The Temple of Gold (27 page)

“They do not,” she answered, glaring at me. “They make a suicide pact and—”

“We try to skirt the controversial,” Harriet said.

“And what?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” Good Stuff said. “I haven’t finished it yet.”

“Why not give it a happy ending?” I said. “How about if one of the girls is really a boy, disguised? Then they could live happily ever after.”

“Euripides!” Harriet said. She smiled at the others. “Submit whatever you want,” she continued. “Anything at all. And have your friends do the same. Are there other questions?”

“Yes,” Good Stuff said. “Who’s he?” She pointed in my direction.

“He’s sort of my court jester,” Harriet answered, giggling. “You can ignore most of what he says. He’s harmless and if you bring him a lump of sugar, he’ll be your friend for life.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Well,” Good Stuff muttered. “He talks as if he owns the place.”

“Not yet,” I said.

“You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

“Sure,” I answered. “I’m a regular wizard.”

“O.K.,” she said. “All right. If you’re so smart, who wrote
Biographia Literarial
?”

“You really want to know?” She nodded. I closed my eyes. “Samuel Taylor Coleridge,” I began. “1772 to 1834. In 1798 he wrote
Lyrical Ballads
with Wordsworth. But he wasn’t much of a poet and don’t let anyone tell you he was. He never finished anything, Coleridge, except maybe the ‘Ancient Mariner.’ He threw in the sponge on poetry and since he loved gassing on, he became a critic.
Biographia Literaria
came out in 1817 and it’s a book of criticism. Wordsworth gets the short end of the stick, except not really. Because Coleridge was a good critic and Wordsworth was a good poet and—”

“My God!” Harriet yelled. “Meeting’s over. Class dismissed.”

They all filed out, mumbling. I sat there, looking across at Harriet. “You feeling all right?” she asked. I nodded. “How did you know all that?”

“How do you think? I read that goddam book. I read most of Coleridge. I can’t stand him but—”

“Euripides”—Harriet laughed, coming over and sitting in my lap—“you may be a genius after all.”

“Naturally,” I said. Then we both started laughing.

I walked home singing, letting the front door bang shut behind me, calling for Terry. She didn’t answer, so I went to our room, dropped my books on the desk, and began cleaning up for supper. I was getting undressed when she came in.

“Where were you?” I asked. “I yelled.”

“Thinkin’,” she answered. “I been thinkin’ a lot lately.” Which was the truth. Ever since that afternoon at the Red Cross, about ten days before, she’d been spending all her time in the house, moping around, thumbing through old copies of the
Bedside Digest
. “Trevitt,” she said then.

“What?”

“Educate me.”

“How?”

“Well,” she said, “I been thinkin’. And I decided to go back to the Red Cross. You want that?” I nodded. “So, I figured—I figured if maybe you’d help me along a little, I’d do better.”

“You do fine now,” I said.

She shook her head. “That’s a lie and you know it. When those biddies down there get to blabbing, I don’t understand what the hell’s going on. So I want you to educate me. Maybe give me something to read. A classic. Something I can talk about with the biddies. Make conversation. A real classic’s what I want.”

Right then my mother called out that dinner was ready, so we went down. We sat around, eating, discussing the problem, Terry listening very close to what we said.

After supper we went back to my room and I gave her a copy of
Hamlet
, then started on my homework. I didn’t get very far.

Because Terry began laughing. “Is he kiddin’?” she said.

I turned. “Who?”

“This Shakespeare. Ophelia. Who ever called anybody Ophelia? He must be kiddin’.”

“Go on reading,” I told her. “It takes a while to get into it.”

About two minutes later she called me again. “How come nobody’s got a last name in here?”

“What?”

“Nobody’s got a last name,” Terry said again. “Hamlet who? Didn’t people have last names then?”

“Of course they had last names. It was just a convention not to use them.”

“Some convention,” Terry said.

“Please,” I said. “Just read the play.”

“I am reading. And I don’t understand one word. And why does this Hamlet always talk to himself? Is he nuts?”

“Those are soliloquies,” I told her. “It’s another convention.”

“Somebody ought to write a book on conventions then. So a person could know what’s going on.”

“Just read the play,” I said. “Remember. It’s a classic.”

Which shut her up. She lay in bed a long time, flipping the pages, giggling a lot, while I sweated away on my Geology. Adrian and my mother were downstairs. Pretty soon I heard him leave, the front door close.

