The Kiss
I
hadn't meant to say anything to Garrick. I just blurted it out on my ride back
to Montclair from Passaic. Garrick liked to gossip and seemed well-stocked with
stories about the old gang, about who did what, when and with whom. He knew so
much and was so accurate that Tom and Bob sometimes called Garrick on the
telephone the way most people tuned in the news, or waited for him to make his
usual social visit -- at which he spent hours updating people on the latest
developments of our friends, and gathering information to carry on to others.
He had a route as extensive and reliable as the pony express, and he rarely
failed to keep his rounds.
I guess that s why I said what I said when I
did, and didn’t think my news any different from the news Garrick regularly
carried. If I had thought on it more, I might have known better. His news
generally didn’t hurt anybody the way my news was bound to. He talked about
work and play, dating and marriage. He knew who was hired where and for house
much, who went where for dinner and what they ate. He knew who was going out
with whom and how close they were to taking the plunge. Real secrets, Garrick rarely divulged. If
someone told something to him in confidence, an earthquake couldn’t shake it
out of him. If he overheard something terrible about a friend, he kept it to
himself. His news service, he told me once, transported happy tidings, his
attempted to keep people in the old gang informed on what others were doing,
thereby extending the life of a group that by rights should have faded away
after graduating high school.
"If I started telling people how hard
other people had it, nobody would want me to come around," he said.
"Everybody has hardships. That doesn’t mean they want someone like me
advertising the fact."
Did he know more than he let on? Absolutely.
Other people -- as it proved in my own situation --lacked his discrimination,
and he sat and listened to it all, sifting through the good and bad for
information he could use.
I suppose that s why he listened to me when I
said what I said about Hank -- though after I said it, he stared at me a little
with his mouth hanging open as if he was shocked. "What did you say?" he asked,
downshifting his purple van as he pulled into the slow lane to make the exit
onto Grove Street.
"Hank s been kissing Jane," I said.
Garrick s eye brows froze half way up his
forehead as he stared at me, his gaze fixed on my face in search of truth.
"Are you sure?"
"It s what he told me," I said.
"I know for a fact he s been seeing a lot of her lately." "Seeing her?"
"Going to her house to rehearse," I
said. "They re in a play together, one of those community theater things
Hank s always doing. They both tried out for the play last month and got
leading roles. The script calls for them to kill, a full blown production of a
kiss -- if you can believe Hank, and he s been up there in Towacco practicing
with her to get it perfect."
Garrick did not speak for a moment, taking the transition from the
highway to the suburban street in silence, then when the van rolled straight
along Grove Street finally, he shook his head.
"I don t like this," he said. "Pauly will murder
him."
"Why should Pauly find out?" I
asked, more than a little startled by Garrick s reaction. I d expected him to
take this bit of negative gossip the way he had taken all the rest, leaving it
as he had found it. But he seemed remarkable unsettled.
"Because he had a right to know that his
best friend is making a move on his girl friend," Garrick said.
"Girlfriend? Pauly and Jane broke up
years ago," I said. "Pauly has no more claims on Jane." "That s not the way Pauly sees
things."
"You mean you d tell him?"
"I m obligated," Garrick said,
making me feel many times worse than I already did. Hank had confided in me on
the stipulation that I not tell Pauly, and here I had told it all to Garrick,
thinking he would honor my pledge as well, thinking at least this was the bad
news he never conveyed. Hank, for a change, had kept his own secret well, even
vowing Jane to silence, proving -- at least to me--that she was not the virgin
or goddess Pauly made her out to be. A
goddess would have confess it all, and frankly, I thought she would. And in
fact, I had hoped she had, that the news would have reached Pauly, relieving me
of the burden of such a weighty secret. For weeks since Hank s telling me about
it, I could hardly breathe when talking to Pauly on the telephone and did not
go over to meet Pauly without Garrick or someone else there. Yet even then, I
didn’t look at him in the eye. Even then I felt as if I was lying to him. But
for the news to reach him like this was by far worse than anything else I could
have imagined. I could see both Pauly and Hank enraged with me, one for my
lying for so long, the other for my telling the truth.
