There Should Have Been Castles Read online

  Love—Don

  I resumed reading Ginnie’s letter.

  So you see, Don is gone, which is bad enough. But I’m not working (a long story). I do have some money but have been living off it for a couple weeks while trying out for some shows. Nothing seems to be open and when it is, they always go for the girls with musical comedy experience.

  Anyway, I’m writing to alert you in case my money runs out. Meantime, don’t send any money till I tell you to as, who knows, I may get a job and the whole crisis will blow over. My name is on the little mailbox downstairs so I do get mail—only nobody writes because I don’t know anybody who can write, except you. Will you be my pen-pal?

  Respectfully yours,

  Ginnie Maitland

  I folded both letters away, placing them into my foot-locker. Things were changing in the world I’d left behind. A triple play was occurring in the old apartment—Jessica to Don to Ginnie—and, unless the ump was blind I was out at home. I could only hope that Ginnie would find a way. Meantime, my immature sense of honor dictated that I send the girl some money—a money order for $150 plus an encouraging letter: “Yes, I will be your pen-pal if you will stay on and make me pockets. Love from Never-Never Land—Peter Pan.”

  Sunday came and I bussed my way to Boston. Immediately upon disembarking, I dialed the enchanted number—534-9766. A woman answered, a maid. Mrs. Barringer was away and would not return until the middle of the week, would I care to leave a message? Yes. Tell her that the Greenway Florist called and that they will call again, some other time.

  What an idiot! What a callow simpleton to not have phoned before leaving the post. What incalculable illogic to have come all the way to Boston on the teenage assumption that my love lay waiting where the lilies grew.

  On the outside chance that she might be at the USO I went over there to see. No such luck. Finding it impossible to drink giraffe-shit coffee or play Ping-Pong or suffer any exchange of dialogue with the autowaxed ladies on duty, I went back to the depot and caught the next bus, another disheartening triple play—Boston to Shirley to Ayer. I wasn’t exactly “out at home,” it was more like “left at the post.”

  The barracks were empty. Only a fool would hang around on Sunday, and I was looking at him—in the mirror over the sink where I was splashing water onto his stupid face. The next time I looked, there were two fool’s faces—mine and Holdoffer’s.

  “Hello, Hollywood,” he said, flashing those brown-glazed teeth with the little sweaters on them. His breath hit me full in the face, prompting me to wash it all over again, two sinks to the right. He followed me. “Nothing to do on a Sunday?”

  “I’ve already done it. I slipped a bomb up your ass when you weren’t looking. Please don’t be near me at five-fifteen.”

  He laughed, landing his big hand on my shoulder. “Hollywood, you got style. I think we should be friends.”

  “Let’s discuss it at five sixteen.” I shucked his hand off and walked out of the latrine and back into the barracks. He followed me like a witch’s familiar.

  He smiled and sat on Johnny’s bed. “Hollywood, we’re gonna be awardin’ PFC stripes soon—couple weeks maybe. My recommendations are gonna count. Wooncha like to be a PFC?”

  “Yeah. In the Russian army. Will you leave me alone, Holdoffer? And while you’re at it, take a shower. You smell like a bag of year-old jockstraps. And brush your teeth, too. Teeth are not supposed to have moss growing on them.”

  He refused to be riled. “You got the makins of a good soldier, Webber. We’ll be goin’ overseas soon. You can be a corporal by the time we ship out. More pay. No shit details.”

  I put the magazine down and looked at him. “Okay. What do I have to do for it?”

  “Be my spy.”

  “Okay. Consider me your spy. Just call me X-9.” I picked up my magazine again. “I’ll expect my promotion by next week.”

  “Wesso’s out to get me. He’s crazy and he makes me nervous. What I mean is—” He was picking his nose with his thumb. “—I could use a little advance notice on anythin’ he’s plannin’ that has to do with me, okay? I’ll keep it fuckin’ confidential. I mean, you’re no use to me if I tell people where I’m gettin’ my information from.”

  “Too risky.”

  “Think so?”

