Some Came Running (159 page)

During the two weeks, Dave had been turning over in his mind this idea of marrying her, he had also been slowly developing a plan whereby he might work a love affair into his novel. He had toyed with the idea before, but both Bob and Gwen had been against it. And that had held him off from doing it. Well, they weren’t either one of them working on this book with him now. He was doing it all on his own. If he wanted to put it in, by God, he would put it in.

It was true that, in the original plan of the book, there had been no use for a love affair; of any kind. The original plan had been the idea of a strictly combat novel—a strictly
comic
combat novel—which would show up and get away from all these horrible-horrors-of-war novels the world had been flooded with since 1920. But now Dave thought he could see where a love affair—a simple, gentle, sorrowful love affair between a commonplace private and a low-class French peasant girl—might heighten and contrast the really diabolic elements of the comedy of death.

It would certainly add affirmation to the book—an affirmation Dave was coming increasingly to feel the book needed. Ginnie had taught him that. Poor old Ginnie, who with nothing, the lowest of the lowly, could still go on and live and strive and hope, in her honest, dumb way. Ginnie was a symbol of the whole human race, and its own affirmation. The love affair could take place during the central part of the book, after the breakout at St Lo and the Big Drive, during the relatively stable time before the Battle of the Bulge. That way the commonplace little Infantryman would have a chance to spend some time with his commonplace little peasant girl. It would all fit right in. The peasant girl’s father’s little farm could be in the vicinity of Liège, and the love affair could begin with the liberation of Liège and continue on until after the jump-off on Aachen. And sometime after Aachen—maybe during the Bulge—the little private would be killed.

Technically, he knew he could do it. It would be a healthy—if not actually brilliant—lyric contrast to the shocking comedy that was made of death. It would also help the sale of the book, too; a love affair always did. Not that that was why he was doing it. He would never compromise his integrity for sales. He was doing it because he believed in what it said. And sitting in the Marine Room, full of enthusiasm over his decision to marry Ginnie, and full of the liquid, lubricative confidence several drinks can impart, he went over it all again in his mind, and decided happily that he was going to do it—was going to include the love affair. Man, that Hemingway! He sure had it right when he called alcohol the “giant killer.”

It was when he got home late that night, after touring the whorehouses, that he found that Ginnie’s ex-Marine had been there.

Ginnie was sitting at the kitchen table when he started to go in the house, and at the first sound of the screen door opening, she leaped up and backed away against the counter, her eyes widening with fright and staring at the half-glassed door like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake. Dave could see her through the door and wondered what the hell?

When he got inside and she saw who it was, her terrified face relaxed into a crumpled, weeping relief and she ran across the room and grabbed him and began to cry on his shoulder.

“Hey! Hey! What the hell’s the matter?” Dave demanded.

“He was here! He was here!” Ginnie cried.

“
Who
was here?”

“Rick! Rick was here!” She hugged herself against him.

“You mean your Marine?” Dave said. Well, the hell with him, he thought with drunken bloodthirstiness. Let him show!

“Yes! Yes!” She could hardly even talk.

“Well, where is he?” Dave said.

“He’s gone! I sent him away.”

“Wasn’t ’Bama here?” Dave asked.

“No. He went down to the farm this afternoon,” Ginnie cried. “I was all by myself.”

“Well, come on and sit down,” Dave said. “Come on and tell me all about it. Did he have his gun?” Slowly, he led her to the table and sat her down and pulled her loose from him. “I say, did he have his gun?”

“I don’t know!” Ginnie cried. “I didn’t see it!” She was still terrified.

“Here,” Dave said, and went to the counter. “Let me mix us both a drink.”

“I don’t know if he had his gun or not!” Ginnie cried. “But I bet he did! He had a switchblade he kept flippin open and closin all the time! It was you he was after! He says he’s going to kill you!”

Dave stopped, startled, in mid-pouring; then he had to laugh. Kill him! It was such a ridiculous thought it was like something out of a dime novel. Hell, even a one-armed ex-Marine couldn’t be quite that bad!

“Well, where’d he go?”

“Don’t go after him! He’ll kill you! He will!” Ginnie cried from the table.

“Here,” Dave said, unable to keep from grinning. “Drink this. Nobody’s going to kill me.”

