Compulsion. Meyer Levin

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      “You will meet Artie Straus,” Aunt Bertha insisted again. “I asked Mrs. Straus if Artie would be home. You know, Judd, dear, Artie can give you lots of pointers about the university, what teachers to take.”

      “Professors,” he corrected her.

      Aunt Bertha had come in her electric, and now gave him a chance to drive it the few blocks to the Straus mansion. Driving the Edison always gave Judd a kick, though he already could drive a regular car and was campaigning for the old man to get him his own sportster for graduation. If he came first in his class, it was a half promise.

      “I hear Artie is a nice fun-loving boy, and I hope you will become friends,” his aunt kept on, not realizing how a remark like that could push a fellow in the other direction. Especially if they were working on Artie the same way.

      But Artie came running out of the house as the electric drove up. With a politeness that might have had some mockery behind it, he opened doors.

      At first sight, Judd felt disappointment. It was an instant feeling that Artie wasn’t for him, Artie wasn’t the one. His long narrow face was like tallow. And everything about him was too long—his arms, his neck, his fingers. Even before emerging from the car, Judd knew he would scarcely reach to Artie’s shoulders. A shrimp in any crowd, beside Artie he would look like a midget.

      And at that moment Judd found himself thinking of Rocky, his camp counselor the summer before—the bronzed and muscled Rocky, whom he had pictured, every night as he lay in his bunk, as his king of slaves . . . Artie would never be anything to him. Judd even felt a kind of triumph that he had come along as Mother Dear and Aunt Bertha wished, but had proven immune to their plotting. He would remain his solitary and superior self.

      Artie was charming to the ladies; he had those manners. Helping Mother into the house, he said he would park the electric—he loved electrics; his own aunt had one exactly like this, the same model, and he made a joke about all aunts coming equipped with Edisons. Then Judd saw Artie spin the machine around the curve of the driveway, as if it were a speedster.

      It was a small bridge party of ladies, several of whom Judd had seen at his own house—Mrs. Seligman, Mrs. Kohn with a K, and Artie’s mother, a thin, energetic-looking woman, with great, clear blue eyes. Judd remembered that she was not Jewish and was always held up as an example, when Hyde Park talk turned on mixed marriages, of a Catholic who fitted very graciously into the South Side Jewish circle—indeed, took the leadership.

      There were three tables. Mrs. Straus warned everybody that Artie was a whiz, a shark. Oh, yes, since the two brilliant boys were going to be partners, the ladies had better watch out!

      Judd wished they would settle down to the game—he couldn’t stand chitchat, all the ladies clucking over him and trying their bits of French and Italian on him because they had heard he was such a genius at languages. He got aside for a moment to glance over the titles in a bookcase, but it was just the usual stuff, sets of Thackeray and Dickens. Mrs. Straus was said to be a highly intelligent woman and a great reader; indeed, she was the moving spirit of the Hyde Park Literary Circle, where famous authors like Theodore Dreiser had lectured. A copy of the new sensation, Main Street, lay on the table.

      “Why don’t you take Judd up to your room? We’ll call when we’re ready,” Mrs. Straus suggested to Artie, who motioned—“C’mon!”—and took the stairs two at a time.

      The room was as a collegian’s room was supposed to look, with pennants and sports stuff on the walls—tennis rackets and even crossed fencing foils. Immediately, Artie lighted a cigarette, and offered his Caporals to Judd. “Smoke?” Judd accepted one, remarking that his own preference was for the Turkish brands.

      It was too bad he was going to register at the U. of C., Artie told him at once. That was no good because you had to live at home and you couldn’t fool around too much—they had their eye on you. He himself was going to switch to Michigan, to Ann Arbor, in the fall. Another thing, the girls at the U. of C. wouldn’t put out. “You interested in girls?” And in the same moment, Artie opened a heavy atlas that was on his desk. “I keep them in here so the spies won’t get wise.” And he handed Judd a packet of postcards.

      They were French cards. Judd had never seen any before, but he made it his rule always to be inwardly prepared for anything. He didn’t flicker. The cards were certainly unaesthetic, particularly the females—the way their half-removed clothing dangled and dripped. In one, the man was nude. Muscular, he made Judd think of Rocky, poised for a swim. Handing back the postcards, he said, “Not bad,” and Artie said he could get Judd into Alpha Beta, only they were a bunch of sissies, the whole gang—he’d bet a ten-spot half of them were still cherry. “You cherry?”

      Judd grinned ambiguously. He was saved from the need to answer further by Mrs. Straus calling from downstairs, “Boys, we’re beginning.”

      “Hey, I got an idea,” Artie said. “You want to have some fun with these hens? Let’s have some signals.”

      That was the first spark between them; the idea of defrauding these clucking women was pleasant to Judd. Artie proposed finger signals, but Judd feared even those dumb females might catch on. His own idea was word signals. Let the first letter of the first word you spoke represent the suit, say, for clubs, any word beginning with a C. Then the number of words in the remark would be the number of cards of that suit. His mind leaped ahead, even to word signals for the high cards, but Artie said he had a better system. He would tap Judd’s toe under the table—that’s what long legs were good for. Once for spades, twice for hearts, and so on. Then you tap the number held in each suit.

      “What if they catch you?”

      “They never catch me.” Artie laughed, and his mother called again, and the boys went downstairs.

      As the foot reached, pressing on his toes, Judd felt an odd combination of mischievousness and tense excitement. He lost count of the taps. He messed up the bidding. But Artie played with bravado and brilliance, and fished them out of the mess. Afterward they got a little better at it. Then they got so good, the women ooed and aahed, and Judd found himself giggling with the secret fun. Then Artie’s mother made a remark about how nervous he was, his legs rattling all the time, and Judd got scared and drew back his feet, holding them under the chair. He gave Artie a meaningful look.

      They came out winners, nearly five dollars apiece, and during the coffee and French pastries, Artie took him upstairs again and produced a hidden flask of gin. Then Artie wanted to try Judd’s aunt’s electric to see if it could get up any more speed than his own aunt’s Edison.

      In the driveway, the two electric cars were lined up. Aunt Bertha’s still had the key in it. And Artie suddenly had a thought. He tried the key in the second car. It fit. All those Edisons must have the same key!

      And so it started. Artie came over for bridge one evening, Judd and Artie trimming Aunt Bertha and Mother Dear, using Judd’s word system this time. Then Artie borrowed Aunt Bertha’s electric, and, while he was out, had a duplicate key made. Artie was car crazy, but since his accident, his family very strictly wouldn’t let him drive.

      One afternoon he said, “Hey, how about some fun?” And he and Judd walked into a garage on Harper and tried the key in an Edison, driving the buggy right out. The garageman’s face fell open half a yard as they passed him—what a riot! But after a few blocks he was chasing them in his repair truck. You couldn’t get any speed on an electric, Artie cursed, so he slewed it against the curb and they both leaped out, lamming down an alley and dodging across a vacant lot, Artie СКАЧАТЬ