Gather Yourselves Together Page 7

  “How about the Bach Flute and Strings?” He drew out the album. “I haven’t heard that in a long time.”

  “Put it on.”

  He placed the records carefully on the turntable. In a few moments the measured tones of the solemn little dances began to fill the room. Verne returned to his place, beside his drink. “Nice. Real nice.”

  “How long have you known Don?” Teddy said.

  “A couple of years, I guess. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “I don’t see much of him. He comes into the station once in a while. He tries to get me to play more Dixieland on the program.”

  “I see.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  “I think he’s an intellectual simp.”

  Verne laughed. “Well, you don’t have to go around with him.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Why do you, then?”

  She shrugged. “Don’s a nice boy. In some ways.”

  “He looks as if he were rotting away from some sort of fungus.”

  “Don knows some interesting places. You learn from each person you meet.”

  “What did you ever learn from him? All about mouldie-fygg jass?”

  “He’s quite an authority on New Orleans jazz.”

  “If that means anything. Well, let’s forget it.”

  The listened to the Suite. “This part is so beautiful,” Teddy said. “Do you remember what Huxley said about it in Point Counter Point? I liked that passage.”

  “About the guts of a cat? The violins? That was when the old scientist was coming down the stairs, down to the party. Where they were playing this.”

  “Music figured a lot in the book.”

  Verne listened to the music. Gradually it absorbed his attention. Some of the loneliness he had felt earlier began to seep back. He pulled himself up on the couch, rubbing his eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” Teddy said.

  “Nothing. Thinking about the book.” He lifted his glass, but it was empty. He held the empty glass up to the light, turning it slowly.

  “The book was about death,” Teddy said.

  Verne got up and went over to the bookcase. He turned his back to hear, reading the titles of the books. After a time Teddy came over and stood beside him.

  “I see Jrou like Eliot,” Verne said. “Great man, for a neo-fascist.” He slid a slender book out. “What the hell is this? ‘Murder in the Cathedral.’ ”

  “It’s a play about Thomas Becket.”

  Verne put it back. “You have a lot of Jung. All the neo-fascists. Integration of the Personality.”

  “He’s a nice old man. He goes for long walks in the snow. What’s wrong with you, all of a sudden?”

  Verne turned around suddenly. “Well, young lady. Let’s go someplace. Where would you like to go? Or do you want to go anywhere? Or shall I leave and go home?”

  Teddy laughed. “Let’s just talk. I’m tired of going around to dark little places. Okay?”

  Verne sat down on the couch. “I know what you mean.”

  Six

  Verne saw Don Field the following day. Don looked more morose than ever. He plodded up to Verne as he was leaving the station after work.

  “Well,” Verne said. “It’s you again. You’re getting to be a familiar sight around this time of day.”

  “Where were you last night?” Don said hoarsely.

  “Last night? Why?”

  “You weren’t home. I called you.”

  “What do you care where I was last night?”

  “I wondered.”

  Verne unlocked his car door. “You can keep on wondering.” He drove off. Through the rear view mirror he could see Don standing on the curb, watching sadly after him, his armload of records and books sagging.

  That evening, Verne mentioned to Teddy that he had seen Don. She said nothing. They were going down to the Morning After Club to hear Muggsy Spanier.

  “Spanier,” Verne said. “One of the greatest jazz men alive. It’s an experience.”

  “I’ve heard his records.”

  “That’s not the same. You don’t get the bite of the music from a record. The feel. Wait and see.”

  Did she enjoy the evening? She seemed to. On the way home she leaned against him, humming to herself. She appeared quite happy and content; her eyes were bright and held that same merry gleam he had first noticed that night in the Walker Club.

  At the corner of the block near her apartment Teddy suddenly put her hand on his arm. “Verne, park her for a second. I’ll be right back.”

  She got out and trotted up to a liquor store. It was just closing; the man had already turned the signs off and emptied the register. Teddy banged on the door, waving. The man shuffled over and unlocked it Teddy went inside. A few moments later she came out with a paper bag.

  She hopped in the car. “This is on me.”

  They drove up along the curb to her place. As they got out Verne began to check the doors and windows of the car to make sure they were locked.

  Teddy laughed, standing on the sidewalk. “You’re so earnest. No one’s going to run off with your car!”

  Verne grunted. “I suppose not. But it makes me feel better. Let’s go.”

  He followed her up the stairs. She strode along, holding onto the banister, a pace ahead of him. At the top she halted, waiting for him to catch up.

  Under her door was a slip of white paper, pushed half way inside. She picked it up and read it.

  “It’s from Don.” She passed it to him. He read it and handed it back. Teddy put the note in her pocket and they went on inside. The living room light was on, a feeble glow hidden behind the table. It left the room dark and mysterious. He could smell things in the air. The perfumes and odors of women, the faint hanging scent of liquor and cigarettes. And when he went to hang up his coat in the closet, another smell. Almost an animal smell.

  “Do you have a pet?”