It was right then that Terry slammed the book on the floor.

I turned. “Finish it?”

“I should say not,” she answered. “That’s trash. I been brought up better than to read trash.”

“Terry,” I said, “what’s the matter?”

She picked up the book, thumbed through it. “What’s the matter?” she bellowed. “Listen. Right here. Hamlet’s talkin’ to Ophelia. And she says: I-think-nothin’-my-lord.’ And he says—catch this—he says: ‘That’s-a-fair-thought-to-lie-between-maid’s-legs.’ ”

“So what?”

“It’s dirty, that’s so what! Dirty talk is all it is. And I asked you for a classic. Smut! Smut! Smut!”

“Terry,” I said.

“What is it, children?” my mother asked, standing in the doorway.

“Your son got a dirty mind, Mrs. Trevitt. Listen to what he gave me to read. Right here, Hamlet says: ‘That’s-a-fair-thought-to-lie-between-maid’s-legs.’ ”

“We mustn’t take things too personally, dear,” my mother said.

“I ask you,” Terry went on, “is that dirty or is that dirty?”

“So what if it is?” I said.

“You hear that, Mrs. Trevitt? He admits it.”

“Good night, children,” my mother said, and she was gone. Terry banged
Hamlet
down on my desk and walked to the bookcase. I went on with my work.

“Purity of Soul
Is
Attainable,” Terry said, suddenly.

I jerked up. “Huh?”

“Purity of Soul
Is
Attainable,” she repeated. “By Maxwell P. Carter. August. Last year.” And with that she began to read to me. Fortunately, it was a short article, in which Mr. Carter told how he got his soul purified. When she was through reading it, Terry undressed and went to bed. I studied awhile longer, then did the same thing, going right out.

It must have been three in the morning when I felt her shaking me. “Trevitt,” she whispered. “You asleep?”

“What is it, baby? Don’t you feel well?”

“Trevitt,” she went on. “I been thinkin’. About that play. How does it come out?”

“What play?”

“
Hamlet
, for chrissakes. How does it come out? What happens to Ophelia?”

“She dies.”

Terry was quiet for a while. “I’m sorry,” she said finally.

“We’ll send a card in the morning,” I said, rolling over.

She shoved me. “How about her old man? Polonius. Does he get all shook up when she dies?”

“Nope,” I said. “He dies first.”

“How about her brother?”

“Him too. Now, will you let me go to sleep?”

“How does her brother die?”

“Hamlet kills him.”

“Is he brought to trial by the king?”

“Hamlet kills the king too.”

“You’re makin’ this up, Trevitt.”

“It’s the truth,” I told her. “So help me.”

“I hope that Hamlet got his,” Terry said.

“He does. Laertes kills him.”

“I thought you said he killed Laertes. Now I know you’re lying.”

“Terry,” I said. “Jesus. They all die. The queen dies too. She poisons herself. Hamlet’s buddy is the only one left.”

“And I thought you said it was a classic.”

“It is a classic. It’s the most famous play ever written.”

“Then read it to me, Trevitt,” Terry said. “Read it to me so I’ll understand.”

“Maybe some other time.”

“Now, Trevitt.”

“You’re crazy.”

She started pushing me out of bed. “Please, Trevitt. Read it to me. Please.” She kept on pushing until finally I stood up.

“All right,” I said. “O.K. It’s my fault anyway. I should have let you stick to the
Digest
.”

“Nobody dies in the
Digest
,” Terry said.

“Well, they sure do here,” I told her, and with that, I began to read. I read her the last three acts of
Hamlet
, playing all the parts as well as I knew how, me sitting at my desk, her in bed, covered up, biting away at her fingernails. At the end, she started to cry.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “It’s so goddam beautiful I can’t stand it.” I went over to her. She pulled me close. “Just wait,” she whispered. “Wait ’til those biddies start talking today. I’ll knock ’em dead. I will, Trevitt. So help me God.”

“You’re going to be a lady,” I said.

“I’ll work on it,” she promised.

“So will I,” I told her.

And we did.

We set ourselves a routine and stuck to it. I studied hard at school and helped out at the magazine, getting the feel. Terry went to the Red Cross every afternoon, and she must have done well, because she got put on a couple committees and even was invited to teas every once in a while.

