Norwood (13 page)

“Well, not on a bus it ain't, so much.”

“This is very good of you. I do carry a tear-gas fountain pen but I can't say it gives me much confidence. I just know it will misfire when I need it. And that's the kind of thing that would make a bully even madder.”

The man at the Western Union office gave Edmund some trouble because he guessed wrong on the amount of the money order and because the name was spelled
Batner
on the wire. Edmund had asked for two hundred dollars but the agent had seen fit to send only one hundred dollars, along with a message saying NO MORE ADVANCES FAT MIDGET. SEE FARBER COASTWARD. MILT. Edmund went into a theatrical fury and slapped various cards and credentials down on the counter, which is to say up on the counter. The suspicious clerk examined them one by one, affecting to read all the print on them. It was clear that he disapproved of people whose affairs were so mismanaged they had to have money wired to them.

“Look here, sir,” said Edmund, “consider the probabilities. Do you think it very likely that there are two fat midgets in this wretched backwater expecting money orders from New York, one named Edmund B.
Rat
ner and the other Edmund B.
Bat
ner?
Really
!”

“We have to be careful, bud. You run into some mighty funny things in this business.”

“Nothing quite that funny, surely.”

“If I make a mistake it's my ass, not yours.”

“You
functionary.”

The man satisfied himself that he was not being tricked by a cunning gang of midget money-order thieves and he unhappily released the money. Edmund got his bags at the hotel and they started for the bus station. On the way they were diverted into the penny arcade. Norwood looked in some disappointing viewers billed “Cuties on Parade” and “Watch Out! Hot Stuff!” and stamped his name on a metal disc, then threw it away because the metal was too trashy and light to suit him. They shot at an electric bear with an electric rifle and made him growl. No one else was in the place except the woman in the change booth. Just outside the arcade on the sidewalk there was a gaudy, circus-looking cage affair. A Dominique hen was imprisoned in it. She was wearing a tiny scholar's mortarboard on her head with a rubber band holding it in place. The sign said:

Joann moved nervously from side to side in her tight quarters. Her speckled plumage was all ruffled up around her neck and in other places it looked damp and sagged. She was hot. There was a crazed look in her eyes.

“Poor devil,” said Edmund. “I know just how she feels. This is
criminal.
”

Norwood was getting a nickel ready. “I guess you have to ask her your question out loud.”

“Yes, certainly,” said Edmund. “And I would pose it as simply as possible.”

Norwood stooped over to face the chicken. “Here's my question,” he said, then decided not to ask it aloud after all. He inserted the nickel. A light flashed, something buzzed and Joann reached down in the corner and pulled a lanyard with her beak. More buzzing. A white slip of paper emerged from a slit below. The answer was printed on it in dim purple ink.
Charity Endureth All Things
. Norwood studied it, then showed it to Edmund.

“That's hardly a yes or no,” he said. “I don't like this kind of thing. They could at least take her out of the sun.”

Norwood ran a fingernail across the wire mesh and made affectionate whistling noises at Joann.

Rita Lee was waiting at the station, her face swollen from crying. “I thought you'd gone without me,” she said. Norwood started to kiss her, wanted to kiss her, then thought better of it with so many people around and gave her an Indian brave clasp on the shoulder instead. “Wayne is out in the Mediterranean Sea with the Seventh Fleet,” she went on, now crying again. “But I didn't care any more. I wanted to go with you all the time. I should of listened to what my heart was telling me last night.” She looked up at Norwood through tear-misted eyes and her hands were trembling in the magic and wonder of the moment.

“I think you must mean the
Sixth
Fleet,” said Norwood. “The
Seventh
Fleet is out in the Pacific. They don't have anything to do with the
Second
Marine Division.”

Edmund was standing off at a discreet distance looking at the books in a revolving rack. Norwood said, “That midget over there, he's going with us as far as Memphis.”

Rita Lee looked at him. “You mean
him?
”

“Yeah.”

“What for? Who is he?”

“His name is Edmund and he used to work for a circus. His folks sold him. He's going to California now and he's so little he's afraid somebody is liable to go up side his head on the way. You be nice to him.”

He took her over for introductions. “A pleasure, I'm sure,” said Edmund. “I've heard so many nice things about you.”

Rita Lee was wiping her face with a handkerchief. “I hate for you to see me looking like this.”

“Oh pooh, you look very sweet if I may say so.”

“That's a nice summer suit,” she said. “I like your whole outfit. It's very attractive. You look like a little businessman.”

“You're altogether too kind.”

There was a wait for the bus. Edmund put on his glasses and got out some thick blue notepaper and shook his fountain pen a couple of times—the regular one—and wrote letters. Rita Lee and Norwood sat next to him in the folding seats and held hands, squeezing now and then, until it became moist and uncomfortable. She got up and wandered around, to the ladies' room and the newsstand. Norwood talked to a man who said water tables were dropping all over the country. Rita Lee came back with a frozen Milky Way and some confession magazines and comic books. She read about a miser duck called Uncle Scrooge, and his young duck nephews, whose adventures took place in a city where all the bystanders, the figures on the street, were anthropoid dogs walking erect. Norwood read about Superman and the double-breasted-suited Metropolis underworld. It was a kryptonite story and not a bad one. He went through the book in no time at all and rolled it up and stuck it in his hip pocket. “Did you ever see that dude on television?” he said.

Rita Lee looked up with annoyance from her duck book. “Who?”

“Superman.”

“Yeah and I know what you're going to say, he killed himself, the one that played Superman.”

“It looks all right when you're reading it. I didn't believe none of it on television.”

“You're not supposed to really believe it.”

“You're supposed to believe it a little bit. I didn't believe none of it.”

