Cloud Nine (6 page)

I stopped on purpose, expecting him to come in and say what he had to say. But I waited and no answer came. I asked, “Mr. Lang, are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” he said.

“Well? What do you say?”

“What is there
to
say, Mr. Kirby?”

That didn’t quite seem to cover it, and I pressed him, as to whether he’d sign the consent, and whether Mrs. Lang would. But no answer came, and then I could hear her voice, but couldn’t hear what she said. Then came that blank you get when somebody cups the phone. Then the blank went off and her voice came through: “Mr. Kirby, my husband just told me what you and Sonya are fixing to do, and I can only say: God bless! Mr. Kirby, I’ve always admired you so, and want you to know how grateful I am, how grateful we both are, that you’d step into the breach this way, and—”

“But I want to step into the breach!”

“And it’s so decent of you, Mr. Kirby—”

“Mrs. Lang, about the parental consent—”

“And Mr. Kirby, one other thing—“

But on that, Sonya grabbed the receiver. She’d been cuddled into my arms, so she could hear, and she let her mother have it: “Mother! This is me! Now will you knock it off with the goo, all this ladylike talk? It’s getting late, and we have to apply for our license—we want to do it today, so we can be married Monday and get it over with! But we must have your consent, and—” But there was more talk from the other end, and suddenly Sonya screamed, “Yah! Yah! Yah”—or something that sounded like that, and began jawing stuff that seemed wild, but that apparently did the trick. Then she snapped: “Okay, we’ll be by in ten minutes! See that you don’t keep us waiting! We have to be there before that bureau, the Marriage License Bureau, closes down for the day! Ten minutes!”

She put the receiver back, stood up, smoothed her dress, and kissed me. “Okay, let’s go,” she said. “We’re set.”

So started an afternoon and evening that melted into a blur, that was something like a dream, and yet at the same time was real. They were waiting out front, Mrs. Lang in a black silk dress with red flowers on it, he in a suit, with no hat. I hopped out, kissed her, and shook hands with him. I handed her in, let him climb in beside her, closed them up, got in myself, and started out. He said, “Mr. Kirby, I don’t try to read your mind, but if it was me, I’d want it done kind of quiet, so how about Rockville instead of Marlboro? I imagine you’re not so well-known in Montgomery County, as you are here in Prince Georges, and—”

“Good!” I answered. “Sonya?”

“Well of course,” she chirped. “It’s how we should do, of course. It’s amazing, dumb as he is, the things my father thinks up.”

“He’s due to get brighter. Did you know?”

“He
is?
So he won’t be so dumb inny more?”

“It’s a well-known fact—when smart-alecky kids get older, their parents get un-dumbed.”

“Well what do you know. But, take the dumbness out—”

“Sonya,” I said. “Shut up.”

“Okay.”

She said it meek, opened her legs, and began fanning herself with her skirt. “Mother,” she asked, “if you had told me that, what then?”

“You’d have screamed for an hour, at least.”

“He tells me shut up and I shut.”

“And a great improvement, I’d say.”

That was Mr. Lang, and it hit us all funny, so we laughed and eased off a bit. For the rest of the trip to Rockville we acted natural and chatted along, mainly about what a fine day it was. When we got there, I parked in front of the courthouse and we all went in, marching up to the Marriage License Bureau, where the lady was quite friendly, and it turned out they had printed forms for the parental consent. So while the Langs were filling that out, Sonya and I filled out our application and signed it. Then the lady looked everything over and said: “This seems to be in order—you can pick up your license Monday.” I asked if “the judge” could marry us, that being a brevet I’d heard of, that seemed suitable to a courthouse bigwig. But from the smile she gave it I knew I’d pulled a blooper. “Actually,” she said, “it’s against the law in Maryland for a judge to perform a marriage, but the deputy clerk would be glad to. Do you wish to make an appointment?”

“Well I certainly
hope
so!” said Sonya, in such a hard-boiled way that the lady laughed and we all laughed.

But Mrs. Lang started to cry.
“There
now!” said the lady.
“There
now!
There!”

We set it for two o’clock, which would give us time in the morning for things that might have to be done.