***********
A day later, Garrick returned to my Montclair
rooming house, knocking on my door, his grim face greeting me as I greeted him,
his expression loaded with his obligation and as cold as a messenger delivering
his bad news.
"Pauly wants to see you," he said
and motioned for me to follow him down the stairs to his purple van. He did not
say anything else the whole trip back. I did not attempt a conversation. One such attempt had caused
this mess and I was sure I would have a chance to say more than I wanted with
Pauly. But when Garrick parked the van in the car port and led me up the stairs
to his and Pauly s kitchen, I found a man waiting too angry for many words.
"Sit!" Pauly said.
"Look, Pauly," I said. "I
didn’t mean to cause all this trouble. I didn’t mean to lie to you either. But
Hank told me not to..."
"I said sit!"
I sat, the wobbly kitchen chair groaning
beneath my weight. "Hank told you
he was dating her?" Paul asked in the same frigid voice. "That s not what I said," I
protested and stared over my shoulder at Garrick, who stood on guard by the
door. But his face showed nor more emotion than it had during the ride from
Montclair. "What exactly did you
say, then?" Pauly asked.
"That he had been kissing her."
One of Pauly s thin eyebrows rose.
"He said that exactly?" Pauly asked,
his voice a degree higher in pitch.
"Yes."
Pauly s nails clicked briskly against the
Formica table top, many rapid clicks that seemed to beat to the beats of my
heart, growing faster and more furious.
"Get him on the phone!" Pauly said
and pointed towards the wall phone hanging near the light switch and just below
the clock. By this time, Hank would be home, stopping there for supper, a
shower and a shave, a routine so predictable that Pauly knew it as well as I
did, leaving me no excuse not to call. I
got up, shuffled to the phone and slowly dialed Hank s number, the rotary phone
clicking out each digit. Then, the phone on the other end buzzed. Hank always
picked it up on the fourth ring, whether he was home or not, whether he was
standing across the room or right next to it, one of those annoying habits that
made me even more nervous now. On the fourth ring, Hank s voice sounded with a
robust: "Hello?"
"It s me," I said.
"Kenny?"
"Yeah."
"You re actually calling me? What a
surprise."
I glanced over my shoulder at Pauly.
"Tell him we re having a get-together
over here," Pauly said. His words passed through me and out my mouth.
"A get to-gether, really?" Hank
said. "Like the old days?"
"Exactly," I said, still staring at Pauly who stared at me. "Well, I don t know," Hank mumbled.
"I mean, I d love to come over. But I’ve got rehearsal later, and I
wouldn’t want to miss that."
I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece. ``He has
rehearsal,'' I told Pauly. Pauly s eyes
hardened.
"That son of a bitch!" he said.
"You tell him to-- tell him to stop over here on his way." I repeated this to Hank.
"I could do that," Hank said.
"Tell him to hurry," Pauly said.
I repeated this, too.
"I'll be right there," Hank said and
hung up.
For over an hour we waited on Hank, me seated
across from Pauly as Garrick stood near the door, me and Pauly staring at each
other, listening for the sound of traffic passing along the street, waiting for
the unmistakable rattle of Hank s Dodge.
"So where is he?" Pauly finally
asked.
"I don t know," I said.
"You didn’t let on to what this is about,
did you?"
"You heard it all. I told him what you
told me to say."
"You could have sent signals to him with
your voice. You two used to be close."
"Used to be," I said. "That was years ago."
"But you still hang out with him."
"Sometimes," I said. "It s hard
to avoid Hank once he s made up his mind he wants to see you. You know
that."
