Benchley, Peter - Novel 07 (20 page)

 
          
 
"You think I'm victimizing her?"

 
          
 
"What would you call it? You may be a
retard, all addicts are retards, maybe you stopped growing at nineteen or
twenty or twenty-five. But you're a grown-up. Relatively. That girl is a
baby.'"

 
          
 
"But I haven't done anything!"

 
          
 
"You're doing it. You're getting her to
lean on you, confide in you, count on you, maybe even fall in love with you.
She has no foundation in her life, and you're letting her build one on
you." She paused. "And all you're interested in is a cheap piece of
ass."

 
          
 
"You're nuts! You don't know anything.
Worse than that security guard what's-his-name who you think is the Second
Coming because he doesn't take dope anymore. You want to see something, so you
see it. Everybody fits a pattern. Life is a Jell-O mold."

 
          
 
“So it's more than that. Not just jumping her
bones.''

 
          
 
“That has nothing to do with it."

 
          
 
“You care about her. ..."

 
          
 
What was this? Suddenly Marcia's voice had
gone soft, conversational. He said, "Damn right."

 
          
 
Watch out! He must have said too much, or the
wrong thing, put his foot in it. Somehow. Keep your mouth shut.

 
          
 
“. . . 'cause I'd hate to think your brains
were all in your pants, smart guy like you." She smiled. "So tell me:
What happens when you get out of here? You tell . . . Margaret, is it? . . .
you tell Margaret so long, you've got your act together now, you're taking off,
and you and Priscilla head for
Barbados
or someplace? I mean, we both know she's
loaded."

 
          
 
"I don't-"

 
          
 
"Or maybe you hang in there with the marriage
for a while, see how things go, let Priscilla get an apartment and you see her
when you can, and every time Margaret looks at you sideways or says something
that ticks you off, like 'Why can't you pick up your socks?,' you make a little
mark on your mental blackboard, until finally you've got so many marks against
her that she says one more thing and blammo! you split, feeling like a goddam
saint for having put up with her so long."

 
          
 
"You have a nasty mind. Christ! I haven't
thought half that far ahead."

 
          
 
"That's my point, Scott." Again she
smiled, and now there was no irony in her voice. "You haven't thought ten seconds
from now. You've taken ‘One Day at a Time' and twisted it to mean there's no
yesterday, there's no tomorrow, there's nothing but right now. No guilt, no
responsibility. If it feels good, do it. If somebody gets hurt, too bad. Look
out for number one." She bent down and pulled open a bottom drawer in her
desk. “But that's not the way it works, Scott. Priscilla's already wounded. I'm
not gonna let you cripple her."

 
          
 
He wanted to shout, to hit her, to rail
against the wrong she was doing him, but his mind was like a wasps' nest
sprayed with poison—full of creatures dying, furious, perplexed and frightened.
Words tried to form themselves and escape, but they merely buzzed around and
dropped.

 
          
 
Marcia reached into the drawer and pulled out
a pint of vodka. Popov. She put it on the desk and pushed it toward him.
"Have a drink, Scott. Not your brand, but what the hell, right?"

 
          
 
He stopped breathing and, without realizing
it, took a step backward.

 
          
 
"Go ahead. You're never gonna make it
through here, so why put off the inevitable?"

 
          
 
"Yes, I am," he whispered.

 
          
 
She shook her head. "Not a chance. Oh, I
don't think you'll sneak out and get wrecked, or smuggle something in, or steal
something—any of the stuff the real high-wire artists do that gets them
booted—but if I get one more word that you and Priscilla have been doing
anything more than saying 'Howdjado' in the hallway, I'll have your sorry ass
out of here so fast you'll think you had a blackout. And I will get another
word, Scott, because you will do something more with Priscilla. You know why?
Because you don't have the guts not to." She stood up and lifted the
bottle and unscrewed the top and pressed the bottle on him. "Go on, Scott.
Save me the trouble."

 
          
 
It was at that moment that
Preston
had felt the sour taste in the back of his
mouth and had rushed for the door.

 
          
 
Marcia was concluding her chronicle of Lewis's
recovery, saying that the key in his case was acceptance: He had to accept the
hand that life had dealt him, had to play those cards for all they were worth,
not waste a lot of time lamenting that he wasn't holding a pat straight flush,
because many a determined player had made a winning game from a busted flush or
a four-card straight, since so much of life is a bluffer's paradise.

 
          
 
Then, noticing that Lewis looked utterly
baffled, realizing that she had wasted a terrific extended metaphor, she said,
"Do you play poker, Lewis?"

 
          
 
Lewis shook his head. "Whist," he
said. "And crazy eights when I was a kid."

 
          
 
"Well"—she smiled—"take my word
for it. Play the cards you've got, accept yourself for what you are, and you'll
do fine."

 
          
 
Now it was time for everybody else to say
something about Lewis. Nobody had to, and a handful of people, mostly from
Dan's group, who didn't know Lewis very well, didn't volunteer.