  “I had a cat, but she was run over. Her back was broken. I saw it out the window.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s hard to keep a cat when you have only an apartment. Box of newspapers in the kitchen, furniture all clawed up. Come sit down.”

  He sat down. Teddy disappeared into the kitchen, humming as she went. He heard things being opened.

  Now, sitting by himself in the living room, hearing the sound of the girl bustling around in the kitchen, he began to feel the first faint stirrings of a profound peace and contentment. He allowed his body to relax; his mind sank into a kind of half-sleep. A cloud of soft darkness moved over him, mixed with the smells of the room.

  In the blanket of woman smells, the smells of perfumes and deodorants and female bodies, he found himself going to sleep. From a great distance he realized that Teddy had come back into the room and was standing in the doorway, gazing silently at him. Presently he struggled a little and managed to become awake.

  He smiled at her. He had taken his glasses off and put them into his pocket. He loosened his tie, lying with his head against the rough fabric of the couch.

  Teddy crossed the room noiselessly, growing and expanding until she stood before him. She put down a tray and then seated herself beside him. He did not look up. He was content. The warmth, the smells hovered over him. He was falling asleep again, and it was a long way to fall. Down and down he plummeted. The world noises, the coldness, the bright lights, everything rushed away from him.

  Teddy’s small hard fingers were against his face. He sighed. The pressure of her hands was increasing. Like the force of a coiled up spring the energy was coming out of her, moving through her arms and hands, into him. Surges of power, a flowing, overwhelming force. The demands of desire. He sighed again. Of bodily need.

  The smells, the warmth, the room and the girl next to him, all blended and merged together. He ceased to know where one began, the other ended. Everything in and around him was rising to the surface, flowing out. A tide, a vast drumming tide was wa
shing him away. He closed his eyes.

  Without resistance, he allowed himself to be lost into it.

  * * * * *

  He ached. His body felt seared and blistered; he winced to the touch. Dazed, his mind struggled to collect itself. He was scattered, strewn everywhere, all over. Fragments and particles. He gasped, breathing like an animal that had come out of some desperate battle.

  “Are you all right?” Teddy said.

  He looked at her. The lean nose. Loose, hanging hair. Moist strands of black, glued together, dripping with perspiration. Her eyes gleamed, close to his.

  Verne pulled away. He was laid open, unconcealed. He turned to one side, away from her. The couch lifted; she had risen up, onto the arm.

  “I’m all right.” His head ached. His glasses had fallen out of his pocket, onto the floor. He picked them up and put them on. After a while he sat up.

  On the arm of the couch Teddy quietly fastened her clothes, pulling her dress together. She said nothing.

  “What time is it?” Verne murmured.

  “About three.” She was watching him. “Are you all right? Do you feel all right?”

  Could she tell how far she had been pushed away? He felt cold; everything in the room had receded from him. His stomach growled. His mouth tasted sour. He found the tray and ate a cracker smeared with Liederkranz. Presently he tried some of the drink she had fixed for him, but it choked, charring his wind pipe. He put the glass down.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll be all right.”

  He got out his pipe and began to light it. Teddy moved back beside him, drawing toward the end of the couch. He stared at her indifferently. Her face was thin; her body was underdeveloped and plain, like a boy’s. He looked down at her feet. They were long and flat, like a bird’s. A crane’s. Teddy twisted her bony shoulders together, turning her head suddenly away.

  “It’s cold in here,” Verne said.

  She did not answer. Verne gazed around the room. He crossed his legs. A measure of vitality was beginning to come slowly back into him. It made the objects of the room seem less dead, remote. They were regaining their life, their color. What had happened a few minutes before had emptied them, sucked the meaning out of them, out of everything around him, all things in the room, wherever he looked. But now the meaning, the usual glow, was seeping back in, draining slowly back into place.

  The room was becoming warm again. Verne smoked, his legs crossed, feeling a little better.

  He turned to Teddy. “Maybe I should go home.”

  She turned quickly. Her eyes were shining. “Do you want to go? Is that what you want?”

  He removed his pipe slowly. “It’s late. I have the early shift tomorrow.” He glanced away; it was not so.

  “I’m sorry. You—you wouldn’t want to stay here? It’s not very far from the station.”

  “I have to shave.” He plucked at his sleeve. “I need a change.”

  Teddy was silent. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? Why?”

  “I don’t know. I do know!” She gazed at him appealingly. “You’re disappointed. I wasn’t— I wasn’t enough.” She bit her lip, her eyes blind with pain.

  Verne shifted. “No. It certainly isn’t that.”

  She continued to look at him.

  “No, don’t think it was that.” He got to his feet. “It’s late. I’m tired. You know.”

  “I’ll walk downstairs with you.”

  “Good.”

  Teddy went to get her coat. She came back at once, gaunt and forlorn, her coat around her shoulders.

  Verne took her arm awkwardly. “Ready?”

  She nodded.

  “Let’s go.” They went outside, into the empty hall. They walked down the steps slowly, neither of them speaking. The air outside was thin and crisp.

