The Dark Arena (3 page)

“Hello, Walter,” she said, and Mosca noticed that her voice trembled slightly. She took off her coat. She had on a blouse with just a few large buttons, and with this a wide pleated skirt.

“Alone at last,” he said with a grin and stretched back on the sofa. “Fix a couple of drinks.” Gloria sat on the sofa and leaned over to kiss him. He put his hands on her breast, and they kissed for a long time. “Drinks coming up,” she said, and pulled away from him.

They drank. The radio was playing soffly and a floor lamp cast its soft yellow glow over the room. He lit two cigarettes and gave her one. They smoked and when he stubbed out his cigarette he saw that she still held on to hers. He took it away from her and carefully crushed it in the ash tray.

Mosca pulled Gloria down so that she lay across his body. He unbuttoned her blouse so that he could slip his
hand inside her brassiere and then kissed her. He moved his hand down under her skirt.

Gloria sat up and pushed away from him. Mosca was surprised and instantly alert.

“I don't want to go all the way,” Gloria said. The girlish phrase irritated him and he reached for her impatiently. She stood up and away from him.

“No, I really mean it,” she said.

“What the hell,” Mosca said, “the two weeks before I went overseas were fine. What's wrong now?”

“I know.” Gloria smiled at him tenderly, and he felt a quick anger. “But then it was different. You were going away and I loved you. If I did it now if would only make you think less of me. Don't be mad, Walter, but Fve talked with Emmy about it. You were so different when you came back that I had to talk to somebody. And we both thought it would be best.”

Mosca lit a cigarette. “Your sister's stupid.”

“Please don't say things like that, Walter. I won't do what you want because I really love you.”

Mosca choked on his drink and tried hard not to laugh. “Look,” he said, “if we hadn't slept together that last two weeks I wouldn't have remembered you or written. You wouldn't have meant anything to me.”

He saw her face get red. She went over to the armchair facing him and sat down.

“I loved you before that,” she said. He saw that her mouth was quivering, and he tossed her the pack of cigar rettes, then sipped his drink and tried to reason everything out.

His desire was gone, and he actually felt a sense of relief. Why, he didn't know. There was no doubt in his mind that he could talk or threaten Gloria into doing what he wished. He knew that if he said, “This is the way it has to be or else,” she would yield. He knew that he had been too abrupt and that with some patience and a little finesse the evening would end pleasantly. But he found with surprise that the effort was too much trouble for him to take. He was completely without desire.

“It's okay. Come over here.”

She came obediently. “You're not angry?” she asked in a low voice.

He kissed her and smiled. “No, it doesn't matter.’ he said, and it was true.

Gloria put her head on his shoulder. “Let's just stay here like this tonight and talk. We've never really had a chance to talk together since you've come back.”

Mosca pulled away and went to get her coat “We're going to the movies,” he said

“I want to stay here.”

Mosca said with a deliberate, brutal carelessness, “It's either go to the movies or get laid.”

She stood up and looked at Mm steadily. “And you don't care which.”

“That's right”

He expected her to put on her coat and walk out of the apartment But she waited submissively until he had combed his hair and knotted his tie. They went to the movies.

It was nearly noon, a month later, that Mosca, coming into the apartment, found Alf, his mother, and Gloria's sister, Emmy, drinking coffee in the kitchen.

“Do you want some coffee?” his mother asked.

“Yeah, just let me wash up a bit” Mosca went into the bathroom and smiled grimly as he wiped his face dry before going back to the kitchen.

They all sipped coffee, and then Emmy opened the attack.

“You're not treating Gloria right She waited three years for you, she never had a date, and she missed a lot of chances.”

“A lot of chances for what?” Mosca asked. Then he laughed. “We're getting along okay. It takes time.”

Emmy said, “You had a date with her last night, you didn't show up. You get home now. It isn't right what you're doing.”

His mother saw that Mosca was getting angry and said placatingly, “Gloria waited here until two in the morning; you should have called up.”

“And we all know what you're doing,” Emmy said “You leave a girl who waited for you three years to go out with the neighborhood chippie, a girl who's had three abortions and God knows what else.”