“
He
will!” Ginnie cried. “Oh, why did I ever git mixed up with him!”

“Now, listen,” Dave said, “damn it; take it easy. Where’d he go? I’m not going after him. All I want to know is what
happened
!”

“Well, I sent him over to Professor French’s,” Ginnie said, a little more calmly.

Dave stared at her, his glass half way to his mouth. “You did
what
!”

“I sent him over to Professor French’s. In Israel,” Ginnie said. “It was the first thing popped into my mind.”

“But
why?
My God!” Dave protested, running his fingers through his hair. “You just can’t go doing things like that, Ginnie! If the guy really is dangerous—! My
God!
You just
can’t
go sending him off to somebody else who don’t know anything about him!”

“Well, it was the only thing I could think of,” Ginnie said, almost placidly, now. “He sat here for over an hour, waiting for you to come home. Flippin and closin that switchblade all the time. What else could I do? He was drunk and I couldn’t talk no sense to him. It was the ony thing I could think of to do. I told him that you hung out a lot over there, and probly that was where you was.”

“My
God
!” Dave said, setting his drink down and grabbing his hair with both hands. “My
God,
Ginnie!” Then he strode from the room.

“Where you goin?!” Ginnie cried, starting up.

“To the phone,” Dave said. “Where else?”

Ginnie started to follow him as if terrified to even let him out of her sight, and he stopped and turned back. “You go back and drink your drink,” he said authoritatively. “Then mix yourself another one and drink it, too. My God!” he said again.

Meekly, Ginnie did as she was told, and he picked up the phone in the hall and dialed Bob French’s number. He listened to the ringing far away, and then after a few moments the phone was picked up and Bob’s voice said: “Hello?”

“Bob, is that you?” he cried. “This is Dave.”

“Ahh, yes. Hello, Dave,” Bob’s voice said rather faintly. “How are you?”

“How are
you?
Are you all right?”

“Ahhh— Yes. Quite all right,” Bob’s voice said. “And how are you?”

“Did that guy come over there?” Dave said urgently. “That one-armed Marine?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, he did,” Bob said. “We—ahh—had quite an interesting conversation, as a matter of fact.”

Dave paused, caught up short by Bob’s somewhat spare phraseology. “Well, but you’re all right?” he said.

“Oh, yes. Quite all right,” Bob’s voice said. “A little tired, perhaps.”

“Well— I didn’t wake you up, did I?” Dave said.

“Oh no,” Bob said. “I—ahh—rather didn’t feel much like sleeping.”

“Well, is he still there?” Dave said.

“No—ahh—as a matter of fact, I rather expect he’s on his way back to Kansas,” Bob said. “There’s—ahh—a bus that
left
at twelve-thirty, I believe. Isn’t that correct?”

“I don’t know,” Dave said, caught up short again. “Bob, I’m coming over there. All right?”

“Why, yes. Do come,” Bob’s voice said. “It’s been some time since we’ve seen each other, Dave. Do come, and we’ll have a couple of drinks together.”

“I’ll be right there,” Dave said, trying to put into his voice all of the embarrassment and distress and need for apology that he felt.

“Fine,” Bob said. “Do that.”

He hung up and went back out to the kitchen and picked up his jacket and put it on.

“You’re not leavin me here?!” Ginnie cried frantically. “Alone?!”

“Yes,” Dave said firmly. “I am. You’ll be all right. Bob says he left on the twelve-thirty bus, for Kansas.”

“He did?” Ginnie said, her eyes widening. Then her face crumpled up into fear again. “I don’t believe it! I bet he didn’t! Don’t leave me, Dave!”

“Look,” Dave said; “here.” He went out into the hall and got ’Bama’s little .32 out of the phone table drawer and brought it back. “That’ll protect you.”

“I don’t know how to use one of them things,” Ginnie said, staring at it.

“All you got to do is point it and pull the trigger,” Dave said, quoting ’Bama. “Now lock all the doors and turn off the lights and go to bed. And take the gun up with you. But I simply have to go there and talk to Bob and apologize.”

“But you don’t know him!” Ginnie cried. “He’d bust the glass and climb in!”

“Bob says he’s already gone, and if Bob says he’s gone, I’ll bet my bottom dollar he
is
gone,” Dave said, soothingly. “Now you go on up to bed. I simply have to go over there and apologize. My
God,
Ginnie!” he said again, seizing his hair. “You just can’t
do
things like that!”