Over the years, strategies for avoiding Hank
amounted to a full-scale CIA operation. At one apartment where I had a door
buzzer, I simply parked my car around the block and pretended I wasn't home. At
the place in Montclair Hank walked right in, and unless I heard him coming and
turned off the stereo in time, he had me. Paul himself had failed to keep Hank
from invading his privacy. "It s
not Kenny," Garrick said. "Hank takes an hour just to get out his
door. He has to comb his hair right and put on the right shirt. But if he said
he s coming, he’ll be here." Hank had always acted this way, his life one
massive tangle of habit. His alarm clock ruled his life, waking him up in the
morning, putting him to sleep at night. From the moment the oldies station
stared, his feet felt the side of the bed for his slippers and his fingers to
fetch his robe, and then, he stumbled into the bathroom for his morning ritual
there. Garrick actually lived with Hank for a time, listening to Hank scrubbing
his crooked teeth, gargling with his mouth wash, peeing in his toilet. Garrick
witnessed Hank s blind groping for clothing, the search in the dresser, behind
the dresser or under the bed for socks,
all before Hank could make his way downstairs for breakfast. "That shit head better not come here
looking like no lounge lizard or I’ll cut his throat," Pauly said. And as if in reply, the rattle of Hank s
Dodge sounded as it pulled into the carport, and stopped. The horn beeped once,
part of Hank s usual game. Someone had to go downstairs and wave him in from
the door, or he might not come up for an hour.
``Well?'' Pauly asked.
``Well what?'' Garrick asked.
``Is someone going to go down and get him?''
``He'll come up.''
``In his own grand time.''
``He said he was in a hurry, that he had a
rehearsal,'' I said, drawing such a hateful glance from Pauly that my mouth
snapped shut.
We waited. The horn did not sound again. After
a while, a car door slammed. A doorbell rang -- the wrong one, naturally -- the
downstairs door opened, and then, slowly came the thump of Hank's boots on the stairs. His misty shape appeared
through the frosted glass before he knocked, enhanced by a silly Indiana
Jones-style hat.
``Just get in here!'' Pauly barked. ``And stop
playing these Goddamn games.'' Even
then, pushing open the door, Hank grinned. The grooved fabric of his hat
matched his corduroy jacket. He looked the part of Ivy League professor,
lacking only the pipe and stern expression, and perhaps a volume of Byron under
his arm. Character actor is what the theater called him, where they valued his
talent enough not to insult him by calling him ugly. The pieces of his face
didn't fit together, his mouth wouldn't close right, his nose was too squat,
and his eyes squinted blindly from behind two thick lens.
"So where s the party?" he asked,
then took note of our stern faces. "Is something wrong?" ``You tell
us,'' Pauly said, kicking out the remaining chair from under the table. He
motioned for Hank to sit in it, but Hank ignored the gesture, his face now
drawn with concern as his gaze returned to me, silently grilling me as to what
this was about, guessing as much as I could have told him. I suppose he had
been thinking about Jane anyway, and what he would do when he reached her house
for rehearsal.
``So why don't you tell us about your hitting
on Jane?'' Pauly said. ``What?'' he
asked, hesitating slightly.
``Don't play dumb, Hank,'' Pauly shouted and
jumped up, jabbing his forefinger at Hank's face. ``Pauly!'' Garrick said. ``Calm down.''
Pauly stared at Garrick. He looked as if he
wanted to say something, but closed his mouth on the words. The gray eyes said
enough. They reflected the dreams he had once, back when he and Jane had still
been the big thing in the old gang, the two brightest people from school who
were destined by fate to marry and have brilliant children and go on to
success, the way most of us would not. In those gray eyes loomed the early fire
of Pauly's talent, the tales of teachers who crooned over his canvases, telling
him how grand they'd look hanging from the walls of the Museum of Modern Art.
But the vision withered as Pauly's mouth tightened, and he glanced away from
Garrick to stare at Hank again.
``Just tell me it isn't true,'' Pauly
whispered, his voice so harsh it could have sanded wood. Hank stared at me, pupils growing small as he
studied my face and the knowledge of my betrayal dawned on him. Then, all the
clues clicked into place, all the days at the old apartment when my lights were
on yet no one answered the bell, or at the new place when he climbed the stairs
thinking he heard music only to find silence when he got to my door.
``I didn't mean to say anything, Hank,'' I
said.
``Shut up!'' Pauly snapped. ``Hank's answering
the questions, not you.'' ``Hank's head
on a platter,'' Garrick mumbled, staring down at the crack with the eye of an
artist, the disgust beginning to show on his face too, his tense mouth clearly
wishing it had kept its secret. ``It is
true?'' Pauly asked, exaggeratedly loud.