And at nights we spent most of the time up in my room, both of us reading or horsing around. I put her on a steady diet of the classics and she came through fine. She read Dickens and Thackeray and Jane Austen who she really ate up. She tried some poets too, Dowson and Kipling and Housman, and she didn’t mind that either, once she got used to it.

All in all, those months were pretty happy, quiet months without much happening. Except for two things.

Both of which took place in December.

The first was when the Peabodys moved into Zock’s old house. They came on a Saturday and my mother went over to pay respects, welcoming them to the neighborhood. Mr. Peabody was a real-estate man, a nice enough guy, from Chicago. His wife was nothing special. They had one kid, a boy sixteen years old, named Andy.

My mother told us all about them after her visit and suggested that it might be nice for us to meet them. So the next morning, while my mother was at church, we walked over. I rang the bell. After a minute, the front door opened. Just a crack.

“Who’s out there?” somebody asked.

“I’m Ray Trevitt,” I answered. “And this here’s my wife, Terry. We’re your neighbors, come to pay respects.”

“My folks aren’t home,” the voice behind the door said.

“You’re good enough,” I said. “Open up.”

He did, standing there in the foyer, watching us as we walked in. He was a short kid, Andy, blond and ugly and shy. When we took our coats off, he didn’t bother looking at me any more, but only at Terry. He gaped at her, mouth half open. She smiled at him.

“You’re Andy,” I said. He nodded. “How are things going?” He shrugged, still staring at Terry.

“Whatsamatter?” she asked. “Somethin’ on my face?” He blushed, turning away.

“Nice house you got here,” I said.

He shrugged again and the three of us stood around, trying to make conversation. He asked us would we like some coffee and when we said yes, it turned out he didn’t know how to make it. Terry grabbed the chance and volunteered, dashing to the kitchen, me telling her the way. When she was gone, Andy stuttered a little, before he asked me.

“How did you know where the kitchen was?”

“I spent some time in this house once,” I answered. And then: “Would you let me see your room?” He nodded, and I followed him up.

It was Zock’s old room he led me to, like I’d figured. I stood in the center of it awhile, thinking about all the hours I’d spent there, all the things that had happened there, both good and bad. I don’t know how long I thought, but pretty soon he was tugging at my shirtsleeve.

“Mr. Trevitt,” he said. “Are you O.K.?”

I nodded. “This is some room you got here, Andy.”

“It’s all right,” he said. And, very fast, before he’d had time to stop himself:” That really your wife?”

“She sure is,” I told him. “Why?”

“No reason,” he muttered.

I sat down on the bed, looking at him, feeling paternal as hell. “You go out with girls, Andy?”

“I don’t like girls,” he said. “They make me sick.”

Terry yelled up that coffee was ready.

“Well,” I said, “when you change your mind, I’ve got a few tricks I’ll be glad to show you,” and, taking one last look at Zock’s room, I went downstairs. We chatted some, until Mr. and Mrs. Peabody came home, after which we chatted some more, about nothing in particular. Finally I stood up to go. Andy walked us to the door.

“So long,” I said. “See you around.”

“ ’By, Andy,” Terry said.

He nodded and mumbled something.

“Andy thinks you’re cute,” I said, as we ambled home.

“I am cute,” she answered. “He’s got good taste.”

I turned for another look and he was still there, standing by the front door, staring at us, every step of the way. ...

The second thing that happened took place on the 25th, which is Christmas, and a big deal under any circumstances. But this one was even more special.

We were down by the tree, sitting in the living-room—my mother, Terry, and I—when the doorbell rang. I answered. It was Andy.

“Merry Christmas,” I said. “Come in. Say hello.”

“Here,” he answered, shoving a package into my hands. Then he turned and ran. I watched him go, tearing across our lawn to his house. I closed the door and went back to the living-room.

“Who was it, Raymond?” my mother asked.

“Andy Peabody,” I said, fiddling with the package, tossing it to Terry. She started unwrapping it, muttering to herself.

“How sweet,” my mother said. “Terry. I think he has a crush on you.”

Terry nodded and opened the package. It was a bracelet he’d given her, silver, with her name engraved on it. She stared at it awhile.

Then she began bawling.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, trying to stop. “But all of a sudden it’s like I’m nine years old and the kid next door’s proposing.”