“It was the ony thing I could think of to do,” Ginnie said.

“Well, there are just some things that you’ve got to learn you
can’t
do,” Dave said. “What if he had been really dangerous? My God!”

“I was ony tryin to think of you,” Ginnie said. “Please don’t leave me here alone, Dave.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t help it,” he said. “Now, for Christ’s sake don’t shoot
me
when I come home!”

“I won’t touch that thing,” Ginnie said.

“Then I’ll put it back in the drawer,” Dave said, and did. “Now lock the door after me.” He went out to the little Plymouth, aware of Ginnie staring after him. My God! he thought once again anguishedly.

When he drove up into the crushed-rock drive and shut off the motor and rushed inside, he found the tall white-haired crew-cut poet sitting sprawled out at the big table in one of the ladder-backs, his long legs stretched out before him, and holding a tall highball glass of whiskey and water.

“Come in,” he said. “Come in, Dave.” He looked a little bit tired under his eyes, but other than that he appeared perfectly sound. “Come right on in. The whiskey and ice are on the cabinet.”

Dave ignored the liquor, and rushed across the long room up to him. “My God, Bob!” he said. “I don’t know what to say. I just don’t know what to say!”

“No, no,” Bob said. “Not at all. Quite all right, quite all right.” Suddenly, he smiled that eager smile of his. “As a matter of fact, it was quite an interesting experience.”

“Someone—someone else sent him over here,” Dave said. “I didn’t know a damned thing about it. I wasn’t even home.”

“Yes, I rather gathered that,” Bob said. He took a tired pull at his glass. “Dear Dave, mix yourself a drink and come sit down, and we’ll discuss it. For heaven’s sake, don’t look so perturbed! It’s really been a most interesting evening.”

Dave did as he was told, mixing himself a stiff whiskey and water like Bob had, and came back and sat down in another of the ladder-backs, turned slightly toward him, and stretched out his own legs. They were shaky, and tired.

“It’s really a most interesting thing,” Bob said. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything really.”

“Well, what did he do?!” Dave said. “What the hell happened?”

“Well, first let me give it to you in sequence,” Bob said. And he proceeded to tell the story of what had happened.

When he heard the knock on the side door, he had, in fact, been just about ready to go to bed. He had no idea who it might be. “I really don’t know why he picked the side door,” he said, “rather than the front door. Of course, the lights in the kitchen were still on; the only lights, in fact.” Well, he had gone down to the landing and opened the door, but before he could say anything, this tall lean one-armed young man had given him one wild, searching look, then shoved him aside and charged up the steps into the middle of the kitchen, his empty sleeve flapping, and the young man was shouting: “Where is he! I know he’s here! And I know exactly what he looks like, too! Where is he!” And he began charging all around the kitchen.

“Naturally, I was rather astonished,” Bob said.

He himself, after getting over his astonishment somewhat, had followed the young man into the kitchen. That was when he saw the knife.

“One of these—ahh—?” Bob said, looking at Dave questioningly.

“Switchblades?” Dave said.

“That’s the term!” Bob said. “Well, he had this knife, and he kept closing it against his leg and then flipping it open again. Really vicious looking,” Bob said; “not the blade itself, but the way it snicks open when you push the button. Very interesting.” But one of the things that had struck Bob immediately was that if the young man was, in fact, prepared to use his knife, then why did he keep closing it? It would have been more reasonable to expect him to have held with the blade open ready to use, would it not? Actually, it was this that gave him the key, really.

But, of course, he himself was still completely in the dark, Bob said, and had no idea who the young man was, or why he was there. And until he could find out just what exactly was going on, he felt it would be better to keep quiet and stay fairly far away from him. So Bob had remained standing just inside the cellar door while the young man charged all around the kitchen knocking over chairs and looking for whomever it was he was chasing. He yanked one of the ladder-backs away from the table and flung it down (“Fortunately, it didn’t break,” Bob said; “though he later broke another when he kicked it out of his way.”) and peered in under the table; then he went and dragged out the big chair and looked behind it, and then in the corner around the end of the cabinet. And finally, still cursing to himself, he came back and stood in the middle of the floor again and stared accusingly at Bob.