There Should Have Been Castles by Herman Raucher

Author:Herman Raucher
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781626818071
Publisher: Diversion Books
Published: 2015-04-28T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Ginnie

1952

Ben got home Monday evening after six. He had walked all the way from 20th to “clear his head” and he had brought with him an armful of movie scripts, at least five of them. He was very down, nowhere near the high-spirited stallion he had been when leaving for work that morning. He told me why and I couldn’t blame him. It was hardly a great way to resume civilian life. I hated them all.

I had planned a romantic little dinner—a little chianti, a tossed salad, a beef bourguignon dish, and, for dessert, I figured we’d have each other. But, as it often is with mice and me, I fucked up the beef bourguignon, got cork in the chianti, and had neglected to buy dressing for the salad. So we had ham sandwiches and potato chips, though the dessert (as planned) was delicious and we both went back for more.

He made love with a frenzy, not at all his usual gentle and thoughtful self. But that was alright, too, because it was like being in bed with a different man (my second). He apologized for being a boor, promising that it would never happen again so I scolded him until he promised that it would happen again—and again—and again.

We lay in bed just talking, mostly about things at 20th. I had known that Roland was leaving but had no idea that Sam Gaynor would be taking his place. I knew about Sam Gaynor from Don who also didn’t much care for the man.

“It’s bad enough he’s an egocentric prick,” said Ben, “but the sonofabitch never stops talking. If verbosity was a crime, he’d be executed, unless they made the mistake of asking him if he had any last words, in which case the turn of the century would come around and he’d still be talking.”

“Other than that, how’d it go today?”

“You—” and he grabbed me.

“No! Ben! I want to tell you about my day!”

“And I want to hear.”

“Then get your hand out of there! I can’t talk when you do that to me and, for God’s sake, file your nails.”

“Yes, ma’am. Now, tell me. What kind of day did you have?”

“Well, our numbers are getting better all the time. I almost think we can do ’em backwards. I only hope that, by the time we go on, we’re not so over-rehearsed that we do do it backwards.”

“It’s this Saturday, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Am I allowed to be at the studio?”

“I’ll sneak you in. I want you to be there in case I sprain an ankle or something.”

“I don’t think I know it well enough to go on.”

“You can try, can’t you?”

“Oh, I’ll try anything.”

And we made love again and fell asleep and it was wonderful because it felt like we were married. I don’t know why feeling married was so marvelous. I guess maybe it took some of the “evil” out of it. My upbringing again—as if marriage were so great. Judging from my family, marriage was exactly the wrong thing to inflict on a love affair.

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