“All right. You’re right. It will keep you out of the draft, and a mother’s first concern is her son should stay alive. So she’s not Jewish, I’ll learn to live with it. For my son I’ll do these things. And more. A wedding I’ll give him. And after the wedding you can move right into my apartment. My bedroom you can have, the one Papa and I shared before he died. He’ll turn over in his grave, but for my son I’ll do it. Yes, my bed you can have.”
“But Mama, where will you sleep?” Studs wanted to know.
“Sleep? Don’t worry about it. I won’t be sleeping. Right after the wedding with this pregnant goy for a daughter-in-law, I’m dropping dead! That I’ll promise you!”
“Now, Mama—”
“I’m sorry. So pretend I didn’t say it. You’ll see for yourself anyway how quick I’ll drop. Now, about the wedding. You got a large family?” she asked Penny.
“Very large,” Penny said spitefully. “And very close.”
“So it’ll be only the immediate family. No children. No cousins. No friends. Just your Mama and Papa from your side. And just the people who are really close from Irving’s side.”
“Like who ?” Penny asked.
“Well, we have to ask his Uncle Meyer.”
“Who’s he?” Studs asked.
“Who’s he? A man is married for twenty years to your father’s only sister, and you ask who’s he! You don’t remember he sent you the sailor suit when you were five years old?”
“Oh, yeah. I thought he was dead. Or out in California or something.”
“Alaska. That’s where he is. But believe me he wouldn’t miss the chance to fly in for the wedding. And then there’s Aunt Sophie, of course.”
“Do we have to ask her, Ma? You know how she is!”
“It’s gas. She can’t help it. So we’ll put her in the back, nobody should notice. But Tante Sophie is a must. I couldn’t face myself if I didn’t ask her. Oh, and Mrs. Shapiro, of course.”
“Why her?”
“You can even ask? Every week for seventeen years I play mah-jongg with her, you think I can leave her out of my only son’s wedding? And then there’s Mrs. Jacobsen and Mrs. Kaufman, too. You don’t know them, but they’re part of the mah-jongg group. I couldn’t show my face if I left them out.”
“Isn’t this going to be rather expensive?” Penny asked.
“So maybe it is. But why should you worry? Your father will pay for it gladly.”
“My father?” Penny’s voice shot up.
“Who else? The bride’s father always pays for the wedding. Irving will supply the schnapps. But there’s no drinkers in my family, so that shouldn’t cost much.”
“What makes you think my father—” Penny started to ask.
“He’ll be happy to! Believe me! He’ll consider himself lucky to unload his pregnant daughter.”
“That did it!” Penny shouted. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last mother’s son on earth!” she told Studs. “Now, if you’ll tell me where you hid my clothes, I’ll get dressed and get out of here!”
“They’re under the bed, Penny. But—-” The door slammed behind Penny before Studs could finish the sentence.
When she reappeared a few moments later she was completely dressed. “Goodbye, Studs—-” she started to say.
“Already you’re leaving?” Mrs. Levine protested. “We haven’t even finished with the guest list.”
“You finish it,” Penny told her sweetly. “Anyone you ask is fine with me because I won’t be there.”
“Penny, can’t we talk this over?” Studs pleaded.
“You talk it over with your mother. I’m just not in the mood to get married in the near future.”
“The mood maybe, no,” Mrs. Levine said pointedly. “But in your condition, moods you can’t afford.”
“That’s my problem and I’ll solve it,” Penny told her. “So long, Studs. Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes.” She opened the door to leave.
As she closed it behind her, Mrs. Levine’s last motherly wail echoed behind her: “I didn’t raise my boy he should be a soldier!”
Penny walked over to the Lexington Avenue subway and waited on the subterranean platform for an uptown local. Ostrich-like, she dismissed Studs and the subject of marriage from her mind. Instead, she concentrated on the more immediate problem of who should temporarily take her place as editor of Lovelights.
Her evening with Annie Fitz-Manley and the things she’d learned had to be weighed carefully. It wasn’t that Annie must automatically be counted out because of her Lesbian leanings. She was still in the running, but Penny did have to take those leanings into account. They had to be balanced against the possible shortcomings of Marie D’Chastidi and Sappho Kuntzentookis, the other two contenders for the job.
But Penny was tired. She couldn’t make her mind concentrate on the problem. It kept skidding off, and she found herself staring blankly up and down the subway platform. Looking at the yawning tunnel made her dizzy after a while, and she turned away from it. Her eyes focussed on the back wall of the platform. She found herself reading the graffiti scrawled there.
They fell into many different categories. Political mementoes, for instance; an old campaign poster carrying a picture of Barry Goldwater underneath which someone had written, “I’d rather be right than be President.”
And epitaphs; a crudely drawn gravestone on which was lettered: “Born a virgin. Died a virgin. Laid in the grave!”
Also sexual comments for the living: “Of all my relations, I like sex the best!”
There were advertising comments, one right in keeping with the generally held huckster conviction that a picture is worth a thousand words. Under the caption “I got my job through the New York Times,” someone had pasted an old newspaper photograph of Polly Adler.
Yes, and there were even historical footnotes on the derivation of widely-spread idiosyncratic word-forms like the over-blatantly capitalized phrase “For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge” printed beneath the smiling face of a policeman on a P.A.L. poster.
Other grafiiti capitalized more outrageously on the posters of the lawful advertisers. An ad for Berlitz, for example, bore this postscript: “Young, swinging couple interested in photography and French would like to meet twosome in 20s with similar interests. Advanced French techniques. Cunning linguists.” A phone number was scrawled underneath the invitation.
The particular handwriting on the wall which attracted Penny’s attention was marked as a dialogue by two alternating styles of handwriting. It began philanthropically:
“Hey, fella, suffering from Lackanookie? Call Lulu— KR-3-5642. She’s the greatest. Say Herb said to call.”
The initial response was cautious. “Dear Herb: Is Lulu a pro? If so, not interested. If not, maybe. Please let me know. Don.”
“Hey, Don. She’s no pro. Just ready, willing and able-bodied. Give her a blast and let me know how you make out.”
“Called Lulu. She wanted to know how I got her number. Told her Herb gave it to me. Said she never heard of you. What should I do now?”
“Man, Don, you must really be from Squaresville. Says she never heard of me, hey? Don’t let that throw you. I done her dirty, I guess, and now the poor chick just wants to make like I never was. She’s still on the rebound, so why not catch her on the fly? Go on, Don, give her another buzz.”
“Called Lulu again and made a date to take her to the movies. Will keep you posted, Don.”
“The movies? There ain’t no beds in the movies, jerk!”
“Herb-—I take it slow and easy. And don’t call me jerk!”
“Okay. So how was the picture?”
“Not bad. It was an old Errol Flynn revival. He’s a privateer captured by the Spanish and when they torture him to find out where the English fleet is, Flynn impales himself on a barbecue skewer and dies a hero. At the fadeout he’s standing at the helm of his ship while it’s skimming over the bounding main. He’s transparent and there’s this skull-and-crossbones waving from the skewer while this eighty-piece symphony orchestra plays The White Cliffs of Dover. I was very stirred by it and so was Lulu.”