Some Came Running (88 page)

“That’s because basically at heart you’re a romantic,” Dawnie smiled. “Instead of a realist.”

“Sure,” Dewey said. “Damn right.”

“I don’t know,” Wally said, shaking his head. “Don’t the realists do that, too, though? Even the
realists
make people better than they
really
are,” Wally laughed a little drunkenly. “We all do that. Because if we wrote about people like they really are, there wouldn’t be anything interesting enough to be worth reading even. So we all cheat and make them a little better than they actually are. I wonder if a guy could really write a book about people like they
really
are, and still make it interesting enough to read? I think, by God, I’ll just try that on my second book.”

They all laughed, and the conversation went on, and Wally drifted out of it again. He was thinking specifically about his mom. She was sort of his living proof. Now there was just about the world’s most complete nonentity. He loved his mom, sure—but why? Because he was
supposed
to love her. But the truth was, she was just a dumb, and slyly acquisitive, slob. She had lived just about as totally worthless a life as it was possible to imagine. And outside of giving birth to him, a potential genius, she had actually never done anything, not a damn thing. Except to go to clubs to help the poor of which she would not admit she was one. And to marry his old man once. Her mind was filled with half-formed thoughts that just sort of drifted in and out without any control, and were generally things which some other fool had told her about what was “right” and what was “wrong.” Like going to Sunday school and keeping beer in the icebox. God! she was dumb. Her head was one big atrophied muscle. Just like the other day she had slyly approached him about Dawnie—thinking he was too dumb to see through her little schemes.

“I think it’s a very nice thing that you and Dawn are going around together as much as you are,” she had said.

“Who? Dawn?” he had said, the sly acquisitiveness of Frank Hirsh’s money in her eyes not lost on him. “Oh. Yeah. She’s awright.” And went on reading.

“She’s such a nice girl,” his mom went on. “I can’t think of a nicer, more decent girl that you could be going with.”

Still staring at his book, Wally had said, “Yeah.”

“A— A young man has to be thoughtful and very careful when he sets out to choose himself a girlfriend.”

She thought she was so foxy smart. And she was actually so dumb. Wally had had enough.

“Mom,” he said, “I have no intention of marrying Dawn Hirsh for her old man’s money. Or for any other reason. I go out with her sometimes because there’s no-goddam-body else around here with any brains to go out with.”

“Why, Wallace!” his mom had said. “Wallace Dennis! I never had any such thought in my mind.” She was obviously hurt, and it was plain she believed that she had been maligned. He wouldn’t have cared half so much, if she just had the guts to admit it. The thing was, she really
believed
what she was saying! And this trying to slyly outfox him.

“I know, Mom,” he said, “But I don’t intend to marry her anyway. If I did marry Dawn, then to get her old man’s money, I’d have to go to work in his store. And if I went to work in his damned store, then I wouldn’t have any time to write. And, Mom, I intend to be a writer.”

“Wallace, I wish you wouldn’t swear like that, Son,” she said. “I think you owe your mother an apology.”

“Well I
don’t,
” he had said, and that had ended it.

It was damn near unbelievable, he thought. Such dumbness. And then thinking she was smart! How
would
you go about writing a novel about somebody like that? You just couldn’t.

And yet just about everybody he knew was the same way. The truth was, there just weren’t very many smart people in the world. Outside of himself, he only knew a few. Dawnie of course, and Old Bob and Gwen, and who else? Maybe ’Bama Dillert—in a way, but not really. But he couldn’t really count Dave Hirsh as smart. They just ain’t many of us, he thought.

The thought was so unpleasant that he pulled his mind away from it and began thinking about his knives. There was something a man could trust. And be proud of. Wally could suddenly hardly wait to get through with this damned party and get home so he could get his hands on them again. They had only come in yesterday, and it was almost unworldly to hold them, solid and weighty and three-dimensional, after seeing them so long as little pictures on a printed page. He had not really intended to order four of them until the day the check came in. Then something had just taken hold of him. He had meant to order the #1 all along. But when he had sat down with the order blank on that day, the thousand-dollar check lying beside him on his desk, he had thought, what the hell? why not get all four of them? he had the money? live it up a little! And now that they had finally come he was more than glad he had had the courage to do it. They were without doubt the most beautiful knives he had ever seen.

