Island, p.14
Island, page 14
The Racquet Club’s colors were blue and red, and he immediately bought a club tie of diagonal blue and red stripes. What a fabulous place. What a terrific feeling to go strolling in there from Park Avenue, although there wasn’t all that much for him to do once he got inside. He never felt really at home there. He never got to know more than a handful of members. Also, whatever he did there cost money. For a while he couldn’t afford to do anything there except belong.
He took Julia to the movies again and she asked him to dinner again and he met her mother again, a strikingly handsome woman with bluish hair, considerably smaller than Julia but of an imposing erectness. Julia appeared to be a little intimidated by her and plucked a good many bits of fluff from herself between courses. There was no Mr. Fanshawe.
The Fanshawe house was smaller than the Dixon house but more elegant. It was of pale-red brick, with black shutters and a marble doorway. There were black window boxes with ivy in all the windows. Inside, it was more elegant too. There was no Fletcher, but there were maids, two of them. The food was better.
Julia had a black cocker spaniel named Snuggles, who seemed to like having his head scratched. Snuggles kept poking him with his nose, so he scratched him a lot.
“Snuggles, go lie down. He’s a nuisance.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Do you like dogs?” asked Mrs. Fanshawe. “Animals?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps I can interest you in some of the volunteer work being done for the ASPCA.”
“Mother,” said Julia.
“If you’ll give me your name and address, I’ll send you some of our material.”
“Mother, I don’t think he—”
Mrs. Fanshawe ignored her. “We need active interested younger people.”
He had no interest in the ASPCA, but it did give him a chance to get out the black leather memo-card case he had recently bought and with his thin gold pencil write his address on one of the cards. His name was engraved at the top: Frederick C. Fay. In black ink, not gray. He sensed that here black was better than gray. She studied it.
“What does C stand for?” she asked.
Violet again! Out of nowhere. How could he prepare himself for things he couldn’t dream were coming? Would it never stop?
“Curzon,” he managed to say.
“Are you related to Floyd Curzon?”
He shook his head.
“Most of the Curzons are English. Are you related to them?”
“I don’t know. It’s my mother’s name.”
“I expect she would know,” said Mrs. Fanshawe.
“Mother’s very interested in genealogy,” explained Julia.
“I’m surprised you haven’t asked her,” said Mrs. Fanshawe.
“She’s dead.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. She died eight years ago.”
“Where did she come from?”
“Connecticut.”
“Where in Connecticut?”
“Mother—”
“Cheshire.”
She paid no attention. “And your father, is he living?”
“No, he’s dead too. He was a clergyman.”
“An Episcopalian?”
“Mother.”
“She likes to place people,” explained Julia. They were coming home together from the theater in Mrs. Fanshawe’s limousine. They had been driven there after dinner, and the chauffeur was waiting when they came out. He felt very grand, with everybody else whistling and waving for taxis. He sank back into the deep soft seat, a glass panel between them and the chauffeur.
“She sometimes grills people. You mustn’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.”
How could he, sitting in this soft dark limousine with this elegant up girl? His parents were gone, safely buried. What would she think of them, of his mother in her old green sweater? He turned to look at her, catching just the side of her face, which seemed from that angle to be longer and thinner than it really was and, in the darkness of the car, paler. What does C stand for? He had another dizzying moment of feeling that he was somewhere else. He had to look away—at the back of the chauffeur’s head, with its gray cap that matched the upholstery of the limousine swimming silently uptown like a big black fish. It was warm in there, and even if it hadn’t been, there was a fur lap robe hanging over a braided rope in front of them, over the jump seats. The jeep had been cold and noisy, with cold hard little seats and cold air swirling in. What does C stand for? The differences and the distances were too great. He felt the legs of his brain being spread too wide. Forget it. Come back. He looked again for reassurance, and again saw that desolate pale slice of face. Without further thought or knowledge of what he was doing, he leaned over and tried to kiss that face.
He got her on the cheek.
She drew back and turned her face directly toward his. The illusion vanished.
She drew back, and yet she didn’t. She seemed to come forward a little, but she didn’t do that, either. He was left with a blurred feeling that she was waiting for him to kiss her again. Woefully unsure, he willed himself to try again, this time catching her on the mouth.
She let him.
She pursed her lips gently. He pressed against them. She pressed gently back. He put his hand on her breast, that is to say, on her mink coat where her breast was. She let him do that too, but when he tried to slide his hand inside she removed it.
On her doorstep: “Well, uh, good night. That was a good show. And thanks for the dinner too.”
“Yes, it was, wasn’t it.”
He was shaking her hand, seeming stuck there, unable to let go. She gave his a couple of nervous squeezes.
“Well, uh …”
“Yes, it was, wasn’t it.”
She seemed to be waiting to be kissed again, so he gave her another, getting another chaste puckery one in return.
Walking home, he began to wonder if he could ever aspire to marry this girl.