Going back it was still very friendly, but with long pauses between, and no laughing, or at least, not much. I expected opposition, perhaps quite a fight, over my taking Sonya for the weekend, and was rehearsing argument for it, for some little time in my mind, before bringing the subject up. But when I did, there was no opposition. “I may as well own up,” said Mr. Lang, “I used bad judgment about it, about this idea I had, that though blood is what wipes out that stain, money can take its place. It was for her benefit, Sonya’s I mean, that I must say for myself, so at least my intentions were good. What I hadn’t realized was, I was creating a situation where one person on earth could wish Sonya dead, could benefit from having her dead, on account of a situation I’d created myself. And not to go into details, I can’t honestly say that person would stop at killing her. So, until Monday, when this marriage takes place and this person no longer has reason to take her life we’re up against something quite serious. That’s why, Mr. Kirby, I’ll let Sonya go with you—otherwise, I’d blister her backside for doing it.”

“No blistering’s called for, I promise you.”

“Your intentions do you credit.”

“Mr. Kirby, we trust you completely,” said Mrs. Lang, and a silence settled down. Then presently he asked me: “You taking her to New York?”

“...That idea had occurred to us.”

“To
me!”
yelped Sonya.
“I
thought it up.”

“It occurred to
me,
Mr. Kirby.”

“Well listen to him! Maybe he’s
not
so dumb!”

She twisted around to stare at her father, and I said: “I told you, didn’t I? That he was due to get brighter?”

“It’s amazing, simply amazing.”

“But I was too set in my mind,” he went on, paying no attention to her, “thinking about that money, that I wouldn’t let myself face it, that this simple solution was there.”

“It
was
Sonya’s idea, that’s true.”

“So let’s all bow down and give thanks.”

She was quite airy about it, but her father gave it a brush. “I give thanks to Mr. Kirby,” he announced, in an extra-solemn way, “for relieving a situation in all kinds of different ways, especially for me. At least, I’m off the hook.”

I didn’t say anything, but it seemed to me he accented
I’m
just a little. And Sonya caught it too. “
You’re
off the hook?” she snapped. “What’s that supposed to mean? That somebody else in on?”

“It means what I said. I’m off.”

“It sounded to mean more.”

“Don’t hear sounds that weren’t made.”

They may have wrangled a little more, but I didn’t pay too much attention, as we were nearing the Lang home, and I had to take up the question of where I would go with her, these next three days and three nights, as taking her home was out of the question. I mean, if she were coming in as my wife next week, then to have her lay up for the weekend as an unexplained what-is-it? would be giving her unnecessary problems. And so the subject of who was on the hook got dropped—but it didn’t stay dropped, I assure you. It kept coming up and coming up and coming up.

T
HE LANGS ASKED ME
in, and I waited with them in the living room while Sonya went upstairs to pack an overnight bag. I said what was on my mind, and favored Washington, D.C., for our hideout, as being near if something came up, and at the same time completely safe. I mentioned the Mayflower Hotel, “which is much like home to me, as I’ve been there so often.” The Mayflower got instant approval. Then Sonya came down, carrying her bag, and I broke the news to her, telling her, “I’ll sign you in as my fiancée, taking a single and a bath for you. For myself I’ll take a suite, and that way, without violating any rules, you can visit me any time, and we won’t have to meet in the lobby.”

She said, “We’re going to Ocean City, and you’re signing me in ‘and wife,’ in a suite with bath for two.” I hit the roof, saying: “Do you want to get me arrested? How can I possibly get away with it, coming in with a child and signing her on as my wife—unless, except, and until I have the papers to prove it, which I won’t have until Monday.” Her father and mother agreed, but she paid not the slightest attention, standing in front of a wall mirror, working on her face. Then she took off her hat, opened her bag, took something out and pulled it on her head, putting the hat back on. Then she turned around, a grown woman.

She sashayed over to me, a bit heavy in the bottom, and told me: “What gives a young girl away, a young girl trying to look older, is her walk—the way she skips around like a heifer. A woman has lead in her tail.”

“Well thank you, Sonya,” snapped Mrs. Lang.

“Don’t be ashamed of it, Mother—it makes the world go ’round. But if you’re a young girl and want to look older—”

“What’s that on your head?” I asked her.

“The wig I wore when I played Mrs. Malaprop at the school entertainment. It has streaks of gray in it.”