  “Yeah. If I was to spy on Wesso, you’d have to make me, at the least, a captain. Unless—”

  “What?”

  “—unless you sweeten the deal with a little cash.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Then it’s no deal.”

  He thought about it. “How much cash?”

  “Ten bucks for every piece of information I give you.”

  “I dunno.”

  “Then let’s just drop the whole thing.”

  “No. Let’s do it.”

  “Ten bucks in advance. As evidence of your good faith.”

  “Five.”

  “Seven fifty.”

  “Five, Webber. Take it or stuff it.”

  “What if I can’t get any information?”

  “Then you don’t get paid.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Whaddya think, I’m stupid, Webber? Come on.” He could see that as I thought it over my position was weakening. “Yes or no, Hollywood. I ain’t got all day.”

  I played it all the way. “And you’ll put in a good word for me? About the promotion?”

  “That’s what I said I’d do.”

  “Well—okay,” I said. “It’s a deal.”

  Some people are stupid but they know it and can deal with it. They are the smart stupid people. The stupid stupid people are those who are so stupid that they think they’re smart. Holdoffer not only fell into that category, he owned it.

  I told Johnny and Tony about it, of course, and we rolled on the floor laughing. And each time I’d pass Holdoffer, he’d whisper to me, “Anything?” and I’d nod no and he’d walk away, shrugging, as if to chastise me with “No info, no money.”

  Finally, to demonstrate that I really was digging for information, I told him of one of Tony’s discarded plans. “Luther, stay out of the Day Room tonight. Wesso and two others are gonna jump you, throw a blanket over you, and drop you in the grease pit.” Holdoffer smiled, peeled off a five-dollar bill, and nodded his comprehension of the insidious plot. To establish the veracity of my information, I made sure that Holdoffer saw Tony, Johnny, and Morgan return to the barracks that night carrying a blanket and some rope. Holdoffer winked at me, as if to say, “Keep up the good work.”

  The weekend struck and I phoned 534-9766 from the post. Again the maid and again the same story—Mrs. Barringer was away. And again I left the message that the Greenway Florist had called. I didn’t go into Boston that day. I went into Leominster, about eleven miles off the post. Nothing specific in mind. I just wanted to get away and be by myself. I wandered around rather aimlessly because the whole town was Sunday-closed. Then, after having sat for three hours, ducking pigeons, I returned to the post, bothered by the disquieting hypothesis that the lovely Mrs. Barringer had only been playing games and never had any intention of honoring her tacit promise of wild and unbridled sex. Still, she had given me the correct phone number. If her purpose had only been to knock the starch out of me, why wouldn’t she have given me some phony number? Why risk my saying the wrong thing to whoever might answer when I called? It was all a touch unsettling and I could have done nicely without the guessing games.

  Letter from Ginnie Maitland:

  Dear Ben,

  Thank you for the $150. I put it in the cookie jar which I bought with three dollars of it. So there’s only $147 in the cookie jar plus a couple quarters which I really must save for the Laundromat. Anyway, the pressure’s off. After working as a waitress in a pizza palace, I got a job! “Guys & Dolls”! My favorite show! I can’t believe it! I was one of four girls selected! I start in two days. Wish me luck because I AM SCARED! Also, I get to say some lines! How’s that? I’m a star!

&
nbsp; No word from Don yet but I have to tell you about something because maybe you can shed a little light on it.

  I came home from the market and there was a girl in the apartment. I asked her what she was doing there and she asked me the same thing. I told her I lived there and she said she did, too, and she showed me her key. Her name is Jessica and she seems to know all about you and Don and also says the lease is in her name and in the name of two other girls named Susan and Alice and that it was in a drawer—and there it was.

  Would you explain it to me, please? She is an airline stewardess only I think it would take a bomber to get her off the ground. Also—she brought this man with her, a Captain Stykes, who flies for another airline but who is sleeping with Jessica. I put them in Don’s room and told her you were in the army and she sent you her regards and disappeared for the night.

