Nine Stories (14 page)

"Oh?"

"Yeah.
She's interested as hell in all that stuff. She's majoring in
psychology." Clay stretched himself out on the bed, shoes
included. "You know what she said? She says nobody gets a
nervous breakdown just from the war and all. She says you probably
were unstable like, your whole goddam life."

X
bridged his hands over his eyes--the light over the bed seemed to be
blinding him--and said that Loretta's insight into things was always
a joy.

Clay
glanced over at him. "Listen, ya bastard," he said. "She
knows a goddam sight more psychology than you do."

"Do
you think you can bring yourself to take your stinking feet off my
bed?" X asked.

Clay
left his feet where they were for a few
don't-tell-me-where-to-put-my-feet seconds, then swung them around to
the floor and sat up. "I'm goin' downstairs anyway. They got the
radio on in Walker's room." He didn't get up from the bed,
though. "Hey. I was just tellin' that new son of a bitch,
Bernstein, downstairs. Remember that time I and you drove into
Valognes, and we got shelled for about two goddam hours, and that
goddam cat I shot that jumped up on the hood of the jeep when we were
layin' in that hole? Remember?"

"Yes--don't
start that business with that cat again, Clay, God damn it. I don't
want to hear about it."

"No,
all I mean is I wrote Loretta about it. She and the whole psychology
class discussed it. In class and all. The goddam professor and
everybody."

"That's
fine. I don't want to hear about it, Clay."

"No,
you know the reason I took a pot shot at it, Loretta says? She says I
was temporarily insane. No kidding. From the shelling and all."

X
threaded his fingers, once, through his dirty hair, then shielded his
eyes against the light again. "You weren't insane. You were
simply doing your duty. You killed that pussycat in as manly a way as
anybody could've under the circumstances."

Clay
looked at him suspiciously. "What the hell are you talkin'
about?"

"That
cat was a spy. You had to take a pot shot at it. It was a very clever
German midget dressed up in a cheap fur coat. So there was absolutely
nothing brutal, or cruel, or dirty, or even--"

"God
damn it!" Clay said, his lips thinned. "Can't you ever be
sincere?"

X
suddenly felt sick, and he swung around in his chair and grabbed the
wastebasket--just in time. When he had straightened up and turned
toward his guest again, he found him standing, embarrassed, halfway
between the bed and the door. X started to apologize, but changed his
mind and reached for his cigarettes.

"C'mon
down and listen to Hope on the radio, hey," Clay said, keeping
his distance but trying to be friendly over it. "It'll do ya
good. I mean it."

"You
go ahead, Clay. . . . I'll look at my stamp collection."

"Yeah?
You got a stamp collection? I didn't know you--"

"I'm
only kidding."

Clay
took a couple of slow steps toward the door. "I may drive over
to Ehstadt later," he said. "They got a dance. It'll
probably last till around two. Wanna go?"

"No,
thanks. . . . I may practice a few steps in the room."

"O.K.
G'night! Take it easy, now, for Chrissake." The door slammed
shut, then instantly opened again. "Hey. O.K. if I leave a
letter to Loretta under your door? I got some German stuff in it.
Willya fix it up for me?"

"Yes.
Leave me alone now, God damn it."

"Sure,"
said Clay. "You know what my mother wrote me? She wrote me she's
glad you and I were together and all the whole war. In the same jeep
and all. She says my letters are a helluva lot more intelligent since
we been goin' around together."

X
looked up and over at him, and said, with great effort, "Thanks.
Tell her thanks for me."

"I
will. G'night!" The door slammed shut, this time for good.

X
sat looking at the door for a long while, then turned his chair
around toward the writing table and picked up his portable typewriter
from the floor. He made space for it on the messy table surface,
pushing aside the collapsed pile of unopened letters and packages. He
thought if he wrote a letter to an old friend of his in New York
there might be some quick, however slight, therapy in it for him. But
he couldn't insert his notepaper into the roller properly, his
fingers were shaking so violently now. He put his hands down at his
sides for a minute, then tried again, but finally crumpled the
notepaper in his hand.

He
was aware that he ought to get the wastebasket out of the room, but
instead of doing anything about it, he put his arms on the typewriter
and rested his head again, closing his eyes.

A
few throbbing minutes later, when he opened his eyes, he found
himself squinting at a small, unopened package wrapped in green
paper. It had probably slipped off the pile when he had made space
for the typewriter. He saw that it had been readdressed several
times. He could make out, on just one side of the package, at least
three of his old A.P.O. numbers.

He
opened the package without any interest, without even looking at the
return address. He opened it by burning the string with a lighted
match. He was more interested in watching a string burn all the way
down than in opening the package, but he opened it, finally.

Inside
the box, a note, written in ink, lay on top of a small object wrapped
in tissue paper. He picked out the note and read it.

17,
----ROAD,

-----DEVON

JUNE
7, 1944

DEAR
SERGEANT X,

I
hope you will forgive me for having taken 38 days to begin our
correspondence but, I have been extremely busy as my aunt has
undergone streptococcus of the throat and nearly perished and I have
been justifiably saddled with one responsibility after another.
However I have thought of you frequently and of the extremely
pleasant afternoon we spent in each other's company on April 30, 1944
between 3:45 and 4:15 P.M. in case it slipped your mind.

We
are all tremendously excited and overawed about D Day and only hope
that it will bring about the swift termination of the war and a
method of existence that is ridiculous to say the least. Charles and
I are both quite concerned about you; we hope you were not among
those who made the first initial assault upon the Cotentin Peninsula.
Were you? Please reply as speedily as possible. My warmest regards to
your wife.

