n college yet, after you get out?” and he says “Something good for mankind. A doctor, but not for money but for missionary work, though not connected to any religion. Unfortunately, I’m not good in the sciences. But my dad says I don’t have to be and that he’ll get me into dental school if I want, because once there it’s all practical stuff.” “But you don’t want to be a dentist, putting your nose in people’s mouths,” and he says “No, a doctor, but medical school he doesn’t think he can get me into with just a C average, which is all I’ve ever been, and also because he has no connections there, so I don’t know what to do. But when you think of it, people have bad teeth everywhere and it causes so much pain and the relief of it’s just as great as taking out a cancer, and I have to admit my father’s a dentist, but not practicing these days. But just to go to Africa — maybe I’ll learn French better and go to med school in Switzerland or someplace like I heard people do who can’t get in here — and to work with poor starving natives and in the deepest bush.” “That’s nice. Money doesn’t concern you. That’s great, but you have such a long trek ahead. I’d like to be an artist of any sort — but a creator, not an interpreter — and right now I’m going about trying to determine which one. Maybe I’ll be a triple or quadruple threat in several artistic fields, and with a number of hats on my head in each one.” He doesn’t get the hat expression, but nods, says it sound exciting, he once thought of art for himself too. Painting, which he used to do slews of as a kid and some of his school art teachers thought he was pretty good at, and even acting, which he thinks you can be a creator in, though maybe she’s right, but he doesn’t have enough talent for either or not compared to lots of people he’s seen his age. “My feeling,” she says, “and you know, I’m only starting out, but it’s if you don’t believe in yourself completely from the beginning in those fields, it’s best to stay out of them. So you probably made the right decision, early as it was.” The movie’s about young concert performers — the reason he took her to it; classical music, maybe an intelligent story in it — and in the cab home he asks and she says she’s grateful he took her but the plot and music were for the most part for people who only feed on sweets. “You noticed no Bartok, Stravinsky, Schoenberg, any of the modernists. You know why? Most people would run out of the theater, or worse, not go in.” Stravinsky he thinks he heard of, but the others? but he says “There’s something to what you say. But a little of it, I have to admit, like that Mendelssohn violin thing running through it, I kind of liked and think I’ll get a recording of it. I got the name of the real player of it from the closing credits, which is why I made you sit through them. Francescatti.” Oh, she says, she knows his Prokofiev and Bach. She lets him kiss her at the door. “Can I call you again?” and she says “Sure, call,” and he says “Maybe we can make a date now — I’ve been invited to what should be a great party next Saturday,” and she says “I don’t have my calendar on me or know what my obligations at home will be next week. Best to call.” He bends down to kiss her but she moves aside and says “One, for now, is enough.” Next two days he thinks he can still smell her perfume on his sport jacket in his closet, but his brother takes a whiff and says he’s imagining it. “Just sweat; you ought to get it dry-cleaned if you want anybody to go out with you.” Calls that Tuesday; Monday would seem he was too much in a hurry. “Hi, I was wondering if you’d like to go to that party I mentioned,” and she says it turns out she’s busy all weekend, and when he asks, the next one too. He says he’ll call again if she doesn’t mind and she says OK. “By the way, how are you, what have you been doing?” and she says “Nothing much, and fine, there’s little that ever gets me down, but you know how I feel about small talk. So I’ll be speaking to you, Howard.” Howard, his name, that she was saying it, he was going crazy for her. Draws her face and figure in that crinoline dozens of times, kisses his pillow several times pretending it’s her. He loves everything about her. Looks, manners, mannerisms, intellect, clothes, tastes, gracefulness, cute younger sister who came out to see him that first date, that she and her sister share their own listed phone, her fancy East Side friends and school, fine old apartment building and apartment with a wide Hudson view, doormen, elevator men, flowers in the lobby, flowers in that little foyer right outside their front door, maid who wore a black and white uniform when there weren’t even guests and called him Mr. Tetch, way the place was furnished and that Gwen brought him into the living room to meet her parents who were having coffee after dinner, father with a tie on and in what looked like a lounge jacket, mother also in elegant stay-at-home clothes and with this aristocratic voice and both getting up to shake his hand, paintings he was shown there, real drawings — with little frame lights above them — by Titian and Rembrandt, books she said she was reading, small poetry book she took to the movie in case, she said, she had a few extra minutes when let’s say he went to look for a cab, thin soft lips and beautiful teeth, that she had