  Question is, do I charge her for part of the rent? Do I charge Captain Stykes? Shouldn’t they pay for food and electricity and linen and such? Should I change the lock on the door? And what do I do about Captain O’Neill who is sleeping in your room and coming on very strong with me? What kind of place are you running here and can I get in trouble because I’m underage?

  Please call as it is quicker than a letter and you can reverse the charges because we’re splitting the phone bill anyway.

  Confusedly yours,

  Ginnie Maitland

  I called Ginnie late that night.

  “Ginnie? It’s Ben.”

  “Ben?”

  “Yes. I got your letter.”

  “Ben? Is it really you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It feels so weird.”

  “It’s me.”

  “I mean, I feel like I know you. And here I am, thinking about what to do, and the phone rings, and there you are.”

  “Here I am.”

  “Wow.”

  “Congratulations on Guys and Dolls.”

  “Thank you, but what do I do about Jessica?”

  “Nothing. She’s your guest.”

  “Well—she’s all right. It’s just that she acts like she owns the place.”

  “She does.”

  “Yeah. I knew you were going to say that.”

  “Is this Captain O’Neill giving you trouble?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Ahhh.”

  “Captain Hennon took his place. He’s giving me trouble.”

  “Can you handle it?”

  “I think so. Yes. I just wanted—verification. From you. That this is the way it is.”

  “That’s the way it is.”

  “Am I ever going to meet you? Do you ever get a furlough? I mean, I think I miss you. Does that make any sense?”

  “Some.”

  “I mean, it’s like I know you very well.”

  “Really?”

  “How you doing with your girlfriend in the USO?”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’ve read all your letters. I told you.”

  “Oh. Well, she’s away.”

  “And Holdoffer? He still giving you a hard time?”

  “I can deal with him.”

  “Well, I don’t know what else to say except—I’m glad you called and cleared things up. It was very nice speaking to you. Give my regards to Johnny and Tony.”

  “Yes. I will.”

  “Will you call again? It’s nicer than letters and you can make it collect.”

  “Well—I’ll try. First chance.”

  “Bye, Ben. Take care of yourself, okay?”

  “I will. Bye, Ginnie.”

  And we hung up. It was the strangest conversation We’d never met yet she knew all about me. It was—provocative. There she was, living in my apartment, socializing with my friends, concerned with my welfare, and I didn’t even know what she looked like. All I knew was that she was a dancer with long legs and was good enough to be in a Broadway show. Period.

  A few days later—sonofabitch, there it was on the bulletin board. I had made PFC. Whether or not Holdoffer had anything to do with it did not stop him from pulling me aside and taking full credit, reminding me in the process how one hand had effectively washed the other, to which I suggested that with both hands he effectively wash himself lest some nearsighted gravedigger with a highly developed sense of smell come by and, thinking him dead, bury him in a trice. Holdoffer found that very funny and laughed, his breath enveloping me like a sheet of hyena spoor.

  Tony and Johnny congratulated me, saluting me all the while, and, were it not for the fact that five other draftees had received similar promotions, I’m sure that I’d have been drummed out of the Draftee of the Week program. As it was, if the NG’s had wanted to destroy our subversive movement, they could not have come up with a better way to do it than to give us promotions. Somehow, with that extra stripe on our sleeves we were less prone to be capricious. Anyway, though it still survived, the Draftee of the Week program had received a telling if not fatal blow by the promotion of six of its most vindictive members to the dizzy rank of PFC.

  Flushed with glory and wanting to tell someone, I phoned Ginnie to tell her the news. The kid was half-asleep and kept congratulating me on having made lieutenant. I hung up, feeling at odds with destiny.

  I then called the magic number in Wellesley Hills, what the hell. Again the maid and again my spirits flagged. But wait! What was that? Mrs. Barringer was in? Oh, unbelieving heart, to have had so little faith! I waited, trying to think of what I might say to her. Telling her that I had made PFC suddenly had all the chic of telling my old Aunt Frieda that I’d learned to ride a bike. Telling her how much she was on my mind could only be followed by my asking her to come with me to the pep rally. Telling her that her breasts were like pomegranates and that her—

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Barringer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Greenway Florist.”

  “Who?”

  “Greenway Florist. You know.”

