The Temple of Gold (28 page)

“How sweet,” my mother said again, and there were tears in her eyes too.

“Aw, come on,” I said. “It’s Christmas. You know. Christmas. Merry. Please, will you both cut it out.”

“Raymond.” My mother sniffed. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re a man.” She got up and went over to Terry, sitting down beside her.

“It’s beautiful,” Terry said. “Honest to God, it’s so beautiful I could cry.”

“You are crying,” I told her.

“Hush, Raymond,” my mother said. After which they both went to it harder than ever.

It was at that second that Adrian made his entrance, his arms full of packages. “Merry—” he began, then stopped.

“Adrian,” I said. “Meet the happiness girls.”

“What happened?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” I told him. “You’re a man.”

“Leave us alone,” my mother managed to say. “Both of you.”

Adrian nodded, and we left. The minute we were out of the room, he grabbed me by the arm. “Raymond,” he whispered, “it is imperative that I speak to you. Privately.” With that he walked up the stairs to my room, me a step behind. I closed the door and turned.

“What’s the matter, Adrian?” I asked. “You look green.”

“Raymond,” he whispered, “I want to propose to your mother.”

“Propose what, Adrian?”

“Please,” he said. “No jokes.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But don’t talk to me. I’m not going to marry you. Go ask her.”

“Raymond,” he said. “I haven’t eaten for two days. Help me.”

“You want me to make you a sandwich?”

“I’m forty-seven years of age,” Adrian went on. “I’ve been a bachelor all my life. A man acquires habits in forty-seven years. I feel that to be understandable. After all, if a man did not acquire habits in forty-seven years, it would be most unusual. Consider. I—I—” He stopped.

“Should I ask her for you, Adrian? Would you like that?”

“Marriage,” he mused.

“Face it,” I said. “You’re scared.”

He nodded.

“I got just the thing for you, Adrian. Don’t move.” And I dashed out of the room.

Returning with a bottle of Scotch and a water glass. “Courage,” I said, pouring him a stiff one. “Coming right up.”

He held the glass of whisky a minute, peered at it, then drank it down.

“How do you feel?” I asked, after he’d stopped coughing.

“Horrible,” he answered. “Positively horrible.”

“It takes time,” I said, pouring him another.

He drank the second glass. “You know,” he told me, “it’s really not so bad, if you don’t mind the taste.”

“Here,” I said. “You’ll be a tiger in no time.”

“More?”

“More.”

Inside of fifteen minutes he was drunk.

Which is also understandable, seeing as he hadn’t eaten in so long. He stood there, a silly smile plastered on his face, as if he’d just cornered the market on composure.

“Raymond,” he said to me, talking very slow, pausing between each word, “I...shall...do...it.”

“Attago, Adrian,” I said.

“Yes,” he continued. “I shall propose to your mother this very day. I may even get down on my knees. I believe your mother would appreciate such a gesture.”

“She’d love it. Why not give it a try?”

“There is plenty of time,” he said, pouring himself another drink. “When a man has waited forty-seven years, he—”

“You may not have as much time as you think,” I said, and I took the glass from his hand. But when I reached for the bottle, he backed away, holding it about nine feet in the air. Terry came in then, looked at us awhile.

“What’s up?” she said.

“The bottle,” Adrian answered, after which he began to laugh. “I...think...that...rather...funny,” he said.

“It’s a riot,” I told him. “But now’s your chance, Adrian.”

“By George,” he said, “you are absolutely correct.” He gave me the bottle, shook my hand. “Raymond. I shall never forget this. I thank you.”

“Where you going?” Terry asked.

“To claim your mother-in-law for my wife,” he answered, heading toward the door.

“Good luck,” Terry said.

“Confidence is all one needs,” he told her. “And now good-by.” He left the room. We waited about five minutes before starting down. The first thing we heard was my mother’s voice. Loud. And every once in a while, Adrian, going, “But...but...but...”

“Drunk,” my mother said as we walked in, pointing at Adrian, who was sitting slumped on the sofa. “And on Christmas Day. Raymond, was this your doing?”

“More or less,” I admitted.

“More,” Adrian said.

Terry went over and sat down beside him. “Didja proposition her yet?” she whispered.