``I don't know what you're talking about,''
Hank said, his voice taking on an unusually defiant tone. In the past, he
always caved in to Pauly, admiring Pauly even more than the rest of us had, always
emulating Pauly's gestures, imitating his walk and talk, and pining over the
man's talent. Never had I heard him talk back to Pauly, though Pauly had goaded
Hank on for years -- calling him names, mocking his stutter, rubbing his
ugliness in so that no amount of flattery would ever disguise it. ``What do you mean?'' Pauly asked, so
indignant that his tone sent shivers through me. ``Did you hit on Jane or
not?''
``Did she say I did?'' Hank asked.
``I'm not asking Jane, I'm asking you!'' Pauly
snapped, now with both fists pressing into the table top. t.
Hank remained silent, staring down at the
backs of his hands. They did not shake the way mine did, and yet betrayed some
aspect of his mood. It seemed as if he had been contemplating something for a long
time and was now restudying each aspect as it revealed itself across the lumpy
surface of his knuckles. When he finally looked up, his eyes were angry.
``Well?'' Pauly asked, for some reason missing
this sudden change in Hank. ``Kenny says you've been hitting on her. Are you
saying he's a liar?''
Hank's stare shifted from Pauly's face to
mine, the angry look replaced by something so sad and disappointed I nearly
blurted out an apology, though when I started to speak, Pauly glared me into
silence.
``I want his confession, not yours,'' Pauly
growled.
``What else did Kenny say?'' Hank asked in a
low voice.
``He said you've been to Jane's house a lot.
Is that true?'' ``We've been
rehearsing,'' Hank said in the same flat tone.
``Rehearsing?'' Pauly said, voice rising in pitch. ``Rehearsing what?
The last time I checked you two had only one scene together and you didn't even
have a line.'' ``That was before the
male lead dropped out.''
``Is that so? And I suppose you helpfully
volunteered to step in?'' Hank stared at
his hands again. ``Something like that.''
``I see,'' Pauly said, beginning a quick pace
between the table and the sink, his hands folded behind his back. His face
screwed itself up into a thoughtful expression as he worked out the problem
inside his head. When he stopped, the expression vanished.
``All right,'' he said. ``Now that we have it
straight, we can settle this.'' ``Settle
it? What do you mean?''
``I mean you're going to quit the play. Then
you won't have any excuse to rehearse.''
``Quit the play? I can't do that. The first performance is this weekend.
They couldn't find anybody to replace me in that short a time.''
Paul glared. ``Are you arguing with me?''
``I'm trying to be reasonable, but you're
asking the impossible.'' ``All right,
all right,'' Pauly said with an indulgent wave of his hand. ``Let's
compromise.'' ``How.''
``I want the rehearsals to stop.''
``I suppose we could stop now, we have our
parts down,'' Hank said. ``And I want
you to drop the kiss.''
``The kiss is the whole point,'' Hank said,
unable to keep the shock out of his voice. ``The whole play revolves around
that scene.''
``I don't care,'' Pauly said. ``It's out or
you are. Is that understood?'' Hank
stared at Pauly in disbelief. But Pauly's expression was set, like a king's
might have been after a royal decree, leaving no room for argument. Hank's
shoulders sagged a little. ``This is
crazy, Pauly,'' he said. ``We're not going to hurt anybody by having a kiss on
stage.'' ``He's right, Pauly,'' Garrick
said, looking up from his excavation work on the cracked table. ``Hank's agreed
to stop rehearsing. That should be enough.''
``Enough for you, maybe, not for me!'' Pauly
barked back. ``It's not you being humiliated in public. It's not your girlfriend
this toad is kissing on stage.''
Again came the silence with Hank standing in
the middle of it, studying his hands.
``Well?'' Pauly asked finally.
``I have to go now,'' Hank said and turned
away.
``Go? Go where?'' Pauly demanded as Hank moved
into the hall. ``Rehearsal,'' Hank said
and left, slamming the door.