  “Perhaps you’d better refresh me.”

  “Ben Webber. You told me to call.”

  “Oh—Ben! Of course! How are you?”

  “Fine. You’ve been away.”

  “Yes. Down to the Islands. It was lovely.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “What’s on your mind, Ben?”

  “What’s on my mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re on my mind. I’ve called a couple times.”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “I left messages. Like you told me.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to see you.”

  “Yes—well. I’d like to see you, too.”

  “I’m off Sunday. Should I come in to the USO?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Meet me at the Ritz-Carlton. Do you know where it is?”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “I have a room there. Room 503.”

  “503.”

  “503. When can you be there?”

  “In the morning. Eleven thirty—twelve.”

  “All right. Don’t ask for me at the desk. Just wait for me in the lobby. Only—don’t notice me. Give me five minutes to get to my room, then come up. I’m sorry, but—”

  “I understand.”

  “Room 503, Sunday. All right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ben?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want you…Sunday. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye—

  —darling.” I said the “darling” after I’d hung up. I wanted to say it over the phone but didn’t want to appear too forward. What a day! I had made PFC and I was going to make Mrs. Barringer! What a parley! Like leading the league in stolen bases as well as in home runs. How could I miss being selected Rookie of the Year?

  It was Tuesday. If Wednesday came, could Sunday be far behind? Could anything stop Sunday? No, nothing short of dyspepsia. I knew I had to stay healthy, lots of sleep, proper diet. Be careful crossing streets, cut out swe
ets (ooo-ooo). Keep my nose clean, stay on the good side of Holdoffer. Pass inspection. Check the duty roster—was I on KP that weekend? I looked. I wasn’t. Sunday, eleven thirty, the Ritz-Carlton, Room 503. The whole fucking globe could blow up on Monday, it wouldn’t matter as long as I had my Sunday with Mrs. Barringer.

  Tuesday made its way into history with nothing untoward blemishing its page. I hit the sack early that night, disdaining Tony’s and Johnny’s suggestion of a couple beers and another Doris Day film at Post Theatre Four. They were curious but didn’t press me as to why the sudden introversion, for they were beginning to understand that I could never be understood. I did not sleep an hour Tuesday night but it was a sweet insomnia, Mrs. Barringer populating my head, heart, and other vital organs.

  Wednesday was monumentally uneventful, couldn’t have been better. A few rain drops but better the rain in midweek than on the weekend. Thursday the rains came, tall black clouds collapsing on us. So great a deluge did occur on Thursday that it could not possibly rain again for a month of Sundays. Twenty hours of it had turned the company streets into impassable swamps. Even the indomitable jeep could not progress a yard without first giving up a foot. I loved it, the smell of freshly drenched earth so damply clean. Thursday was inspirational and I wallowed in it, slogged through it like a mudcaked moron, kicking at it like Tom Sawyer, coveting it like John Silver his treasure.

  Friday? Friday was not a good day. Friday my luck ran out. Friday the mud turned to shit and the stars to bile.

  Some fool of a general (time has mercifully obliterated his name from my memory), having nothing particularly important to do, took Friday to discover that the men of the 42nd Group HQ Company had never gone through the infiltration course. Delighted with the news because it had been such a dull day until then, the general rang up Colonel Cranston and pointed out the oversight. Colonel Cranston, an heroic boot-licker, was quick to state that he had been waiting for just such a rigorous day on which to schedule that most vital maneuver and that he would get on it immediately, which he did after first assuring the general that he had been typing up the order when the general called.

  With a bare fifteen minutes’ notice, we were all of us called away from our pertinent jobs (me from watering Lieutenant Colonel Beakins’ potted miniature pine tree). I mean all of us—NG’s, RA’s, US’s and Reservists, the latter group bitching all the way to the area in which the foul deed would take place. And I mean bitching, because they had done it in combat years earlier and there they were again, in the twilight of their service careers, having to walk, full packs, three miles off the post because the 6 X 6 transport vehicles selected for the task had sunk into the mud halfway up their wheels upon venturing out of the motor pool.