She liked him, that was obvious. He saw numerous movies with her that winter, gradually became more and more attracted to her. She was friendly, although a bit cool, was good-looking and oh so elegant. Taking her home afterward, he would kiss her in the vestibule of her house. They kissed a lot, and he tried from time to time to put his hand on her, but she prevented him. She did, gradually, let him press his body discreetly against hers. It was a confused and perilous scene. Desires were crowding up in him, shoving him toward a grossness that was clearly unacceptable. He felt clumsy and shy and hot and frustrated. His hands felt big and awkward and dangerous. He had a hard time with his hands. Maybe she was shy too; he couldn’t tell. He wanted to touch her but was afraid to try too hard. Still, he did try, and was rebuffed. She had a prim mouth, but it was softening. He was afraid of those evenings, but he looked forward to them as his affection and desire grew. Sometimes they would spend half an hour in the vestibule, holding hands a good deal of the time because she held his hand to prevent it from holding her in some place where she didn’t want to be held.
He tried to soften her up with longer kisses and further discreet pressing.
“Please,” he whispered.
She took his hand away.
He tried to put it back. “Please. Why not?”
“We’re not engaged.”
“Well—uh—Would …?”
“Yes.”
My God, engaged?
Tell Bob? Get married? Holy mackerel? Did she mean it? Get married to her? He took her to the movies again the next night, and in the vestibule he asked her: “Did you mean it?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her hungrily and went for her breasts.
“Not here.”
Not here? Not here. An overpowering whiff of recollected kerosene and varnish. Not here. It bellowed its way through his head. Was it never going to stop? He let go of her.
“I mean, shouldn’t we tell Mother?”
12
JULIA WANTED A SMALL WEDDING, WHICH SUITED him fine. When Mrs. Fanshawe asked him for a list of names of people he wanted to invite, he came up with six: Bob Dixon, Walker Virdonette, the two new men who had moved into the house, and Mr. Wilking and Mr. Wright. He had thought hard about the last two, wondering if it wasn’t sucking up too much to ask his bosses, too obvious a sucking up since he wasn’t asking anybody else at the office. Not Bill Livingston, for instance, his immediate boss. He was already beginning to get the impression that Bill Livingston was a loser at W and W. Also he wasn’t sure about Bill’s stentorian nervous voice. But he couldn’t ask just four people, so he finally decided to risk it with Mr. Wilking and Mr. Wright.
“I don’t want a lot of bridesmaids,” said Julia.
She asked Mary Smallwood, her best friend, to be her maid of honor. He asked Bob to be his best man.
“Is that all?” asked Mrs. Fanshawe when she saw his list of six names.
“I haven’t lived here very long. I don’t know very many people.”
“But your relatives.”
“I haven’t any.”
“What about your two uncles?”
“What uncles?”
Mrs. Fanshawe gave him a funny look and then said: “You don’t know about your uncles?”
“How do you know about them?” asked Julia.
“Why, I looked them up. When Fred said his mother came from Cheshire. Honestly, I’ve never met anyone who had so little curiosity about his own family. Do you mean to say you’ve never heard of your uncle George Curzon or your uncle Frederick? They’re in the church records in Cheshire, along with your mother and your grandparents. I suppose you’re named after your uncle Frederick. You don’t even know about him?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you have a lot of cousins. You should look them up.”
“Maybe I will.” He had no intention of ever doing that.
They were married in St. James’ Church on Madison Avenue. There was a reception afterward at the Colony Club. Their honeymoon was spent on a hunting plantation in Georgia belonging to Mr. Bishop, Mrs. Fanshawe’s brother. Their wedding night was spent going there, in very narrow Pullman berths.
“Not here,” Julia said.
The next morning they got off the train in Pineland, Georgia. A station wagon was waiting for them, and they were driven for miles through flat stands of scrub pine to Mr. Bishop’s place, Oronoque. Two gigantic live oak trees shaded a rambling white wooden building with a screen porch running around it, and many rocking chairs, and six or seven black servants standing in a row on the steps. Much smiling and giggling; Julia had been there often before, and they were consumed with curiosity and delight by her new husband. He was shown their room, with a large double bed in it.
At last.
He pulled her down on the bed, where they hugged and kissed for a bit until she said that maybe they should both get into comfortable clothes and take a walk around the place. “Maybe we shouldn’t shoot today after that long night on the train.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll have to tell Irving. He’ll be waiting with the dogs. Maybe we should just stroll around. It’s very pretty here. Then practice this afternoon with a few clay pigeons. I haven’t shot for a year.”
That was fine with him. He put on his new Abercrombie & Fitch shooting boots, which laced up his leg, and they went for a walk. They stopped at the kennels and talked to Irving and looked at eight or nine pointers crowding against the wire, whining, licking, trying to get their noses through. They strolled down an avenue of live oaks hand in hand. The air was balmy and very soft, the sun hazy. Long beards of Spanish moss were dangling from the live oak branches. He was reminded of Gone With the Wind.