So he had a set of four, ranging in blade length from four inches to eight, and one of which would suit about every purpose; and on each of them he had had his name
WALLY DENNIS
etched on the blade in block letters. All told, they cost him $93.50. But he did not think it was a bad investment.

He loved them all, of course—but
of
them all, he loved that #1 the best. As soon as the knives had come in, he had got out his book on knife fighting and started practicing. And to sharpen up his eye and timing he had rigged up a soft pine two by four on a swinging rope in the basement which he practiced attacking, and which he had about already slashed up enough that it looked like it had been through a machine-gunning. His right wrist and elbow and shoulder were still sore from it, but he was beginning to work the kinks out. “Dawnie,” he said suddenly, “you know we got to get going. I got to get up early and work tomorrow.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Dawn smiled at him warmly. “We do have to go. God! I’ve been talking up a real fog, haven’t I?”

“It’s good for you,” Wally said, getting up.

As they took their leave, both Dave and ’Bama came over to say goodby, and when they were outside in his mom’s old car Wally leaned over for a quick kiss.

“Do you think we ought to go up to our woods this late?” she said. “When you have to get up and work tomorrow?”

“You’re probably right,” he said. “Tomorrow night we can go up early.” He grinned at her. “And stay late.”

So a block away from her house they stopped, instead, on a darker side street for a little necking, and then he took her on home.

“We’d better be careful,” Dawnie whispered. “That son of a bitch Sherm Ruedy is liable to be mousing around tonight looking for lovers.”

“Yeah,” Wally said. “Did you see that new winter uniform he was wearing last winter? with the boots and Russian-style fur cap?”

At her house, he let her out, and then he drove on home. He was going to have a lot of work to do to make this changeover in the book.

He had not talked to Gwen about it yet, but he was going to have to. Major revisions of this sort he did not want to begin until he had got her opinion. Besides, she might have some ideas of her own to add. But he was pretty sure she would go along with the proposed change. He guessed the truth was he was just wanting her to brag on him a little.

Old Dave really ought to get over there and see her. And if he knew what was good for his novel, he would. She apparently didn’t seem to care much, but Wally knew she did. She cared about anything that had anything to do with writing. When he told her about the house they’d leased, she hadn’t seemed— And yet, he thought as he shut the garage door, that old writer’s ear he had been steadily acquiring had noted something, some quality there.

The thought came to him out of nowhere suddenly and with devastating force. And he stood and simply stared at the old garage door.

My God! she couldn’t be falling in love with that bum Dave? Why, he’d gotten as fat as a damned hog, down there in Florida! He was a nothing! Good God! A bum who had once written two cheap, poor novels—which didn’t sell. And had been living off his “reputation” ever since!! Surely, not him!

But he put it down, out of his mind. It couldn’t be true! Hadn’t she herself told him in so many words that love didn’t interest her anymore, love bored her? No. Not Gwen. And not with that fat hog. He refused to believe it.

When he got inside, he paused long enough to turn on the light in the kitchen and pick up the Randall #1 off the lazy susan on the kitchen table, where he kept all four of the knives, despite the protests of his mom.

When he got in his room, he took off his coat first, and then unsnapped the sheath and drew the gleaming knife and stood in front of the mirror, weaving his forearm back and forth like a snake’s head, keeping his wrist locked.

“All right, you son of a bitch!” he snarled, “come on!” and essayed a vertical hand cut to the knife hand.

Afterwards, after he quit his practicing, he was very careful to wipe the blade clean with an oily handkerchief, before he put it away.

W
HEN
D
AVE
H
IRSH WOKE
the next morning at nearly noon, it was to a head like a pumpkin squash. For a while, he just lay and stared at the ceiling. About the last thing he remembered was that, after about everybody else had gone, everybody except Dewey and them, he, too, had taken the lumpish Ginnie Moorehead upstairs. What had he been? the third? or the fourth in the line. ’Bama had been upstairs in his own room with one of the others. It was amazing how that guy could keep them all coming back without making any of them jealous, Dave thought and rolled over in the bed while his head congested with blood. El host! he thought with sour disgust, God! and was stricken with a kind of dull terror at the knowledge that he would get no work done this day. Not the way he felt. When he finally struggled downstairs, it was to find ’Bama in shoes and socks, underwear and hat, already cleaning up the mess with a fresh glass of whiskey and water where he could reach it.

