Til the Real Thing Comes Along (31 page)

Two weeks later Davey stood in what was now his room in the dormitory. The suitcase containing the clothes in which Yona had
carefully sewn the
DAVID MALCOLM
labels sat on the bed. His father, who had a plane to catch for Switzerland, stood at the door looking at his son. Their
years together had been good for the man. They had taught him the patience to pause in the corridor of the White House to
tie a little saddle oxford. To wait at the bottom of the embassy stairs while a banister was being tried out for sliding,
to postpone a meeting so he could stop at the Louvre and take the boy on his own personal tour.

“See you Easter,” Davey said.

“Easter, hell,” his father said. “Next weekend.”

Davey just shook his head no, and watched his father try not to react. Then Rand Malcolm turned and walked from the room,
down the corridor to the stairwell and out of the building. The bright sun reflecting on the snow-covered lawn of the dormitory
made his eyes water. He could see his breath in puffs in front of him as he walked the long path toward the parking lot where
his car and driver were waiting. A group of boys were throwing snowballs at one another, and a large one came speeding by,
just missing Mal’s ear.

Goddamned kids, goddamned institutions. He was just a few feet away from his car when he heard Davey’s voice.

“Dad,” the boy said. Of course, thought Rand Malcolm, he’s changed his mind. Strong-willed, bullheaded, just like his mother.
Makes a decision, then regrets it and comes around. He had the world by the balls living with me, so no wonder he’s changing
his…

“Yes, fella?” he. said, turning to see Davey red-cheeked and coatless in the snow behind him.

“You forgot something,” the boy told him and handed him the plaid muffler he’d left behind on a chair in the dormitory.

Rand Malcolm took the muffler silently, and when he had, his son turned to go.

“See you at Easter, fella,” his father said.

Davey’s hot tears fell on the cold snow. “Okay, Dad,” he said, but he didn’t turn around to look back.

The schoolwork was easy for Davey. He was so far ahead of himself in every seventh-grade class that he was working on some
eighth-grade subjects. The hard part was getting used to being a child. He had never played Wiffle ball or thrown a Frisbee.
Never had to take P.E. or wait in line for a meal or the bathroom. Never known anything about razzing. But he loved the parties.
Throwing popcorn, roasting marshmallows. Chubby Checker and the Twist. And all the girls squealed when they heard “Johnny
Angel.” The girls. No one at these parties danced the way he had seen his father dance with Lily at the country club parties,
or on her birthday when the band came to the house and played her favorite song, “Always.” The girls mostly stayed on one
side of the room and the boys on the other. But there was a real disc jockey who played records, and Casey was there.

“Casey Baylor, Baylor Steel, that’s who she is, Talcum Powder,” Douglas Benning said, catching Davey’s gaze. Davey looked
away quickly, but it was too late. “Talcum Powder’s in love.” Malcolm had become Talcum, which had devolved to Talcum Powder.

“Malcolm Paper loves Baylor Steel,” Benning said, his fat face grinning. He looked as if he’d gotten even fatter since they
met. “What a merger.”

Davey looked around, hoping no one had heard. No one had. “Forget it, Talcum. She likes Charlie Keats. He’s a jock. Money
can’t buy that for you. Even the kind your dad

Charlie Keats. In the ninth grade. No shot. And why was Benning giving him static about money? When Keaton Benning died, everyone
knew he left a fortune to his wife and this bulk of a drip who was probably richer than any ten adults Davey knew. As Douglas
Benning moved into the crowd to bother someone else, Davey looked over again at Casey Baylor, who just happened to look back
at him. And—this had to be his imagination, but—he thought she was smiling. Then she was walking over to him. Gliding, floating
like a character in a dream.

“I think my parents know your dad. Are you David Malcolm?”

Davey nodded.

“Maybe you’ve even met them. They’re friends with the Cornells in Los Angeles. And the Allburns.”

“I know,” Davey said. “I mean I know the people you just mentioned. And I’ve probably met your parents. I mean, I’ve traveled
everywhere with my father.”

Casey grinned. “I’ve heard. My parents told me about you. That you’ve never had to go to school. Lu-cky.” She dragged the
word out. “Mine never take me anyplace good. Hardly ever. I just come here and go to camp.”