  Verne stood for a moment on the porch, talking a deep breath. The streets were dark and silent. Far off, blocks away, a city street sweeper nosed along, gathering up papers and debris.

  “Well, good night, Teddy,” Verne said.

  “Good night.”

  He walked down and across the sidewalk to his car. Teddy stood on the porch, watching him unlock the door. He slid in behind the wheel.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow on the phone.”

  She nodded.

  He drove off.

  * * * * *

  The telephone was ringing. He opened his eyes. Everything in the room was running back and forth.

  “Christ!”

  He dragged himself out of bed, onto his feet, catching hold of the wall. He scooped up the phone, sitting down in the chair beside it.

  “Hello?” He pushed his hair back out of his face with his fingers. His hands were shaky.

  “This is Teddy.” Her voice was emotionless. It said nothing, only words. He looked at the clock across the room, but he could not read it without his glasses. Bright sunlight was falling in, streaming through the window.

  “What time is it?”

  “Nine-thirty.”

  “I was asleep.” After a moment he said: “I was going to call you later on.”

  “Yes.”

  He felt around for his glasses. They were in his coat, over the back of the chair by the bed. The sun blinded him; he squinted, rubbing his eyes. He yawned.

  Teddy’s voice came again, thin and expressionless. “Don wants me to go out this evening. I didn’t know what to do. Should I go with him?”

  “Don? Where? To where?”

  “The Walker Club.”

  “Oh.” He said nothing for a while. He could feel her holding tightly to the phone at the other end. He tried to think what to say. He was beginning to get adjusted to the sunlight. He closed his eyes and settled against the back of the chair, propping the receiver between his neck and shoulder. Time passed.

  “Do you want to go?” he said finally.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where are you now? At home?”

  “In a drug store. I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been walking around.”

  “What drug store?”

  She did not answer.

  “What drug store? Is it far from here?”

  “No.”

  He considered. “I could drive over and pick you up.”

  “Could you?” She gave him the address.

  “Do you want to wait there?”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “All right?”

  “Yes, I’ll wait here.”

  He hung up. After a while he went in the bathroom and took a shower. He shaved and dressed and listened to the news on the radio. Finally he put his coat on and went outside to the car. He had to be at work at noon. There was about two hours to go.

  He found her standing in front of the drug store, leaning against the side of the building. He pushed the car door open and she made her way out to him.

  “Greetings,” he said, starting up the car. “Hello.”

  “How are you today?”

  “I’m fine.” She turned toward him. “Sorry to wake you up so early.” He could not read her expression. He grunted. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “What time do you have to go to work?”

  “About noon.”

  “Then we have some time, then.”

  “I guess so.” He edged into the traffic. “Verne— What’s wrong?”

  “I’m worried about my program. I haven’t got it ready for next Thursday. I was thinking about it.”

  “We can drive for a while, can’t we?”

  “Sure.” He looked at his watch. “But I have to stop and eat someplace. I haven’t had breakfast.” They drove in silence.

  Teddy stirred. “Verne— You’re not upset about last night, are you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You seem so—so aloof, all of a sudden. So pulled back. Withdrawn and silent.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’d like to know why. Can’t you tell me?”

  “I told you. My damn program.”

  “Is
that really it?” He could feel her watching him intently, looking at his face. “It isn’t because of last night?”

  “Why last night?”

  “I think last night you were—disgusted.”

  Verne snorted. “For God’s sake.” He stopped for a red light. “No, it’s not that. Having a deadline every week grinds me down. The constant pressure. Sometimes I go into a whing-ding of some kind. It has nothing to do with you. It’s been going on for years.”

  “You’re very nervous. I can tell by the way you move your hands. You’re under a lot of tension.”

  Verne thought about it for a while. “It’s a strange thing. About eleven o’clock in the morning I start feeling as if there were something settling down over my shoulders. Some sort of pressure. Like a heavy weight. It bends me over.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “It’s a weight like a glove. As if I had the weight of the world on my shoulders. Responsibility. To my job, I suppose. It wears me out.”

  “You try too hard.”

  “This is a competitive world!”

  “Are you afraid of not succeeding?”

  He scowled and relapsed into silence.

  “I’m sorry,” Teddy said.

  “Well, don’t worry about last night. It’s funny the way women relate everything to themselves. Everything that happens; insult or compliment.” They drove aimlessly along.

  “Are we going any place in particular?” Teddy asked. “Or are we just driving?”

  “Just driving.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “You said Don wanted you to go out with him tonight. Are you going to? Have you decided?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think? I thought maybe you and I—”

  “Do you want to?”

  “No. But—you and I couldn’t do something, could we?”

  “I have the late shift. I won’t be off until after midnight.”

  “Do they make you work that long?”

  “It’s split. A break in the afternoon.”

  “Later in the week could—”

  “We can probably work something out.”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t feel hurt,” Verne said.

  “I’m not hurt.”