“We gonna have to get us a damn cleanin woman for this place, that’s all,” the Southerner drawled.

Dave sank down in a chair. “Sure is a mess, ain’t it?”

“Well, it won’t never be this bad again. And they done pretty well; after I made my little speech. Just the same, we got to get a cleanin woman. Only, who the hell can we git?”

“What about Dewey’s mother?” Dave said. “She might.”

“Yeah, I reckon. But she’s such a gossipy mean old broad.”

“By God, I know who!” Dave said; “Jane! Old Jane Staley!”

“Why, shore,” ’Bama grinned. “Now why didn’t I think of that? We’ll have to see her.

“Come on, give me a hand and we’ll get this straightened out.”

“I can’t,” Dave groaned, and put his head down in his hands. “Damn it, I just can’t.”

’Bama stopped what he was doing. “What’s the matter?” he said. “Got a head?”

“Oh, the hell with it,” Dave said, and looked up with pain-tautened eyes. “Yeah, I got one. But that’s not what the matter. I— ’Bama, I haven’t done a lick of work—not a damned lick!—in over a month now!” he cried. “A month! And now I can’t work today!”

’Bama set down the ashtrays he was holding and sat down on the divan, holding his drink. His whole face was as alert and cautious as if he were in a big poker hand. “I’ve kind of figured this was maybe comin,” he said and took a drink.

How he could do it, Dave had no idea. Day after day, bottle after bottle. And it never made him sick, it never made his brain dull, it never seemed to affect him in any way at all.

“What am I gonna do?” he said almost hysterically. “I’ve
got
to get back to
work!
And I
can’t!!
My head’s like a rotten punkin!”

“Well now, let’s just take it sensible,” ’Bama said. “Yore sort of one of them tempermental types, Dave.”

“Why do I get fat!” Dave cried.

“Well, I reckon it’s probly because you eat too much,” ’Bama said; “don’t you think?”

“I eat too much, I drink too much, I hump too much, I
live
too much!” Dave said. “I got no self-control.
None!
I do everything but work.”

“Well, now, that’s not
strickly
true,” ’Bama said. He was watching him very closely. He seemed to be feeling his way along with this.

“Oh, but it is!” Dave said. “Goddam it!” he burst out, “why don’t you get fat!”

“I guess it’s just my inheritance,” ’Bama said. “But then I guess I don’t really eat quite as much as you do.”

“But how can you drink so much! without it hurtin you?”

’Bama nodded. “I don’t know. Because I’ve always have, I reckon. Hell, if I was to
stop
drinkin, I’d probly fall over dead, already embalmed.”

“But I can’t do that! It makes me dull!” Dave said.

“Well, you use yore brains a lot more than me,” ’Bama said. “You have to. But I don’t really use my brains much atall, y’see.”

“What the hell am I gonna do?” Dave said. He looked as if he were about to cry. “God!” he said. “What am I gonna
do
?”

“Well, now, let’s just take it a little reasonable,” ’Bama said. “Let’s look at it mathematically. Here we are; we’re just about all set up in this place now. Now we’re ready to set back and enjoy the fruits of our labor. We got everything fixed up like we want it, and inside of a week we’ll be back on a regular routine. Now, it’d be silly to go and blow it all, just when we’re about to get it fixed, wouldn’t it?”

“I guess so,” Dave said.

“Okay. Now what you want to do is just to take it easy for another day or two,” he said. “We’ll start cuttin you down on yore drinkin, just like we did in Miami. In a couple days more, you’ll be right back into it, see?” He watched Dave carefully. “Now right now, you just go on back to bed. Just loaf around today, maybe tomorrow. Then yore head’ll be clear and you can hit them a lick.”

“I couldn’t sleep!” Dave cried. “I can’t loaf!”

“All right then,” ’Bama said, “we’ll work. Come on and help me get this place cleaned up. There’s plenty other stuff we need to do around here, too. And no more heavy drinkin for
you.
And tonight we’ll start makin the rounds and gettin back to work. But you don’t want to get yoreself all worked up over an extra day or two
now.
That would just throw you, and keep you from gettin back to writin just that much longer. Now wouldn’t it?” he said.