The Novels of William Goldman by William Goldman

Author:William Goldman
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504048316
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2017-08-22T04:00:00+00:00

XXI

“FOOL!” AARON SAID. “YOU’VE burned the toast again.”

“I’m sorry,” Branch muttered.

“I didn’t think you were glad about it, Scudder. Burning the toast on purpose—my God, only a Hitler could do a thing like that.” He reached across the dining-room table for his pack of cigarettes. “Now here’s the point, the important thing, the thinga importanta, as we Kurdish scholars say—dammit, the pack’s empty.”

“Well, don’t look at me. It’s not my fault you’re out of cigarettes.”

“Everything’s your fault, Scudder,” Aaron told him. “Don’t you know that yet?” Pushing back from the table, he stood and hurried out of the room, turning left down the corridor to the master bedroom. The bed was unmade, but otherwise the room was neat enough. Aaron stared out the window at the Hudson River, half covered with January ice. Then he turned and started to search. “Where’s my cigarette carton?” he called.

“I think it’s in there someplace,” Branch called back.

“Thanks,” Aaron muttered. For a moment he contented himself with opening and closing dresser drawers, but then, quite to his surprise, he found he was angry. He tried to master the anger but he was no match for it, and soon his hands were ripping the sheets and blankets from the mattress and the fat pillows were flying across the room and he had the bed half up on end when Branch shouted at him from the doorway.

“Aaron. Aaron!”

Aaron blinked, then slowly lowered the bed back to the floor. “Trying to find my cigarettes,” he managed.

Branch was watching him. “Maybe they’re in your study,” and he pointed toward the rear bedroom. “You smoke a lot when you write.”

Aaron shook his head.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m supreme.”

“Come on, then. It’s Sunday; let’s go finish brunch. You shouldn’t smoke when you eat anyway.” They walked back to the dining room and Branch sat down and picked up his coffee cup and started to fill it.

“My God,” Aaron said. “What’s that you’re pouring from the coffeepot?”

“Coffee.”

“Then why isn’t it brown?”

“Oh come on, it’s brown.”

“Sort of a wan brown, maybe.” Aaron cleared his throat. “All right, everybody, it’s time for a little community sing. Here we go. ‘Wan Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave ... ” He looked at Branch. “Laugh.”

“That was very clever, Aaron. Really very—”

“Laugh.”

“I don’t feel like it. I’m sorry.”

“That’s the truth, Scudder. You’re the sorriest vista on my horizon, I’ll tell you that.” Aaron poured himself some coffee. “Why didn’t you laugh? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t be like that. Tell Uncle Aaron. Smile, Branchy-poo. What have you got to be unhappy about except that you’re a faggot with halitosis?”

“Do you have to be so unpleasant?”

“That’s my job, isn’t it? I’m the sadist in this relationship.”

“Sometimes you’re not so funny, Aaron.”

“Watch it there, Scudder, or I’ll start being nice to you.”

“Dry up.”

“That’s it!” Aaron cried. “That’s it! Pencil, pencil,” and he got up again, going into the living room, returning a moment later with a pad and pen. “It’s poetry. Genius. ‘Dry up.’ What an image! I’m weak. ‘Dry up.

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