 
          
 
Priscilla's hand was the first to shoot up,
from behind a couch across the room from
Preston
. Marcia pointed to her, and she stood.

 
          
 
"You're one of the nicest, sweetest men
I've ever known," Priscilla said to Lewis, "and I wish you all the
best in your life ahead. I know you'll make it." She blew him a kiss.
"I love you a lot."

 
          
 
Wait a second here! Where does she get all
this love she’s scattering around like grass seed?

 
          
 
Hector, the veteran of dozens of graduations
from coast to coast, stood next. "When you come in here, you're one a the
scaredest muthafuckas"—he looked at Marcia—"sorry . . . mofos ... I
ever seen. But now you really shaped up, got your shit together. You showed
everybody you got a real pair of cojones . . . pam the 'spression." He
shot Lewis a thumbs-up sign. "Sock it to 'em, amigo."

 
          
 
Marcia then recognized Clarence Crosby, who
said, "I don't know you real well, Lewis, but I'm not a bad scout, and I
tell you this: You can play outfield on my team anytime."

 
          
 
There was applause, and a lot of laughter and
a few whistles. Lewis turned even redder, and he busied one 1 of his fingers in
the curl of his pompadour.

 
          
 
Duke didn't intend to speak, but Marcia
pointed to him anyway and said, "Duke, you were Lewis's roommate."

 
          
 
"I guess Lewis taught me a bunch of
things," Duke said, vamping as he got to his feet. "Like, don't judge
a book by its cover. I mean, I didn't know what I was getting in for, but then
I thought: Jesus, what did he think, 'cause when we met they wouldn't even let
me wear pants 'cause I'd been dressed like a damn rabbit. But you've been a
great roommate, Lewis." He smirked as the laugh line came to him.
"And any time you need any condoms, you know who to call."

 
          
 
Duke grinned expectantly, but nobody laughed.
Lewis looked at the floor. Duke said, "I make them, that's my business. I
wasn't kidding." He sat down.

 
          
 
Twist sat in a chair in front of
Preston
, and
Preston
heard him muttering to himself, as if
composing a statement.
Preston
leaned forward and touched Twist's arm and whispered, "It's okay, man, say
it. You can't screw up worse than Duke did."

 
          
 
Twist nodded and started to speak as he
unfolded himself from the chair. "Everybody feels sorry for his-self, I
s'pose," he said, looking at the floor, "and I did too. Hell, it's
not my fault if I'm a junkie. You would be too, if you was black and dumb and
everybody puts you down alla time and all that other bullshit. But Lewis, he
got more to feel sorry for than most folks, and he don't ever seem to show it
much." He raised his eyes and looked into Lewis's. "What I mean is,
you may be one weird dude, but I guess you're 'bout one a the best rummies I
ever did meet. So good luck, man."

 
          
 
Preston
patted Twist on the back, and Lewis smiled at him, and a few people applauded.

 
          
 
Preston
was
beginning to feel good. These were people who had probably never expressed a
feeling for another person except perhaps a girlfriend or a mother, had
certainly never articulated such a feeling before an audience. He was
witnessing a kind of dawn, a birth of honesty and self-awareness, a reaching
out by people whose lives had been tight little knots of isolation.
Fascinating. More than that. It was . . .

 
          
 
"Scott?"

 
          
 
Preston
started. Why was Marcia calling his name? He looked at her.

 
          
 
"I'm sure you have something to
say."

 
          
 
"What?" He didn't have anything to
say. Why was she dragging him onto the stage?

 
          
 
"Words are your living, Scott. Come on.
We can't all be spectators."

 
          
 
She read my mind. It 5 like I've got a neon
sign hanging over my head. He looked at Lewis, who was smiling at him,
expecting a pearl of eloquence and insight. If she hadn't called on him, he
could have kept his mouth shut and nobody would have cared. But he couldn't
decline now. Don't rain on Lewis's parade.

 
          
 
“I don't know what I can add," he said as
he pushed off from the floor. He reached for nice words. "You're a man of
courage, Lewis," he said, "a man of grace and compassion. And if
those three things can't help you make it, then we're all doomed."

 
          
 
Lewis grinned. But Marcia just gave her head a
little disappointed shake and said, "Nice, Scott. Right from the heart."

 
          
 
Preston
didn't know why, wasn't sure how, but he knew he had been slapped in the face.

 
          
 
Marcia took a slip of paper from her shirt
pocket. "I have a note here from Cheryl, Lewis. You know she's over at the
hospital having another biopsy. The note reads: 'I love you, Lewis. I'll miss
you. I don't know if there's a God, but I know you're a big part of my higher
power, so wherever you go for the rest of your life, I want you to know that
I'll be praying for you.' " As she handed the note to Lewis, as she said,
"This is yours to keep," she glanced at
Preston
.