Davey looked at her pretty pink face and hoped that Douglas Benning was watching. Casey. Boy, he could show her the world.

“Yes,” he said. “My dad wanted me to go to Switzerland with him, but I thought it was kind of time for me to settle down.”
He thought for a moment when he said that that he sounded like Roland Spencer in the movie
Bachelor Days.

“Lu-cky,” Casey Baylor said again.

“You in seventh?” she asked. Davey nodded.

“Moi aussi,
” she said. “You in French One?”

He shook his head. “Four.”

“Boy, you’re smart. Probably learned in France or something.”

“Yep,” Davey said, then wished he’d said
oui.

“Lu-cky,” Casey Baylor said, and then turned and walked back over to where her girlfriends were standing. Davey loved her
so much it made his stomach hurt.

From then on she said hi to him every time she passed him in the halls or on the campus, which was a lot. Once she stopped
and said, “I talked to my parents last night.
They told me they met you when you were very little. When your mother was…” She looked uncomfortable.

“Alive,” Davey said.

“I didn’t know you didn’t have a mother,” she said, and touched his arm tenderly. “I’m sorry.” And then she walked on.

She had talked about him with her parents. She was thinking about him. He barely thought about anything but her. There were
some boys who, had girlfriends. They sat with them at auditorium programs. Or walked them back to their dormitories at night
after the dances. Davey wanted Casey Baylor to be his girlfriend. How did that work? What did girls want you to do? Expect
you to say? Then he remembered the letter. His father had written his mother a letter that was so good even Roland Spencer
couldn’t steal her away. What did it say? He had to think of it.
There isn’t a moment while we’re apart that I don’t long for you. You are everything I prayed my love would be.
Davey got out of bed, opened his notebook, took a pen, and began writing.

“Concentrate. Do your best. Empty your minds of everything but
The Mill on the Floss,”
Dr. Becker said as he passed out the blue test-books. “Answer the first five questions on the board with a one-paragraph
answer. Number six is an essay question. Good luck.”

Davey had put the letter in Casey’s mail slot this morning, and
The Mill on the Floss
was the furthest thing from his mind, but he jotted down the first answers he thought of, and after each one looked up at
the clock, knowing he would see her when English was over and she came out of History, and she would have read it by then.
Casey. She reminded him of Lily a little bit. Probably because she was so beautiful. And she would certainly be thrilled by
his letter the way Lily was by his father’s. She would agree to be his girlfriend and… The bell rang just as Davey finished
his essay answer, and Dr. Becker waited until each student had passed in the completed notebook before he said, “Dismissed,”
and the relieved boys and girls all jumped to their feet and clamored for the door. Casey.

The door to the History room was still closed and Davey stood nervously outside. Then with a burst and a
slam against the wall it opened, and the class poured out. Casey. Maybe when she saw him standing there she would run and
put her arms around him. But she didn’t. She was walking with Terry Loring and Ellen Spence on either side of her, and both
of them were reading over her shoulder. The letter. They were squealing, and when they looked up and saw Davey they squealed
even more.

“There he is,” Ellen Spence said. “He longs for her. He wants her and loves her. Aggh. My God.”

Some of the people who had started to walk away to other classes stopped.

“Ugggh, he spent his life praying,” Terry Loring said. “How dorky.”

Casey’s eyes met Davey’s for only a second. Her face was bright-red. “Oh, David, this is a joke. Right? I mean, it’s so yucky,”
she said, rhyming it with lucky.

“What is?” Chip Dennis asked. No, Davey thought. No.

“This love letter,” Casey said.

Davey flushed as Chip Dennis took the letter. A ninth-grade boy. Reading the letter he had written and rewritten at least
five times last night. Not finishing until dose
to
midnight He turned to walk away and hadn’t gotten very far when he heard Chip Dennis laugh and say, “Her silver hair glimmers
like the moon shining on the snow. That could really make you blow your lunch. And wait till you hear the P.S.”