“She allowed me no opportunity,” he whispered back.

“Drunk,” my mother said.

“Kate,” Terry said. “Adrian here wants to marry you.”

“My own son playing jokes on Christmas,” my mother went on. “My own son...” She stopped, looking at me. Then she looked at Adrian.

He nodded.

Naturally, my mother started to cry.

“I’m going back to bed,” I said.

“You got no heart,” Terry told me, also crying.

Adrian got down on his knees, which took a while, and my mother walked over to him. Even on his knees, he was about as tall as she was.

“Katherine,” he began, “it has come to my attention of late that—” He stopped, sweating. Then he started again. “Katherine. Perhaps it may come as something of a surprise to you to learn that my—-” He stopped again. “I am a man of habit, Katherine. But I feel that to be understandable. After all, if a man did not acquire habits in forty-seven years, it would be most unusual. Consider. After all...”

“Adrian,” my mother whispered. “I will.”

“Hallelujah,” I shouted and I dashed upstairs for the bottle, grabbing glasses on the return trip. I filled them, handed them out. We raised them high.

“God bless us every one,” Terry said.

We drank to it ...

Which, in a couple of ways at least, was the high point—that moment when the four of us stood in the living-room, Adrian tight, Terry and my mother sniffling away, me watching them all, happy as hell.

The next day, when Adrian was in better shape, he and my mother made plans. To get married just before spring vacation so they could have a ten-day honeymoon and then spend the time between April and June packing and saying good-by. Because he was returning to England, Adrian was, and my mother with him. Terry went back to the Red Cross, sitting in the office during the day, answering phones, going to meetings, working up. And me.

I hit the books. For final exams were coming lickety-split and I had a lot to do. I spent hours reading away at geology, the worst subject in the world, bar none. I kept at it, though, learning how to spell “Pleistocene,” remembering that the Mesozoic was the Age of Reptiles, plus other interesting facts no one should be without.

I studied and I studied and when exams came, I did well, getting a B in geology, better in the rest, making the honor roll, to the wonderment of all. Once exams were over, I really got to work.

At
The Athenian
.

I spent all my time there, morning until late at night, dashing out when I had class, then coming back, taking up where I’d left off the hour before. The first thing I did was to clean that barn of a building. I swept the floors, waxed them, washed windows, cleaned off desks, waxed them, too, filing, dusting, making everything ship-shape.

Once the office was a decent place to live in, I started learning about the magazine. Harriet was great about that, telling me everything she knew, making things as easy for me as she could, the two of us sitting there every night, going over and over details until I understood which end was up.

The April issue was staring us in the face and I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Mainly because the two of us put it out alone, Harriet and me. There were some others helping at the start, but soon they dropped off, seeing as whenever there was anything to be done, I ran and did it.

I read stories, poems, essays. I helped Harriet with the layout, making suggestions here and there when something struck me. We planned the heads, read proof, set the type, hustled around getting the cover ready, the engraving done. I sold ads, going from place to place, making a nuisance of myself. Mr. Klein gave me an ad just to get rid of me, and so did the shoe-repair shop and the clothing store Zock’s father used to own. I painted posters, held meetings, listened, talked, and listened some more.

I even wrote things for that issue, two of which were accepted. One was a story, about a kid at college who finds out his roommate is really a machine. Which may not sound like much but compared with most of what else was submitted, it was a masterpiece. The other thing accepted was a poem. This was the first line:

Love is the color of my love’s eyes.

The rest of the poem I’ve forgotten, fortunately, seeing as it wasn’t much good. But Harriet liked that first line a lot, so she printed it, mainly, I suppose, as a favor to me. We spent February and March together, the two of us, me learning, her teaching, with always the name of Professor Janes hanging in the air overhead, like the sword of Damocles. Sometimes, though, I even forgot about him, because things were going so well down there.

Which could not be said of things at home.

Terry was the first to give me trouble. By pestering, making fun of the magazine as best she could. Then she got sullen, not talking at all, but pouting, muttering to herself, acting like a baby. Finally, late in March, we had our first real squabble.