Sincerely
yours,

ESMA

P.S.
I am taking the liberty of enclosing my wristwatch which you may keep
in your possession for the duration of the conflict. I did not
observe whether you were wearing one during our brief association,
but this one is extremely water-proof and shockproof as well as
having many other virtues among which one can tell at what velocity
one is walking if one wishes. I am quite certain that you will use it
to greater advantage in these difficult days than I ever can and that
you will accept it as a lucky talisman.

Charles,
whom I am teaching to read and write and whom I am finding an
extremely intelligent novice, wishes to add a few words. Please write
as soon as you have the time and inclination.

HELLO
HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLO LOVE AND KISSES
CHALES

It
was a long time before X could set the note aside, let alone lift
Esme's father's wristwatch out of the box. When he did finally lift
it out, he saw that its crystal had been broken in transit. He
wondered if the watch was otherwise undamaged, but he hadn't the
courage to wind it and find out. He just sat with it in his hand for
another long period. Then, suddenly, almost ecstatically, he felt
sleepy.

You
take a really sleepy man, Esme, and he always stands a chance of
again becoming a man with all his fac-with all his f-a-c-u-1-t-i-e-s
intact.

Pretty
Mouth and Green My Eyes

WHEN
the phone rang, the gray-haired man asked the girl, with quite some
little deference, if she would rather for any reason he didn't answer
it. The girl heard him as if from a distance, and turned her face
toward him, one eye--on the side of the light--closed tight, her open
eye very, however disingenuously, large, and so blue as to appear
almost violet. The grayhaired man asked her to hurry up, and she
raised up on her right forearm just quickly enough so that the
movement didn't quite look perfunctory. She cleared her hair back
from her forehead with her left hand and said, "God. I don't
know. I mean what do you think?" The gray-haired man said he
didn't see that it made a helluva lot of difference one way or the
other, and slipped his left hand under the girl's supporting arm,
above the elbow, working his fingers up, making room for them between
the warm surfaces of her upper arm and chest wall. He reached for the
phone with his right hand. To reach it without groping, he had to
raise himself somewhat higher, which caused the back of his head to
graze a comer of the lampshade. In that instant, the light was
particularly, if rather vividly, flattering to his gray, mostly
white, hair. Though in disarrangement at that moment, it had
obviously been freshly cut-or, rather, freshly maintained. The
neckline and temples had been trimmed conventionally close, but the
sides and top had been left rather more than just longish, and were,
in fact, a trifle "distinguished-looking." "Hello?"
he said resonantly into the phone. The girl stayed propped up on her
forearm and watched him. Her eyes, more just open than alert or
speculative, reflected chiefly their own size and color.

A
man's voice--stone dead, yet somehow rudely, almost obscenely
quickened for the occasion--came through at the other end: "Lee?
I wake you?"

The
gray-haired man glanced briefly left, at the girl. "Who's that?"
he asked. "Arthur?"

"Yeah--I
wake you?"

"No,
no. I'm in bed, reading. Anything wrong?"

"You
sure I didn't wake you? Honest to God?"

"No,
no--absolutely," the gray-haired man said. "As a matter of
fact, I've been averaging about four lousy hours--"

"The
reason I called, Lee, did you happen to notice when Joanie was
leaving? Did you happen to notice if she left with the Ellenbogens,
by any chance?"

The
gray-haired man looked left again, but high this time, away from the
girl, who was now watching him rather like a young, blue-eyed Irish
policeman. "No, I didn't, Arthur," he said, his eyes on the
far, dim end of the room, where the wall met the ceiling. "Didn't
she leave with you?"

"No.
Christ, no. You didn't see her leave at all, then?"

"Well,
no, as a matter of fact, I didn't, Arthur," the gray-haired man
said. "Actually, as a matter of fact, I didn't see a bloody
thing all evening. The minute I got in the door, I got myself
involved in one long Jesus of a session with that French poop,
Viennese poop--whatever the hell he was. Every bloody one of these
foreign guys keep an eye open for a little free legal advice. Why?
What's up? Joanie lost?"

"Oh,
Christ. Who knows? I don't know. You know her when she gets all
tanked up and rarin' to go. I don't know. She may have just--"

"You
call the Ellenbogens?" the gray-haired man asked.

"Yeah.
They're not home yet. I don't know. Christ, I'm not even sure she
left with them. I know one thing. I know one goddam thing. I'm
through beating my brains out. I mean it. I really mean it this time.
I'm through. Five years. Christ."

"All
right, try to take it a little easy, now, Arthur," the
gray-haired man said. "In the first place, if I know the
Ellenbogens, they probably all hopped in a cab and went down to the
Village for a couple of hours. All three of 'em'll probably barge--"

"I
have a feeling she went to work on some bastard in the kitchen. I
just have a feeling. She always starts necking some bastard in the
kitchen when she gets tanked up. I'm through. I swear to God I mean
it this time. Five goddam-"

"Where
are you now, Arthur?" the gray-haired man asked. "Home?"

"Yeah.
Home. Home sweet home. Christ."

"Well,
just try to take it a little--What are ya--drunk, or what?"

"I
don't know. How the hell do I know?"

"All
right, now, listen. Relax. Just relax," the grayhaired man said.
"You know the Ellenbogens, for Chrissake. What probably
happened, they probably missed their last train. All three of 'em'll
probably barge in on you any minute, full of witty, night-club--"

"They
drove in."

"How
do you know?"

"Their
baby-sitter. We've had some scintillating goddam conversations. We're
close as hell. We're like two goddam peas in a pod."

"All
right. All right. So what? Will ya sit tight and relax, now?"
said the gray-haired man. "All three of 'em'll probably waltz in
on you any minute. Take my word. You know Leona. I don't know what
the hell it is--they all get this god-awful Connecticut gaiety when
they get in to New York. You know that."