Read Online Boys & Girls Together by William Goldman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William Goldman
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all these years she had loosed her flood of venom and she loved it. Arms outstretched, naked and dying, she advanced on her husband. “The ultimate infidelity is mine!”
Through and around all this, Walt grew up.
When he was not yet four, he spent the entirety of Easter afternoon staring at a piece of pastry. It was an exquisite piece of pastry, a delicate chocolate with a pink Easter bunny etched on top in confectioners’ sugar. The bunny had little pink eyes and big pink ears and Walt thought it prettier than any picture. But he was hungry. He was incredibly hungry. So he stared at the bunny, aware of its beauty, aware, also, of the rumbling of his stomach. Walt walked out of the big living room. He roamed around the house (careful to avoid Arnold) and then went back to the living room. There was the bunny, still beautiful. But his stomach would not stay quiet. Walt made a circuit of the house again. Oh, what a beautiful bunny. He licked his lips. Gently lifting the bunny, he brought it close to his face. (Not to eat it, just to look at it better.) The bunny grazed his lips. He restored it to its position on the table and left the room again, hurrying this time, making another tour of the house. Arnold was outside now playing catch with his father and he thought of joining them, except Arnold would probably kill him later if he tried, so he watched them through a window until it was time to go look at the bunny again. Oh, he was hungry. His stomach thundered. Walt ran from the room. Arnold was still playing catch but he might stop any minute and come in and eat the bunny, so Walt ran back into the living room and, more gently than before, lifted the bunny and moved on tiptoe up the stairs to his bedroom. He placed the bunny in the very center of his pillow and climbed up on the bed to stare at the little pink eyes and the sugary ears. Oh, my. It looked even more beautiful than before now, lying graceful and chocolaty in the very center of the white pillow. Walt stuck his nose close to the bunny and stared at it cross-eyed. My, my. He got up from the bed and went to his closet and put on his gun belt (low on the hip) and, creeping to the window, fired a few hundred silver bullets into Arnold. This done, he took off his gun belt and climbed on his bed again. He was weak from hunger now, so he closed his eyes, holding his breath until his lips burst apart and he lay still, gasping. Then he grabbed for the bunny and gobbled it down. The rich taste of chocolate still lingered in his mouth as he started to cry. Burying his head in the very center of the pillow, Walt wept.
It was more or less the story of his life.
His life, or at least the early years of it, should have been pleasant. Deprivations were few, mothers were warm, fathers omnipotent but in absentia more than not. Yet his early years were filled with an almost perennial fear.
Arnold.
“Hey, Ugly.” (They were four and seven and Walt had just eaten his first meal without spilling, an event that caused parental disbelief, then joy. Walt lay in his dark bedroom, ready for sleep.) “Hey, funny-looking, I’m talking to you.”
“What is it, Arnold?”
“You’re gonna cry, Ugly. You know that? Every day till you’re dead.” I am not.
“Y’are too.” Arnold’s fingers began pinching him.
“Stop it, Arnold.”
“Make me.”
The fingers dug at the flesh on his ribs. He tried to struggle but Arnold was strong. “Stop it, Arnold.”
“Shut up. If you ever tell them, I’ll make you cry twice as bad.”
“Arnold, you’re hurting.”
“Cry.”
Walt bit his lip but it hurt. It really hurt. Disobeying his orders, the tears came. But Arnold continued to pinch. That was the thing about Arnold: he enjoyed it.
“Hey, funny-looking.” (A summer noon and he had his first real suit, fresh from the store all the way in St. Louis.)
“What?”
“C’mere and help me a sec.”
“Why?” Already wary.
“Just c’mere and hold the hose. I gotta
Through and around all this, Walt grew up.
When he was not yet four, he spent the entirety of Easter afternoon staring at a piece of pastry. It was an exquisite piece of pastry, a delicate chocolate with a pink Easter bunny etched on top in confectioners’ sugar. The bunny had little pink eyes and big pink ears and Walt thought it prettier than any picture. But he was hungry. He was incredibly hungry. So he stared at the bunny, aware of its beauty, aware, also, of the rumbling of his stomach. Walt walked out of the big living room. He roamed around the house (careful to avoid Arnold) and then went back to the living room. There was the bunny, still beautiful. But his stomach would not stay quiet. Walt made a circuit of the house again. Oh, what a beautiful bunny. He licked his lips. Gently lifting the bunny, he brought it close to his face. (Not to eat it, just to look at it better.) The bunny grazed his lips. He restored it to its position on the table and left the room again, hurrying this time, making another tour of the house. Arnold was outside now playing catch with his father and he thought of joining them, except Arnold would probably kill him later if he tried, so he watched them through a window until it was time to go look at the bunny again. Oh, he was hungry. His stomach thundered. Walt ran from the room. Arnold was still playing catch but he might stop any minute and come in and eat the bunny, so Walt ran back into the living room and, more gently than before, lifted the bunny and moved on tiptoe up the stairs to his bedroom. He placed the bunny in the very center of his pillow and climbed up on the bed to stare at the little pink eyes and the sugary ears. Oh, my. It looked even more beautiful than before now, lying graceful and chocolaty in the very center of the white pillow. Walt stuck his nose close to the bunny and stared at it cross-eyed. My, my. He got up from the bed and went to his closet and put on his gun belt (low on the hip) and, creeping to the window, fired a few hundred silver bullets into Arnold. This done, he took off his gun belt and climbed on his bed again. He was weak from hunger now, so he closed his eyes, holding his breath until his lips burst apart and he lay still, gasping. Then he grabbed for the bunny and gobbled it down. The rich taste of chocolate still lingered in his mouth as he started to cry. Burying his head in the very center of the pillow, Walt wept.
It was more or less the story of his life.
His life, or at least the early years of it, should have been pleasant. Deprivations were few, mothers were warm, fathers omnipotent but in absentia more than not. Yet his early years were filled with an almost perennial fear.
Arnold.
“Hey, Ugly.” (They were four and seven and Walt had just eaten his first meal without spilling, an event that caused parental disbelief, then joy. Walt lay in his dark bedroom, ready for sleep.) “Hey, funny-looking, I’m talking to you.”
“What is it, Arnold?”
“You’re gonna cry, Ugly. You know that? Every day till you’re dead.” I am not.
“Y’are too.” Arnold’s fingers began pinching him.
“Stop it, Arnold.”
“Make me.”
The fingers dug at the flesh on his ribs. He tried to struggle but Arnold was strong. “Stop it, Arnold.”
“Shut up. If you ever tell them, I’ll make you cry twice as bad.”
“Arnold, you’re hurting.”
“Cry.”
Walt bit his lip but it hurt. It really hurt. Disobeying his orders, the tears came. But Arnold continued to pinch. That was the thing about Arnold: he enjoyed it.
“Hey, funny-looking.” (A summer noon and he had his first real suit, fresh from the store all the way in St. Louis.)
“What?”
“C’mere and help me a sec.”
“Why?” Already wary.
“Just c’mere and hold the hose. I gotta
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