Mosca shrugged. “I can't see your sister every night.”

“No, you're too important for that.” He saw with surprise that she really hated hint

“It was everybody's idea that we wait until I get a steady job,” Mosca reminded her.

“I didn't know what a bastard you'd turn out to be. If you don't want to get married, tell Gloria. Don't worry, die can find somebody else.”

Alf spoke up. “That's silly. Of course Walter wants to marry her. Let's be sensible about this. He's finding things a bit strange; hell get over it. Hie thing for us to do is help him.”

Emmy said sarcastically, “If Gloria slept with him everything would be fine. You'd be readjusted, wouldn't you, Walter?”

“This is getting stupid,” Alf said. “Let's get down to fundamentals. You're angry because Walter is having an affair and isn't bothering to hide it, which is the least he could do. All right. Gloria is too crazy about Walter to give him the air. I think the best thing to do is to set a marriage date.”

“And my sister keeps working while he runs around with all the little whores like he did in Germany?”

Mosca looked at his mother coldly, and she dropped her eyes away from his. There was a silence. “Yes,” Emmy said quietly, “your mother told Gloria about the letters you get from that girl in Germany. You should be ashamed, Walter, honestly you should.”

“Those letters don't mean a thing,” Mosca said. And he could see the look of relieved belief on their faces.

“Hell get a job,” his mother said, “and they can live here until they find an apartment”

Mosca sipped his coffee. He had been angry for a moment but now he was impatient to be out of this room, away from them. All this crap had gone far enough.

“But hell have to quit-running around with these little chippies,” Emmy said.

Mosca broke in gently. “There's only one goddamn thing wrong. I'm not ready to set a date.”

They all looked at him with surprise. “I'm not sure I want to get married,” he added with a grin.

“What,” Emmy was screaming incoherently, “what?” She was so angry she couldn't speak any farther.

“And don't give me the three-year crap. What the hell difference does it make to me that she didn't get screwed for three years? Do you think that kept me awake nights worrying? What the hell, did it grow gold because she didn't use it? I had other things to worry about”

“Mease, Walter,” his mother said.

“Ah, shit,” Mosca said. His mother left the table and went to the stove, and he knew she was crying.

They were all suddenly standing and Alf, supporting himself against the table, shouted with anger, “All right, Walter, this readjustment crap can be overdone.”

“And I think you've been babied too damn much since you've been home,” Emmy said with contempt.

There was nothing to say to all this except to tell than exactly how he felt “You can kiss my ass,” he said, and although he spoke to Emmy, his glance included them all.

He rose to leave, but Alf, holding cm to the table, moved in front of him and shouted with rage. “Goddamn you, that's going too far. Apologize, do you hear, apologize.”

Mosca pushed him out of the way and saw too late that Alf's false leg was not there. Alf toppled over and his head struck against the floor. Both women screamed. Mosca bent over quickly to lift Alt “Are you okay?” he asked. Alf nodded but kept his face covered with his hands and remained sitting on the floor. Mosca left the apartment He always remembered his mother standing by the stove, crying, wringing her hands.

The last time he entered the apartment Mosca found his mother waiting for him—she had not gone out at all that day.

“Gloria called you up,” she said.

Mosca nodded in acknowledgment

“Are you going to pack now?” his mother asked timidly.

“Yeah,” Mosca said.

“Do you want me to help?”

“No,” he said.

He went into his bedroom and took out the two new suitcases he had bought. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and looked through Ms pockets for a match and then went into the kitchen for one.

His mother was still sitting in the chair. She had a handkerchief covering her face and was weeping silently.

He took the matches and started to lea the kitchen.

“Why do you treat me like this?” his mother said, “What have I done?”

He had no pity and the tears stirred no emotion, but he didn't want hysterics. He tried to talk quietly, to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“You haven't done anything, Fm just leaving; it's nothing to do with you.”

“Why do you always talk to me like that as if I were a stranger?”

The words touched him, but he could make no gesture of affection. Tm just nervous,” he said. “H you're not going out, help me pack.”

