The Absent Ones
Born in Berkeley, California, on October 22, 1930, GAY GAER is now finishing her senior year at Radcliffe. She began to write fiction in high school, and last year a group of her stories were submitted in a course conducted by Dr. Albert Guérard at Harvard. She has recently been engaged on a longer work for the course in English composition given by Archibald MacLeish. We published her first story. “The Sisters,” in the March Atlantic.
by GAY GAER
I WATCHED Al poke his head over Rene’s high padded shoulder. He was bulky in gray flannels, and was trying his best to wedge through to her side. “Come on and dance,” he said.
“Oh, Al, you simply must heah what Sally just said.”
He waited.
“She said, ‘If you evah feel like an amethyst just come and callon me.’ Isn’t that the elevehest thing? If you evah ...”
“Come on; let’s dance.” They left me in the doorway, pushing their way to the space where people were swaying in each other’s arms, and a few careened like crazy ships.
“My, you have a wonderful bosom!”
I looked up, and Art McFarlin was peering down at me.
“You really ought to show it more often, you know. Most fascinating.”
“I keep it for special occasions.”
“Ah, and this is one of them?” He smiled.
“ It looks that way.”
“ You don’t sound your usual looped self, Sally. Let me get you some punch.”
“That’s my glass, there.” I pointed to the littered bookshelf near the door. He walked off with the glass, yelling to someone at the other end of the room. He held the glass above his head as he squirmed through a group clustered around an erotic portrait on the side wall. I giggled involuntarily.
“He is an ass, isn’t he?”
“Why, Bill how good to see you. I was hoping you’d be here.”
“How are you, Sal? Haven’t seen you in a dog’s age. Has Art been making a fool of himself as usual?”
“Oh, not as bad as he can be.”
“ Well, why don’t we dance, before he has time to get back and really put on the donkey.”
“Wonderful idea!”
He led me through several clusters of hilarious couples, and I followed, letting him do the “excuse me’s.”His ingenuous face shone down at me. “ We never see you any more. What do you do with yourself?”
“Playtime’s over. I’m a working girl now.”
“ Museum ? ”
“ Yes.”
“ Do you like it ?”
“I’m lazy. I’d almost forgotten what a good dancer you are . . . even in this mess.”
“It has been ages, Sally. Say, you aren’t half as lit as I am. It’s almost embarrassing.”
“Don’t worry. I will be.”
“How’s Sever?”
“I don’t know. Bill. He’ll be all right, I guess.”
“Well, you and he must come over for dinner sometime. Dora’s a marvelous cook.”
“I was just going to ask about her.”
“She’s the same as ever.”
“That’s fine. You must be very happy.”
“Yes. Only five months to go.”
“Papa Bill.”
Art’s hand was on my shoulder. “I’ve been looking for you, you wretch. Here’s your punch,” he admonished.
“Thanks, Art. I forgot.”
“ Like hell,” he mumbled. “ By the way,” he said, pointing toward the painting of a curled-up nude with a cataract of carrot-colored hair, “how do you like Nana?”
“It’s Nana, all right,” I said.
“But not as voluptuous as you,”he went on.
Bill smiled.
“I wouldn’t know,” I mused.
“But I’ll bet Sever would.” Art looked at me laughing. “The lucky guy.”
“Shut up,” said Bill.
“I’m cutting in,” Art persisted, his hands forcing us apart. “Rene’s been telling us what a wit Sally is.”
“Look here,” Bill said, “we’re dancing, so be a good chap and cut it out.”
“Please — you two, you’re pulling me apart. Why don’t we sit down.”
“Poor Sally,” Art said. “Someone’s always trying to pull her apart.”
We burst our way through the swaying crowd and found an empty couch near the fireplace. Bill and I sat down. Art stood awkwardly in front of us. “It really is lovely,” he said to me.
“What is?”
“Your bosom.”
“Oh? How many drinks did it take, Art ?”
He looked hurt. “Your trouble is you haven’t had enough.”
“Well, thank you,” I said, lifting my glass.
“Still in love with that Sever fellow?” he asked.
“ Why don’t you blow?” Bill said.
A nice-looking blonde in a red sheath bumped into Art while navigating the room. “Maybe I will,” he said. He turned and followed her.
“How’s everything?” Bill asked softly. “You look the same except for that drunken glint.”
“I’m not drunk,” I giggled.
“How’s Sever doing?” he asked. What do the doctors think?”
“I really don’t know, Bill.
Al came by looking more stolid than ever in his gray suit. He plumped himself on the arm of the couch. “How are you, Sally?
“Fine, Al. And you?”
“Fine.” His fleshy face suddenly lit up. He reached over and grabbed a handful of peanuts from a dish on the mantel. Then he took aim and placed one neatly inside my dress. I squirmed.
“I’ve been wanting to do that ever since you said I couldn’t be your bridesmaid,” he said.
“Why, Al? I was just thinking that pink wasn’t your color and I’m set on pink for the bridesmaids.”
“Oh, pink would be his color,’ said Bill.
“Just ripping,” said Al. He got up and began to mince his way toward the punch bowl.
I was tired, and I think Bill was, too. We curled up on the couch and looked into the empty, clean fireplace.
“Remember the house party in Sandwich,” he asked after a long pause, “when we rode down in the rumble seat and swilled rum to keep warm? How you’ve grown up since. You were shocked at us.”
“Me, shocked?”
“Oh yes. You refused to even touch the bottle until you got good and cold . . . and then it hurt to ask for a swig.”
“I wasn’t that way.”
“Oh, Sal, you used to be the most awful little prude.” He kissed my forehead. “And you never could hold it . . . like now.”
Bill sounded fuzzy. I think I smiled. I leaned against him and closed my eyes. When I opened them the room was relatively quiet, and many of the people were gone. Bill was talking to someone I didn’t know on my side of the couch. He smiled down at me. “You blacked out,” he laughed.
“Oh, no, I’ve been listening to everything.”
“Of course,” Bill laughed.
“How’s Sever?” the guy beside me asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. My voice sounded irritated as it came back.
“Don’t they know what’s wrong with him?” the fellow persisted.
“No!” I said loudly. “Nobody knows.”
“She’s tired,” Bill explained. “Let me take you home, Sally.”
“Why don’t we take another drink?”
“It’s after three, Sal. I don’t like Dora to be alone so long.”
“Oh, Bill!”
The fellow beside me rose and stood in front of us. We waited awkwardly while he shifted. “Well, Bill,” he said, “I’ve got to be running along. Nice seeing you.”
“Hold on. Maybe I can give you a lift. Coming, Sally?”
“The place is just beginning to be comfortable ...”
“Why don’t you come over for dinner sometime this week?” Bill said. “Our place is always quiet and . . .”
“That’s not what I meant,” I answered.
“Well, it’s late, Sally, and I really don’t like to leave Dora alone so long.” He turned toward the fellow standing in front of him. “Do you live out toward Sprague Street?”
“Yeah, Bill. That would be wonderful.”
Bill started to rise. He paused on the edge of the couch, looking expectantly at me. “Are you coming?” he asked.
“Oh, Bill . . . there’s so much I didn’t have time to ask you about . . .”
“Another time, Sally. I really must get back.”
“I think I’ll stay awhile,” I said.
“Well . . . so long, then.” He got up slowly and stretched.
“So long,” the fellow said.
“Things always end up this way, don’t they?” I asked.
Bill didn’t answer. He and the fellow were moving across the room toward the door.