At dinner in the cafeteria no one sat near him. He was at a table all alone. He couldn’t eat. From across the room he thought
he heard various phrases from the letter he’d written Casey being repeated amid a great deal of laughter. He had to get out
of here. He would never live this down. He would call his father and tell him that he was right. That going to school had
been a mistake and that he wanted to go back on the road and forget about schools forever. Or maybe just until college. But
he had to get out of here fast.

He took a fistful of change and his personal phone book and went to the pay phone in the hall near his room. He tried New
York, Los Angeles, London, and Paris. His father’s offices and homes. It was late at night in London and Paris and no one
answered. Yona in Los Angeles wasn’t sure where to find his father, and in New York the line at the apartment was busy and
both his father’s secretary and Mr. Samuels had left the office for the day. He left messages.
Any minute his father would call him back, and tomorrow he would rush from wherever he was and come and get him. Still wearing
all his clothes, Davey fell asleep on top of his bed.

In the morning he decided that he wouldn’t go to classes that day. Why should he? By tonight he wouldn’t be going to this
school anymore. Or any school. He hadn’t had one bite of his dinner the night before, and he was hungry. He would go to breakfast.
He washed his face, and still wearing rumpled clothes, he walked through the cafeteria line, loading his plate with eggs,
bacon, corned beef hash, and toast. His last meal here. That was certain. Someone would come today and get him. In the meantime
he would stay in his room and read.

He was opening his paper milk carton, and without looking up he could feel Douglas Benning sit next to him. More razzing.
By now Benning would have heard all about the letter to Casey. Benning slapped him on the back.

“Talcum Powder.” Davey held his breath for the onslaught of insults. “You are the luckiest guy in the world,” he said, “because
you and I are going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

“No, we’re not,” Davey said, “because I’m leaving this school today.”

“Me too,” Benning said. “And for the same reason.”

The same reason? Because his life had been destroyed by a girl he loved? And still loved, even though she did this to him?
What could Benning—who picked a piece of bacon from Davey’s plate with his fat fingers and stuck it in his mouthn-possibly
mean?

“Leaving to go to the wedding,” Benning said.

“Wedding?”

“My mom and your dad,” Benning said, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his blazer. “They called last night. They tried to
reach you, but the line on the pay phone on your floor was busy for a really long time. So whaddya say, old bru-ther dear?
You and I are going to New York together for the wedding. Maybe they’ll give us some champagne and we can get drunk. Ever
been drunk, Talco?”

Davey stood, leaving his uneaten breakfast to be thrown away, and went upstairs to pack.

1962

T
he Hoberman brothers sat on either side of Yossie Hoberman’s desk in the cluttered office they shared above the bustling HoBros
department store.

“This, as far as I’m concerned, gets my vote,” Tubby Hoberman said. “It’s the best use of color, the most imagination, the
most pizazz. For me. I mean it’s a real subjective thing—don’t you think so?”

“Hey,” Yossie said. “Let’s not take ourselves too seriously here. We’re judging a coloring contest for Christ’s sake. Fill
in the friggin’ Easter Bunny with your Crayolas and don’t go out of line.”

Tubby Hoberman’s cheeks flamed red. “Goddamn right this is serious, putzo. I mean, are we or are we not givin’ the little
bastard who wins the contest fifteen hundred simoleons? Therefore, it’s a big responsibility. Whether you think so or not”

“Anight,” Yossie Hoberman said and took a sip from a bottle of Coca-Cola that had been sitting on his desk all day, then made
a face.

“The farkakter Coke is warm and it’s so hot in this office I’m shvitzing like a pig. So let’s make a decision and put the
winning picture up in the window and phone up the goddamned winner and go home.”

And with that he took a handful of the coloring contest entries, threw them in the air, and watched them shower down all over
everything. When the pictures had scattered
and landed, Yossie looked all around, then pointed and said, “I pick the one that landed on the radiator,”

“You got good taste,” Tubby said, moving to pick up the various Easter Bunny pictures from where they lay. “Tomorrow morning
we’ll call and break the good news to some extremely lucky individual.”

Louie Rabinowitz was dying in the intensive care unit at Montefiore Hospital, and his wife, Rifke, and daughter, Rosie Jane,
sat on a green plastic sofa in the waiting room playing gin rummy because all the-television stations had signed off for the
night, hours before.