“And what have you done to your face?”

“Made it up, using the liner. You put on one thin, vertical line, over the nose in the middle, and two slanting lines alongside the mouth, leading down toward the jaw. That’s all—with those three lines you can pass, so no one will ever guess. One thing you
can’t
change, or do
innything
about, is your voice, that Mia Farrow mumble a young girl always has. So what you do about
that
is keep your mouth shut.”

“You think you can?” asked her father.

“I’ll do my best. No one can do inny more.”

“Then suppose you start practicing
now.”

We all laughed some more, but I noticed that now she looked so much older, no argument was made by anyone against signing her in “and wife.” I said, “At Ocean City, I’ve heard that the Pocahontas is one of the best motels, and if I may borrow the phone, I’ll reserve our space right now.”

The phone was in the hall, and I put a $5 bill under it, but Mrs. Lang picked it up and slipped it in my breast pocket, saying:
“Please,
Mr. Kirby,
please!”

The Pocohontas did have space, “what we call our efficiency suite,” the reservation clerk said, “—sitting room, bedroom, bath, and kitchenette, with pulldown beds in the sitting room. All in all, if you’re bringing the family, there’s accommodations for six.”

“It’s just myself and my wife,” I told him.

“Then I’m sure you’ll find it satisfactory.”

“How much is it setting me back?”

“Thirty-eight a day, two-fifty by the week.”

“We’ll be there until Monday morning.”

“And when shall we expect you, sir?”

“Tonight, some time after ten.”

He took my name and number, in case something came up, and when I hung up Sonya said: “I just loved it, how he said ‘and my wife.’ It’s what I want to be, his wife.”

“You get along quite well,” said Mrs. Lang.

“I’m stuck on him, that’s why. More’n he is on me.”

“You got a stuckometer, to measure?” I asked her.

“Maybe not, but I know. I’m working on it, though.”

I called Miss Musick, to say I wouldn’t be in until Tuesday. I said: “Something’s come up, kind of a continuation of that call, the one you took from the girl. Miss Musick, I’m getting married.”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!”

“To her, the one you talked to.”

“But Mr. Kirby, do I know her?”

“I don’t think so, but she wants to know you.”

“I knew there was something about her!”

“You can say that again, Helen.”

Then at last we were headed for Ocean City, but I still had nothing to sleep in, and thought it most inadvisable to stop by the house and pack, as popping in with a young girl, and then popping out with her and a packed bag would be almost as bad as having her there for the weekend. But she knew what to do. “People’s,” she said, “will have everything you need—you name it, they’ll tell you which counter it’s on.” So we stopped by People’s in College Park, and sure enough they fixed me up, not only with pajamas, shirts, razor, lather, lotion, comb, and brush, but also luggage, a snappy zipper bag, exactly what I should have to stop at a beach motel. While I was buying my stuff, I gave her twenty dollars, to buy whatever she needed, but she didn’t buy anything. “I’m being economical,” she said, “to prove I’m a sensible wife.” But I’d bought something for her, a nice big bottle of Arpège, which she held close and almost cried over. “I never had inny scent!” she kept saying over and over. “No scent of my own at all—I always had to steal Mother’s. And this is the kind I love!”

So, when at last we really got rolling, it was a happy time. She kept sniffing the Arpège bottle, opening her legs, and fanning herself with her skirt. Then she took off the wig, put it in her bag, and wiped away the lines. “They can wait,” she said. “Just right now I want to be
me.”

We crossed the bay on the bridge, I would say around seven o’clock, and then ran for some distance by daylight, through the flat Eastern Shore country. Then we spotted a place called The Grisfield, which looked to be fairly decent, and decided to stop for dinner. It was the first I found out how much she could eat. Their specialty was crab, which I don’t really care for too much, so after she spoke for it, I ordered the Delmonico steak. “Well,” she said kind of sheepish, “can I have what I want? Can I have what I
really
want?” I said of course, and she said: “I want the crab
and
the steak!” The waitress let out a whistle, and said: “Your daughter’s really hungry.”

“I’m his wife!” snapped Sonya, pretty sore.

That upset the girl, and she said: “I’m sorry!”

However, I played it straight. “One steak dinner for me,” I said. “One steak dinner
and
one crab dinner for my wife.”