“This is a nice place you’ve got here,” Andy said, the attempt as obvious as the sheepish look with which it was delivered.
“Yes,” Bud said, hating himself for saying only Yes, hating anyone and everyone who stifled conversation by giving yes or no answers and cutting short any opportunity for embellishment.
“Are you on the GI Bill?” Andy asked.
“Yes,” Bud said again, thinking, Give him something to work with, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you see he’s trying?
“Listen, if you’ve got studying to do, go right ahead. Just pretend I’m not here.”
“Well, I do have some studying, but...”
“No, go ahead. I know finals are important.”
He could not tell whether or not Andy’s tongue was in his cheek. There was a time when he could almost tell what Andy was thinking by looking at his face, but he found himself incapable of doing that now, and his sudden sterility reminded him again of how alien Andy was to him. He realized quite abruptly that finals were probably very unimportant so far as Andy was concerned. Finals were kid stuff, college-boy-swiping-panties stuff. Andy was, in a sense, undergoing an examination, too, a test that might very well change his entire future. Milton was somehow remote and ridiculous in comparison to Andy’s own struggle. But he had not asked to be included in Andy’s life. And maybe finals were relatively unimportant, maybe finals were downright silly by comparison, but if he did not pass his finals — and, by God, the outlook seemed gloomy at this point — he would have to repeat, and repetition would mean another semester at school, and he didn’t want that, not after all the careful, tight planning he’d done.
In self-defense, he said, “Well, they are pretty important. I’m trying to get through in three and a half.”
“Sure,” Andy said. “Go ahead, Bud, go back to your studying.”
Andy’s calm acceptance made the entire thing seem even sillier. He tried desperately to justify finals in his own mind, and finally said, “I guess this seems like kid stuff to you.”
“Kid stuff? No, no. This is all the foundation, isn’t it? If you’re going to build, you’ve got to have a foundation.”
“Well, I hadn’t thought of it in just that way.” He couldn’t stop feeling inferior. His problem seemed infinitesimal when compared to Andy’s. He told himself he should not blame himself for not having experienced Andy’s misfortune. Hell, that was plain silly — but he could not convince himself. And looking for a stronger weapon of self-defense, seeking to justify the finals which had suddenly become silly and insignificant, he turned to self-belittlement. “Hell, college is all a lot of nonsense, anyway. What I mean to say... well, you must think I’m a big jerk, worrying about a few tests.”
“No, I don’t think that at all.”
“Any other time I’d say screw the tests. But I’m pushing through in three and a half, and so it’s a little important, if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean. Man, you don’t have to apologize to me.”
“Well, I wasn’t exactly apologizing,” he said, suddenly miffed by the turn in the conversation, the turn he himself had engineered. What the hell was he doing, anyway? Apologizing to a dope addict for being a college student? What kind of sense did that make?
“I know I’m a forced guest,” Andy said, “so go right ahead and do whatever you’ve got to do. Just show me where I’m supposed to sack in, and show me where the john is, and that’s it.” Andy smiled. “Really, Bud, I know the tests are important.”
“Yes, they are important,” he said somewhat coldly. “I didn’t want you to think I was making a mountain out of a molehill.” He paused, still unreasonably angry. “You can sleep on the sofa, if that’s all right with you.”
“Oh, that’ll be fine,” Andy said.
“I’ll get you some sheets. I... Do you sleep with a pillow?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you can have mine. I’ve only got one.”
“No, that’s okay. I don’t need a—”
“I usually throw it on the floor, anyway. It doesn’t matter to—”
“No, I wouldn’t think of taking your pillow. I haven’t been sleeping well anyway, Bud. There’s no sense in both of us having a bad night.”
“Well...”
“Really. I’m up half the night. You take it, Bud.”
“Well, okay, if you say so. I’ll get the sheets.”
“I’ll get them. Just show me where they are.”
“By the time I show you, I can get them myself.”
He crossed the room to the closet, pulled open the door, and then yanked out a leather suitcase.
“That’s a nice valise,” Andy said.
“Yes,” he answered, knowing it was a good piece of luggage but not feeling like discussing its merits at the moment. He stood on the suitcase, reaching up to the top shelf of the closet. “Want to catch these?” he said.
“Sure.” Andy came over, and he threw the sheets down to him. He got off the suitcase, shoved it back into the closet, and said, “I’ll help you make up the sofa.”
“I can do it alone,” Andy said.
“No, I’ll help you.”
They went to the sofa, a starkly modern slab of wood with a foam-rubber one-piece mattress on it, strongly out of place against the chintz-covered butterfly chair. They shoved it out from the wall so that one of them could tuck the sheets in on that side, and then they began covering it.
“Do you know what this reminds me of?” Andy asked.
“No, what?”
“That time on First Avenue.”
“First Avenue?” He remembered immediately, but he did not feel like getting embroiled in a lengthy discussion. He had studying to do. He could not waste any time reminiscing.
“With those two girls,” Andy said. “What were their names?”
“I don’t remember,” Bud lied.
Their glances met over the sofa. Andy seemed to be going to say more, and then his face took on a pained look, and he continued working on the sofa, not looking at Bud again. And then, as if he could not control himself any longer, he said softly, “Those were the times, all right.”
Bud did not comment. He had finals to worry about. The time on First Avenue had been a long while ago. It had been a hell of a lot of fun, and it was certainly something to remember, but it was dead and gone. He turned down the blanket and said, “Well, there’s your bed.” His voice carried an undercurrent of pressing reality, he hoped. He wanted Andy to know that he could waste no time shooting the bull, not tonight anyway.
“Yeah,” Andy said, staring at the sofa. “I don’t feel like turning in just yet, if you don’t mind.”
“Any time you want to.”
“You go ahead with your studying.”
“All right. I hate to do this, but you know—”
“I understand.” Andy paused. “Say, I could use a cigarette. Have you got one?”
“Sure.” Bud took the package from his pocket and extended it to Andy.
“Funny how I never really got the habit, isn’t it?” Andy said. “I picked up all the really bad habits, but never this one.” He took a cigarette and then the match folder, lighting the cigarette quickly. “I’ve been smoking a lot this past week. It relaxes me, you know. Times when I can’t sit still, I light a cigarette, and everything’s all right. Funny.”
Bud nodded.
“Well, go ahead, do your studying. Don’t worry about me, just forget I’m here.”
“Okay,” Bud said. “You talked me into it.” He walked to the table, thought briefly of the time on First Avenue, and then shoved it rudely out of his mind, only to find it shoving back again just as rudely. He had really enjoyed that night. It had worked remarkably smoothly, and Marcia had really been good. He wondered what had ever become of her. Well, no matter. Back to Milton.