a cat. Calls the Tuesday after the next and she says she’s busy the following weekend, “Oh, that’s too bad. Is there any weekend you won’t be busy — in other words, maybe the first Friday or Saturday night where you won’t?” and she says “I never make plans for more than the coming weekend — that last time was an aberration.” “An aberration. OK,” he says angrily, “an aberration,” and hangs up, hoping his anger and hanging up and no good-bye will somehow interest her in him more; that he draws the line, has feelings, takes no crap, is like what she originally liked in him it seems, a strong proletariat. Right after that he gets depressed, doesn’t know how he’ll make it till next Tuesday or Wednesday when he’ll call. Tuesday; Wednesday and she’ll be busy for sure the next weekend or at least will have a good excuse: he called too late. And “aberration,” and he writes it down way he thinks it’s spelled, looks it up, it isn’t in his dictionary, asks his mother what it means since she’s known most of the big words he’s asked her about before. “Why?” she says. “Because I heard someone use it.” “In what capacity?” and he says “That knowing what you’ll be doing two weekends in a row is an aberration.” “That’s not how it’s used,” and tells him what it means and spells it out for him and he finds it this time. He calls the next Tuesday and first thing she says is “Did you hang up on me last week?” and he says “No, I might have just said good-bye very softly, why?” and she says “Because if you did I’d think, hey, this fellow isn’t worth answering the phone for if he’s going to unload all his belligerence on me.” “Not me,” he says and asks her out and she says there would have been a definite possibility if she didn’t have so many extracurricular activities this week like tap dance and singing lessons and an Italian class she’s starting and she also models at the Art Students League one night a week, all of which means she’ll be studying the whole weekend for her midterms.” “You model? Not in the nude.” “Yes, it’s for artists.” “How do your parents let you? You’re so young. Or even the art school?” and she says “I told the League I’m nineteen, since I feel I act it and could look it. As for my parents, they’re both artists in their souls but business people to keep their souls alive and bodies fed, and they trust me. It’s only the top part anyway, not that I wouldn’t model the bottom part if they needed it. I was asked by an instructor there who sat on the stool next to mine at the health food lunch place near the League and thought I’d be perfect for the pose he had in mind.” “Oh yeah, and God knows what he’s going to ask you to do next,” and she says “You really don’t know what you’re talking about.” “You’re absolutely right and I’m sorry,” and asks her out for the weekend after next—“Anyone can repeat an aberration once, I’d think”—and she says “I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” but in a nice voice and when she says good-bye she says “So I suppose I’ll be hearing from you,” which gives him the confidence she’ll say yes the next time. Calls the next Tuesday, she says she’s sorry, she’s busy that weekend, he says “Busy busy bizwax — with what, voice lessons, studying again, cooking school?” and she says “You sure sound cynical today,” and he says “I’m not, or didn’t mean to be; go on, tell me what your plans are, though of course you don’t have to and I don’t know why I asked,” and she says “No, I’ll be honest; I don’t mind. I have appointments Friday and Saturday nights,” and he says “You mean with guys, or just one,” and she says “Yes, with two fellows I know,” and he says “Guys you’ve been going out with, right?” and she says yes and he says “Then I guess I’ll give up then, right?” hoping she’ll say don’t or he doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to, and she says “If that’s how you feel; excuse me, but good-bye,” and hangs up. She was mad. That could mean a couple of things, one good, one bad. Somehow in her voice when she seemed mad it also seemed she was saying I’m mad because you made me mad but I’m not that mad where you don’t have to call again. And if she’s seeing two guys, it means she’s not serious with one. No, he’s crazy, what’s he talking about, goddamn stupid idiot, and picks up the receiver and slams it down on its cradle, bangs the night table it’s on with his fist, receiver jumps off and falls to the floor and he wants to grab it and smash it against the table, rip it out of the phone and wrap the wire around his neck and pull it tight till it hurts and cuts and leaves marks; puts the receiver down and grits his teeth and tears come and a sinking empty sickening feeling in his chest and he says “Oh shit, why the hell not, what the hell’s wrong, why’d I even start, who the hell you think you are, you skinny rotten bitch?” and covers his face with his hands and digs his nails into his skin, and then his mother knocks on the door and says through it “May I come in now, Howard? — after all,” since it’s his parents’ bedroom, and he says “Sure, sorry, I’m done here,” and passes her with his head down and she says “Anything the matter, dear?” and he says “Well, you know, but I’ll be all right,” and to get to sleep that night after everyone’s in bed he sneaks open the liquor cabinet in the living room and takes several swigs