that I do know, entirely. And if I did know, I’m not even at all sure that it would be at all right, entirely. And lastly, Dave,” he smiled, “this is something which I very strongly feel I must not interfere with.”

“That don’t help me a whole hell of a lot,” Dave said heavily.

“I’m sorry. But I simply cannot say any more, dear Dave.”

“I guess you know I’m in love with her,” Dave said.

“Yes, I rather suspected as much,” Bob smiled.

“I thought she was in love with me?” Dave said heavily.

Bob said nothing.

“I’ve even been wanting to marry her,” Dave said. “But I just didn’t dare ever quite say anything about it for fear of being laughed out of the place.” He paused, but Bob did say anything. “She’s such a strange person,” he add heavily.

“Yes, I suppose she is,” Bob said kindly. “But then we all are, dear Dave.”

“Well, it doesn’t help me very much,” Dave said, and then shuddered with a burst of fiery energy. “If I just knew what it—” The sentence tapered off, and he got up to go.

“Stay a moment more, Dave,” Bob said. “Sit down a moment. I really am sorry that I can’t help you. I love both you and Gwen a very great deal. Of course, Gwen is my daughter. But I feel as great, or nearly as great, an affinity for you. As if you
were
my son. Or perhaps even myself, when I was younger. And I have a profound respect for your talent.”

“I ain’t written nothin since I left here,” Dave said.

Bob smiled sadly. “I suspected as much,” he said. “But in spite of all of that, I simply
cannot
interfere in this matter. I wish I could convey to you what a
very strong
feeling I have against taking any part in this. I feel that to do so would be almost tampering with Fate, with your Karma, both of you. Not to mention the Karmic seeds, the Karmic attachments, I would be making for myself in doing so.” He smiled and shrugged, almost with embarrassment: “The only phrase I can think of is
Divine Will.
Naturally, I have some Karma to work out with both you and Gwen—or I obviously wouldn’t be here; but as I see it (and I don’t see it at all clearly), my Karmic attachments to both of you are relatively minor. But apart from that, there is a tremendously strong Karmic attachment between you and Gwen in some way. Maybe you’ve both been building toward some ultimate decision that may not come to flower for say ten lives yet ahead. So what right have I to direct what is perhaps being directed by someone who obviously knows more about the overall purpose than I do? In spite of how much I would like to help you both, I feel it would be the most absolutely
unholy
thing I could possibly do. Do you understand, dear Dave?” he asked.

“You really believe all that Kismet stuff, don’t you,” Dave said. “I mean, really believe it—believe in it strong enough to actually run your life on it?”

Bob smiled. “I would like to be able to say I run my life by it,” he said; “but I’m afraid I can’t, honestly. But in the instance of you and Gwen, I do feel it most strongly.”

“Say, you still got some of those books around you were telling me about?” Dave said.

“Yes,” Bob said. “Would you like to borrow some of them?”

“Yes,” Dave said. “Yes, I would.”

“Come on in the house. I’ll pick some out for you.”

“Wait!” Dave said, and put out his hand. “Wait! Is
she
in there?”

“No,” Bob smiled gently. “It’s only a little after noon, Dave.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Dave said. “That’s right, ain’t it?” And he rubbed his hand over his face.

“Come on,” Bob smiled.

In the house, he said, “You go on down and stand by the fire, dear Dave. While I hunt something up for you. Mix yourself a drink if you want it.”

Dave walked on down to the fire, wanting a drink but too worn to make one, and spread his hands before it and tears suddenly welled up in his eyes. That fire, that they kept going all winter long. While Bob was out of the room, he took advantage of it to wipe them dry, and turned around his back to the fire and put his hands behind him. If you could only go up to people, and say to them: Look at me! See how horribly I’m suffering! But, of course, you couldn’t. And anyway if you did they’d probably be so busy with their own suffering which you didn’t see that they would only stare at you blindly and pass on. All but Old Bob, anyway, who had apparently taught himself how not to suffer. Bob came back in the room and from the fire he smiled at him tremulously.

“I’ll put these down by the door, where you won’t forget them,” Bob smiled, and as he walked down with them all, commenced to talk again. “I don’t know if you understand the principle of Karma. Of course, it’s all very complicated and involved. But the way I like to think of it is that whenever we meet people and create
desires
in them—whenever we cause them to love us or to hate us
—
in so doing, we are making Karmic attachments between them and us, all of which must be worked out in future lives, the power of the Karma depending, of course, upon how strong the desire we create in them. Their original desires toward us come into it, too; and almost always our meetings with people in our lives are in one way or another the working out of meetings in past lives. And that doesn’t even halfway explain it. The purpose always being, of course, to eventually free ourselves of all Karma—both good
and
bad—which we must first do before we can move on to another plane of existence.