I got home about two in the morning, having spent the evening reading proof, managing to get a headache. I crept up the stairs, shoes off, so as not to wake anybody. But the light was on in our room and Terry was sitting in bed, reading the
Digest
, wearing a frilly white nightgown, her hair combed, her face scrubbed.

“Hi,” I said, starting to undress. “You ought to be asleep.” She didn’t answer, but went right on reading, ignoring me. I finished undressing, headed for the bathroom, showered the dirt away, came back. She was still reading.

I sniffed. “Something smells awful.”

Which got her. “Me,” she said, glaring. “And it don’t smell awful. It cost a small fortune per ounce.”

“O.K.,” I said. “Now that you’re talking, let’s have it.”

“I got nothing to say to you,” she answered, pushing the
Digest
in front of her face.

I nodded and crawled into bed, closing my eyes, breathing deep.

She smacked me with the
Digest
. “No, you don’t,” she said. “Wake up.”

“Why? You’ve got nothing to say to me.”

“Wake up,” she said again. “Right now.”

I opened my eyes. “I’m awake. Shoot.”

She wrinkled her forehead, trying to think, not able to say anything. I waited. Then she started bawling, something she must have done five hundred times in the months we’d been married.

“Terry,” I said, “you know I hate that. Will you please stop?”

“You don’t care,” she mumbled. “You don’t care what happens to me.”

“Sure I do,” I told her. “Now please stop that crying.”

“If you care,” she went on, “why do you ignore me?”

“I don’t ignore you. I think about you all the time.”

“When you’re down at that goddam magazine,” Terry cried, “I hate that goddam magazine. I hope the goddam thing burns up.”

“You’re being irrational,” I said.

“What does that mean?”

“Silly.”

“Silly! Silly, for chrissakes. Here I put on my best nightie and my best perfume and I spend hours combing my hair and what do I get for it? ‘Something smells awful.’ ”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was just trying to make you talk.”

“Sorry! You’re sorry. You know what I am? I’m bored. B-o-r-d. Bored to beat hell.”

“Go play with Andy Peabody,” I said. “He’s a nice boy. He gave you a bracelet for Christmas.”

“I do,” she said. “I see him all the time. He loves me. He writes me poems. He—”

“When do you see him?” I cut in. “When?”

She threw her arms around me then, pressing her body close, kissing me, holding me tight.

I pushed her away. “When do you see him?” I said again.

“Every afternoon,” she whispered.

“What about the Red Cross? You work there afternoons.”

She shook her head. “I quit. Three weeks ago.”

“I don’t believe it,” I said. “Why didn’t somebody tell me?”

“I was afraid you’d be mad, Trevitt. And Kate promised that she—”

“Maybe you’ll go back tomorrow,” I said.

She pressed close to me again, whispering so soft I could hardly hear. “I hated it, Trevitt. I only went because you wanted. That’s the only reason. I always hated it. So I quit.”

“You’ve just got to go back,” I told her. “You’ve got to go back tomorrow.”

“I won’t.”

“Then I don’t give a damn what you do,” I said and I lay down again, my eyes closed. Tight.

The next day, when I came home from school, my mother was waiting for me in the living-room, Adrian beside her. “Raymond,” she called as I went by, “come in here.” I did. “Raymond,” she said, “we want to have a talk with you.” She turned to Adrian. “Yes,” he began. “We feel, Raymond—Katherine and I both feel—and we reached this conclusion separately—we both feel that you are spending altogether too much time at the magazine and...neglecting other things. Such as your wife, Raymond, and your mother who, we must remember, is leaving you and going to England before too much longer. And you’ve been terribly nervous of late and...” He chattered away, with me listening politely, nodding when I was supposed to. As soon as he’d finished, I told them I’d think it over, thanked them for their kind attention, and took off.

For the magazine. Harriet was working. I threw my jacket at a chair, missed, swore, picked it up, crumpled it in my hands. Then I heaved it all I had against the wall, yelling, “Goddam it to hell,” as loud as I could.

Harriet looked up. “A new poem you’re working on?”

I grumbled something.

“You know, Euripides,” she said, “come to think of it, I’ve never seen you looking better. All that weight you’ve lost and those wonderful shadows under your eyes. You’re dreamy.”

“Not from you,” I said. “Please.”