26

Some days were good, some not so good, some awful. Sometimes Marcus felt as if he’d been hit in the head. He missed Wendy. He saw her in school sometimes, at the graduation rehearsals. She saw him, too, but they never spoke.

The weather changed. A grayness descended on the city. There was a grayness in him, too. Nothing seemed important, or exciting, or worth doing. He went along from day to day, did all the things he said he would do. He was actually more disciplined and in a better routine than he’d ever been, but nothing seemed to matter very much.

One day, passing by Burger King, he saw Wendy and Alec sitting together. She had her head down and he was rubbing her neck. Marcus moved by fast, then went back and looked again. It was them, Wendy and Alec together. They didn’t even see him looking.

It made him want to kick something. At home, he kicked the wall. A little mirror his mother had left on the hall table fell and cracked. He looked down, saw his face in the mirror, part in one half, part in the other. That was the way he felt: split apart, half of him furious, half of him abject and sorry.

Marcus was at work at Nadia’s, a few days later, when Bev Kruger, wearing a yellow sunsuit, came into the market. It was a hot, sticky afternoon, and the plastic shades were drawn against the sun. “Oh, hi!” Bev was surprised to see him, but not pleasantly. He rang up her order crisply: a couple of energy bars, macaroons, a box of Fig Newtons, Fritos, a six-pack of Coke. He wore a tie and green jacket. Captain Nadia ran a trim, neat ship. He handed her the total. She paid. He snapped open a paper bag and started packing. They had nothing to say to each other.

“Who’s got the sweet tooth?” he said.

“Oh, that.” Bev smiled vaguely. “We’re on our way to a picnic. It’s been so hot today. It’s not bad here.”

“Good air conditioning.”

“It must be hard when you go out.”

“Hate to leave the job,” he agreed. He was smiling a lot, trying to impress her. He remembered to ask about her sister in the hospital. “That must be rough, having to wear a brace all the time.”

“My sister’s home now.” Bev stood there and talked to him, picking up her package a couple of times, then putting it down. Are you watching, Wendy? See me talking to Bev Kruger?

Bev lingered. How long could he hold her here? No longer Marcus the madman. This was Marcus the honest workman, sincere, safe, interested, appreciative … Wendy, do you see how well I do this? Bev had always drawn him, that speckled juiciness. Not like Wendy, not playful, not joshing—not at all like Wendy, but nice, very nice. Lots of nice girls in the world besides you, Wendy Barrett.

Oh, be honest, Marcus. It was Wendy in his head, disagreeing as always.

Okay, so I am thinking about you, still thinking about you. Only I don’t want to, and I don’t have to. Bev is one attractive girl.

“It’s hard to believe we’re graduating in a few days,” Bev said. “It feels like I just started Sherwood yesterday.”

“I know,” he said.

“Last year I was just a kid and now … You change so fast, it’s a little scary sometimes. Well.” She picked up her package. “I really better go.”

He followed Bev in her yellow sunsuit. Not yet, but maybe soon. She was someone he might want when he got Wendy out of his head. Do you hear me, Ms. Barrett?

On Monday, after his exam, he got a phone call. “Mr. Rosenbloom?”

For a moment he thought it was Wendy playing a joke on him the way she used to. “The one and only,” he said, suddenly happy. “Is that you, Wendybird?”

“This is Eileen Sabine at the Morning Standard, Mr. Rosenbloom. Ted Sweeny sent me a story of yours about a valentine. We’d like to publish it in the weekend supplement. Would you mind if we bought it now and held it till next Valentine’s Day? I know it’s a long time. And we can only pay twenty-five dollars. Is that all okay?”

“Yes, thank you very much.”

It took him a while to absorb the news. His first acceptance; his first published story. He’d been down so long, he had to tell himself to be happy. “Zowee,” he murmured. “You’re going to be a published writer. Zowee!” Don’t jump around like a kid. Show some dignity. He put his head out the window. “Zowee!” Then he really got into it and gave the world a true Rosenbloom Salute. “Zoweeeeeeeeee!”

“Hello? Wendy?”

“This is her aunt.”

“This is Marcus. I have to talk to Wendy.”

“She’s not here right now, Marcus.”

“Where is she? I’ve got to talk to her right away.”

“She’s taking her American History finals. I’ll have her call you when she comes in.”

“Hello, Wendy?” He called her again at supper-time, speaking quickly, urgently. “I’ve got to see you. It’s important.”

“What is it? Can’t you tell me over the phone?” “No, it’s too important. I want to tell you face to face.”

“Marcus, I think we said it all. There’s no point—”

“It’s not that. This is something else. You’re going to like this.” She finally agreed to meet him at the Rite Aid Drugstore on Westcott. “Be there at seven-thirty, on the button,” Marcus said.

“I’ll try,” she said. “I don’t have a lot of time. I have an exam tomorrow.”

He was there promptly at seven-thirty, but it was almost eight before he saw her coming. He’d pushed their disagreements out of his mind. He felt his news—he’d sold a story!—would somehow solve everything.

He had planned to build it up. He’d ask her to go someplace and sit down, and then he’d tell her, a little bit at a time. But the minute he saw her he blurted it out. “I had a story accepted. The editor called me today. I wanted you to be the first to know.” He caught her hand.

“That’s wonderful, Marcus. Is it the story about the valentine?” She pulled free. “You’re going to see your story in print, your name in lights.” She was saying the right things, but …

The exuberance went out of him.

“It’s just a newspaper, the local rag.” What about us, he wanted to say. “You want to get something to eat?”

“No, I’d better go back.”

He’d said too much, been too excited. Wendy had been polite, that’s all. “I saw you with Alec.” He didn’t even want to think about it, just said it to torture himself.

“When was that?”

She couldn’t remember all the times. “In Burger King.”

“Oh, that.”

Now she was going to tell him nothing. “Are you and he friends again?”

“We’ve been talking.”

“Talking!” He was sneering and he didn’t give a damn. “Isn’t it cute, Alec, what I did with Marcus? Did you tell him about the ring on your finger? Or did you tell him you put it through my nose?”

“Oh, god!” she said.

He didn’t say anything else, just walked the last blocks to her house in silence. “Well,” she said in front of her house, “I’m really happy about your story. Good night, Marcus.”

Dear Cool, Calm, and Collected

(AKA Wendy Barrett),

I don’t know why I’m writing to you. I know that nothing I say will influence you. You were like ice when I saw you. What will convince you that I’m the way I’ve always been? My feelings haven’t changed. I like us, it’s not just sex, but you won’t believe that. Your mind is made up. I’ve never met anyone so stubborn.

What we had was right and good. How can I think it’s perfect while you hate it? You’ve never explained that to me. I don’t think you can.

Do you know the female spider who uses the male for her own satisfaction, then devours him?

Dear Black Widow Spider, I am ready to throw myself into your sticky net again. Spider Lady … Spider Face … Oh, Wendy, you spider! Take your face away and leave me alone.

This is a crazy letter. I’ll tear it into small pieces and put it into an envelope and slip it under your door. Then you can put it together like a jigsaw puzzle, piece by piece, so you’ll know the way I feel.

You say I have sex on the brain. I don’t deny it. When I see you, I want you. I did the other night. Is that wrong? Maybe I shouldn’t feel this way all the time, but you’re wrong if you think that’s the only thing I feel.

You probably don’t believe this. You think I’m exaggerating again. Rosenbloom, the story teller. If it is a story, it must be a good one. There are tears in my eyes.

How can I make you believe me?

How can I prove that I mean what I say?

I liked us!

Good-bye, Wendy …