When their bus was called Norwood was looking around for a big paper sack, but he couldn't find one. He borrowed Rita Lee's shopping bag and tamped the clothes down in it hard and tight. “You and Edmund take my stuff and get on the bus and get us a seat. I'll be right back.” He didn't wait for an answer. He walked quickly down the street to the penny arcade and opened the trap door behind Joann's cage and took her out and put her in the bag. The woman from the change booth came out and said, “What do you think you're doing?”

“I come to get this chicken,” he said.

“Oh yeah? What for?”

He draped a smooth nylon slip over Joann's head. “I got to give her a shot.”

“Oh yeah?”

He walked quickly back to the station and boarded the bus. The driver punched his ticket without looking twice at the mystery parcel. Norwood made his way back to where Rita Lee was waving and sat down beside her. He put the bag on the floor between his feet and lifted the slip just enough to expose Joann's head. Rita Lee looked on with incomprehension. “It's a Dominecker chicken on my clothes,” she said. From across the aisle Edmund was peering over his glasses. “Norwood, how very plucky!”

“I don't want her on my clothes.”

“Don't you like chickens?”

“I hate chickens. They have mites. They're filthy dirty nasty things. All they do is mess up the yard.”

“This one has had training,” said Edmund.

“I don't care nothing about that.”

“I like chickens,” said Norwood. “You can go in a chicken house at night and they're all sitting there on them poles facing the front like they was riding an elevator.”

“Norwood, I don't want that chicken on my clothes. You hear?”

“There's plenty of room over here,” said Edmund.

Norwood lifted Joann from the bag and passed her across. Edmund placed her beside him in a sitting position, her feet splayed out in front and her head upright against the back of the seat. It was an extraordinary position for a chicken but Joann was dazed and limp from all the excitement. Rita Lee began to shake out her clothes.

Norwood soon fell asleep, drowsy from the beer and food and movement. Rita Lee and Edmund talked about horror movies and ate their way steadily through the Great Smoky Mountains. At each rest stop the ravenous little man would get off and bring back new supplies of Cokes and corn chips and Nabs crackers.

Just before dark Norwood was roused from his nap by a small boy in wheat jeans who was causing an offensive disturbance. The nature of the disturbance was this: the boy was running up and down the aisle making the sounds of breaking wind by pumping down on a hand cupped under his armpit. Norwood tripped him and jerked him up and shook him and sent him crying to his grandmother.

Rita Lee said, “That was mean, Norwood.”

“Well, that kid was out of line.”

“You didn't get your nap out and you're cross.”

He stretched and looked over at Edmund and Joann.

“I gave her some water from a paper cup,” said Edmund. “I broke up some peanuts for her too but she won't eat. I do think she's coming around though.”

“Yall get along pretty good,” said Norwood. “You ought to take her out to Hollywood with you. Get her in television.”

“I expect I'll have my hands full getting myself into television.”

“She's plenty smart for a chicken.”

“There's no question about it. I'm sure a good agent could get her something. Perhaps some small role in an Erskine Caldwell film.”

“Norwood?” said Rita Lee, who was rubbing a finger over the scar on the back of his neck.

“What?”

“I know what kind of ring I want. It doesn't cost a whole lot either. It's one diamond in the middle and two little ones on the sides with things like vines holding 'em on.”

“That's what we'll get then.”

“You know what would be nice? Listen to this. What we ought to do is get us some Western outfits that would be just alike except mine would be for a girl. You see, they would match. Then when we have a little boy we'll get him one too. Oh yeah, and if it's a girl I want to name her Bonita. I could probably make hers myself. Anyway we'll all be dressed just alike when we go to church and everything.”

“I don't like that idea much.”

“Why not?”

“I just don't.”

“You didn't get your nap out and you're cross.”

That night a suicidal owl flew into the windshield but didn't break it and later they saw a house or a barn burning out in an open field. No one seemed to be around it trying to put it out. Still later, seat trouble developed. A sleepy sailor up front sat down on a milkshake left in his seat by a thoughtless child and was forced to look for a dry seat.

Edmund stirred just in time to keep him from sitting on Joann. “I'm sorry,” he said, holding his hand over her, “this seat is occupied.”

The sailor was a second class bosun's mate with embroidered dragons on his turned-back cuffs and a lot of wrist hair. He looked closer. “That's a chicken,” he declared. “You can't save a seat for a chicken. You'll have to put her on the floor, little boy.”

Norwood got hold of the sailor's jumper and turned him around. “That ain't a boy, it's a man. You better get you some glasses. Don't sit on that chicken either.”

“You think I'm gonna stand up while a chicken sits down? Well, you got another think coming.”

“Go find you another seat.”

“There ain't any more.”

“What happened to the one you had?”

“There's ice cream in it if it's any of your business.”

“I might make it some of my business.”

“Yeah, well you'll need some help.”

“I don't think so.”

Rita Lee was frightened. “Norwood didn't get his nap out,” she explained to the sailor.

“We'll see what the driver has to say about this,” he said.

“Here, there's no need for that,” said Edmund. “I can make room for Joann in my seat. Let's not have any more unpleasantness.”

Memphis.

Edmund was standing outside the phone booth protesting. “No, really now, I say, it's too much of an imposition—”

“Hush and be still a minute,” said Norwood. He sat down in the booth and closed the glass door. Inside on the pebbled, we-defy-you-to-write-on-this wall someone with an icepick had scratched THE USAF IS CRAP in jerky, angular letters. Under that was WE DIE FOR YOU GUYS—AIRMAN, and under that, YEAH IN CAR WRECKS. Norwood got the operator. She said it would be a quarter for three minutes.

A woman who talked fast answered.

“KWOT is the lucky bucks station,” she said.

“Hello,” said Norwood.