of Canadian rye and sits there till he starts to yawn. A friend tells him she’s going out with two guys, a junior at Yale and a grad student at NYU. “The Yalie’s very rich, not Jewish, an athlete and a scholar in English lit I think. The other guy’s a poor Brooklyn or Bronx Yid and supposed to be real handsome and smart, always on total scholarship, and on his way to making a million in advertising or TV.” “Him — both of them,” Howard says, “have to be too old for her — I mean, she’s barely sixteen,” and his friend says “She seems to have her parents’ permission, according to this girl who knows, so what can I tell you?” He sends her a letter saying “If you’re interested in going to a movie one of these days, let me know,” and gives his phone number and address. She doesn’t contact him. He thinks of her every day, calls her three months after they last spoke, she says “Hello, how are you, it’s been so long,” and he asks her out to a movie the next Saturday afternoon and she says she’d love to. She takes a tomato from the kitchen as they leave her apartment, offers him the first bite on the street, he says it’d be too sloppy and he doesn’t much like tomatoes, “I adore them,” she says and bites into it without making a mess and eats it as they walk to the theater, holding it in front of his mouth when she’s almost finished with it and says “Sure you don’t want some? It’s going fast,” and he wants to, just to put his mouth where her lips did and to show he’s not obstinate and takes chances, but says no. She smiles and chews the last of it and he thinks he loves everything she does; it’s awful. She leans her head on his shoulder about fifteen minutes into the movie, he thinks should I? and decides to and kisses her hair and then her cheek and then very quickly her lips. She didn’t stop him or look up at him and her eyes were closed when she kissed him so he waits what he thinks is about five minutes and then kisses her hair, cheek and lips and then a long kiss and tries to open her mouth with his tongue, thinking if she lets him do this then he really might be starting something with her, but she pulls away and says “Too fast, too far, let’s just be kids,” and kisses her finger and puts it on his lips and he says “Sure, whatever you like.” Outside the theater he asks how she liked the movie and she says she’s in a hurry to get home, can they get a cab? or just she’ll get one, and he says “But it’s only three blocks, and it’s not raining,” and she says “Don’t worry, I’ll pay.” “That’s not it; I’m working and I’m certainly not cheap,” and hails a cab, tells her in it he had wanted to go for a bite after the movie but OK, maybe the next time, and she says, getting out of the cab, “It’s a date.” He says “Hey, I’m not taking this to my house,” and pays, but she’s already walking into her building, waving at him. He calls her when he gets home for a date next weekend and the housekeeper who answers says “She was only here but gone out.” Calls her the next day and she says “What is it?” and he says “I wanted to take you up on what you said yesterday and make another date, maybe even an evening one, but I guess it’s hopeless — somehow, your voice.” “I think it is,” and he says “I don’t get it. You were so nice at the movie, we had fun, even walking to it—” and she says “Don’t.” “So it doesn’t make a difference what I say or we did?” and she says “Not in the slightest, and please understand I’m not being malicious saying that. I like kissing and you’re a nice fellow but I’m simply not interested in you the way you are in me.” “How are you interested in me then?” and she says “Whatever way it is, it’s not amorous, is that now clear?” and he says “OK, I got it finally,” and slams the receiver down and feels miserable for a week. Calls her a month later and she says “Oh, hello?” and he asks what she’s been up to lately and she talks a little about what she’s been doing and then there’s silence so he starts in about what he’s been doing recently and then she says “That’s nice, great, well, I’ll have to say good-bye now,” and he says “Any chance we can meet?” and she says “Howard, I’m still not interested. If you only wanted to be friends, that’d be a different thing.” “OK, as friends, would you like to go to an art museum today?” and she says “Not this week, I’m busy.” “Next week then?” and she says “I don’t want to make plans so far ahead,” and he says “Then you don’t want to be friends; you don’t want to be anything. All right. So screw you, friend,” and hangs up. Oh God, that’s it, that has to be it, for me, her, definitely for me and I’m sure she’ll never talk to me again, and bangs his parents’ bed with his fists and screams “Goddamn it, shit, shit,” and starts tearing at his hair. His parents think he’s going crazy and have his brother speak to him. It snows that night and the next day he walks in the park and kicks drifts in just a T-shirt and pants and shoes without socks so he can get a cold and pneumonia and die. Sees her on the street several months later and she waves to him and he waves to her as she goes down her block. She smiled when she waved. Maybe she’s changed her opinion about him somewhat, wouldn’t mind him calling her. Calls, says it was nice seeing her on the street and how is she? and she says “Listen, I’m busy this week, if that’s what you were eventually g