After lunch they took their guns into the gun room. His was his wedding present from Mrs. Fanshawe and had belonged to her husband before his death. He snapped open the slim brown cowhide case and looked inside. There, neatly compartmented in dark-green velvet, was the gun. In three pieces, along with a ramrod also in three pieces, together with small bottles and objects made of wire and wool, whose purpose he didn’t understand. Each had its own velvet compartment.
“That was Daddy’s favorite gun,” said Julia. “Holland and Holland. It’s a beauty.”
It was stunning. Its stock was dark and shiny, inset with a small oval piece of metal with her father’s initials engraved on it. The metal sides of the stock were also engraved, with curlicues and hunting dogs and flying pheasants. But he didn’t know how to put it together.
“You’ve never shot a gun?”
“No.”
She showed him how to assemble it, how to load and break it, which trigger shot which barrel. “I don’t know how it will fit you. But Daddy was about your size. He liked a gun without too much drop. I do too.”
Julia was a good shot and a patient and determined teacher. She made him practice bringing the gun up to his shoulder, quick and smooth, pressing it tight into his shoulder, leaning forward, swinging his body, swinging through the bird.
Standing there in the sunny gun room in the soft southern air, he swung right around and tried to embrace her, the gun standing up between them like a metal fence post. She blushed and laughed. She was really very pretty. “Not here, silly. You have to learn how to handle this gun.”
They went outside together.
“Now, when I say ‘Pull,’ the bird will fly. Remember to bring the gun up tight, safety off, lean forward, swing through, lead it slightly, don’t jerk, squeeze.”
They were in a field behind the plantation house, a black man crouching in the grass next to a small machine.
“Pull.”
A round object the size of a butter plate sprang from the grass and went whizzing across the sky. He pointed his gun at it and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
“You left the safety on. Remember to push it off just before you raise the gun. Try another.”
A second clay pigeon was released. This time he got the safety off and pulled the trigger. There was a loud crash, and the gun went slamming into his shoulder, hurting it. The pigeon landed intact, some distance off.
“You must hold the gun tighter. Take up the shock with your entire body. Try one without any bird. Just shoot.”
“At what?”
“At nothing. Just get the feel of swinging the gun and holding it tight and pulling the trigger.”
He practiced, trying to master the complex business of releasing the safety, getting the gun to his shoulder, aiming at the streaking bird, and pulling the trigger. Bird after bird flew by untouched.
“I don’t see how you hit those things.”
“That’s because you’re poking at them. Swing the gun through them and squeeze as you swing.”
She demonstrated, and the clay pigeon became a cloud of black dust hanging in the air. Bap. Just like that: a moving object one instant; the next, nothing. He couldn’t help thinking of bombers. He tried again, and again, finally hitting a couple. His shoulder ached, and his ears were ringing. He was given instruction in how to take his gun apart and clean it lovingly with an aromatic liquid from one of the little bottles, running a round cloth cleaner up and down in each barrel (“That’s called a patch,” said Julia), then a light oil, then wiping it carefully all over and putting it away in its jewel case.
After dinner they worked on a jigsaw puzzle.
“They have wonderful puzzles here,” said Julia. There were about fifteen of them in boxes on a shelf. She picked one, opened up a card table, and they concentrated hard on the squiggly little pieces for about an hour. The air gradually got tenser. He stopped looking at pieces and looked at Julia’s body. She moved faster and more deftly. “Look, this whole edge fits here.”
“How long are we going to do this?”
“You don’t like puzzles?”
“When are we going to bed?”
“Well, I’m tired too.”
In the bedroom he reached for her.
“Wait. Shouldn’t we get washed and undressed?”
He went into the bathroom. When he came out, she was in the bed. He started to take off his things.
“Please turn the light off.”
In the dark, he put on his pajamas and climbed in beside her. She let him kiss her. She let him fondle her breast. She kept his hand outside her nightgown. He grappled and fumbled at her, kissing, sometimes getting kissed in return, sometimes not. She kept taking his hands away and trying to put them around her back. To protect herself, she pressed close against him, which only aroused him more.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“What? Nothing.”
“Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not.”
“Well, then—”
“No. Please.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. It’s only—I’m not used—”
“You ought to enjoy—”
“I will. I’m not used—”
“Let’s get used.”
“All right. But not so quick. Let’s get used—”
He tried to get her used to his hand on her breast. He held it there quietly for a bit, and she seemed relieved by that.
“We’re married, you know.”
“I know. It’s just that I’m not used—”
“Don’t you like to kiss me?”
“Oh, yes, I do like to kiss you. It’s just—”
“Well, let’s kiss a little.”
“I just don’t like to talk about it.”
So he stopped talking (or rather whispering, for the conversation of that night was conducted in tense whispers) and kissed instead. And the hand skirmishes continued, and she won them because, for Christ’s sake, you can’t use force. And when the mess came, Julia had to get up and change her nightgown.