She went into the bedroom with him and carefully folded his clothes before he put them into the suitcases.

“Do you need any cigarettes?” his mother asked.

“No, I'll get them on the ship.”

“I'll just run down and get some, you never can teU.”

“They're only a nickel a pack on the ship,” he said. He didn't want her to give him anything.

“You can always use extra cigarettes,” his mother said and left the apartment.

Mosca sat on his bed and stared at the picture of Gloria that hung on the wall. He felt no emotion,
ft hasn't worked out,
he thought.
Its too bad.
And he wondered at their patience, realizing how hard they had tried and what little effort he had made. He searched in his mind for something he could say to his mother, to show her there was nothing
she could do to help, that his actions had sprang from another root which neither he nor she could control.

In the living-room the phone began to ring, and he went to it. Gloria's voice, impersonal, yet friendly, answered him.

“I hear you're leaving tomorrow. Should I come over tonight to say good-by or just say it now over the phone?”

“Suit yourself,” Mosca said, “but I have to go out around nine.”

‘Til come before then,” she said. “Don't worry, it's just to say good-by.” And he knew that it was true, that she no longer cared for him, that he was no longer what she had loved, and she wished to say good-by with a friendliness that was really curiosity.

When his mother came back he had made up his mind. “Mom,” he said, “I'm leaving now. Gloria called. She's coming over tonight and I don't want to see her.”

“You mean now. This minute?”

“Yes,” Mosca said.

“But at least you can spend your last night home,” she said. “Alf will be home soon; you could at least wait to say good-by to your brother.”

“So long, Mom,” he said. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

“Wait,” his mother said, “you've forgotten your gym bag.” And, as she had so many times before when he had left the house to play basketball and finally when he had left for the Army, she took the small, blue gym bag and began to fill it with what he would need. Only again now, instead of the satin-covered shorts, the leather knee guards, and sneakers, she put in his shaving kit, a fresh change of underwear, towel, and soap. Then taking a piece of string from one of the bureau drawers, she tied the gym bag to the handle of a suitcase.

“Ah,” she said, “I dont know what all the people will say. They'll think it's my fault, that I haven't made you happy. And at least after the way you treated Gloria, you could see her tonight, see her and say good-by and be nice to her so she won't feel so badly.”

“It's a tough world for everybody,” Mosca said He
kissed her again, but before he could walk out of the apartment she held on to him.

“Are you going back to Germany because of that girl?” And Mosca realized that if he said yes, his mother's vanity would be soothed, that she would know then it was not her fault that he left. But he couldn't lie.

“I don't think so,” he said, “She probably has another GI by now.” And saying it out loud, in all sincerity, he was surprised that it should sound so false, as if the truth he told were a lie to hurt his mother.

She kissed him and let him go. In the street he looked up and saw her at the closed window, the white spot of a handkerchief to her face. He set the suitcases on the ground and waved to her and saw that she had left the window. Afraid that she would come down to make a scene in the street, he picked up Ms suitcases and walked quickly to the main avenue where he could catch a taxi.

But his mother was sitting on the sofa, weeping, with shame, grief, humiliation. Deep inside ler knowing that if her son had died on an unknown beach, buried in a foreign land, the white cross over his body mingled with thousands of others, her grief would have been perhaps greater. But there would have been no shame, and she would have been, in a later time, reconciled, in some measure, proud.

There would not have been this festering sorrow, this knowledge that he was irrevocably gone, that if he died, she could never weep over his tody, bury him, bring flowers to his grave.

On the train taking him back to the land of the enemy, Mosca, dozing, swayed from side to side with the movement of the car. Sleepily he walked back to his bench and stretched out on it. But lying there he heard the moans of the wounded man, the chattering of teeth, the sleeping body only now protesting against the insane rage of the world. Mosca rose and walked down to the GI half of the car. Most of the soldiers were asleep, and there was only a small halo of light, the flaring of three closely grouped candles. Mulrooney, crumpled up on a bench, was snoring,
and two GIs, their carbines lying beside them, were playing rummy and drinking from a small bottle.