The Franchiser (13 page)

The boy swung the sign around to where Ben wanted it. Now he was canted toward the crowd like a man about to be spilled from a cannon. He grasped the rim of the bucket for support—he would look like Kilroy, he thought—and began his address.

“My fellow New Yorkers,” he said. “There was once a countryman who had a place back in the hills with his wife and small babe. One day a neighbor who lived miles off where the trail from the county road left off at the beginning of the big woods came to him with a letter addressed to the countryman in care of the neighbor that the neighbor said had been left with him the day before. There was a notation on the envelope that read ‘Please Forward,’ but it was the neighbor’s impression that the postmaster had written both the ‘in care of’ and the notation to forward as well as the neighbor’s name, for if the countryman looked he would see that his name, the countryman’s, and
his
name, the neighbor’s, had been written in two different hands, and that it was a known fact that the postmaster was a shirker. Then he explained that his, the neighbor’s, wife had been poorly and could not be left alone and so he, the neighbor, had had to wait until a day when his young ’uns would be home from school before he could bring the letter that had been left in his charge. This was a Saturday and he had left as early as he could.

“ ‘I’m sorry your wife is poorly,’ the countryman said, ‘and I thank you for the trouble you took to bring me my message, for I know that the spot where the trail from the county road leaves off at the start of the big woods is a long way to my place back in the hills where I live with my wife and small babe.’ “ ‘You we’come,’ the neighbor said and the countryman invited the neighbor to set a spell while his woman made some lemonade for the neighbor to drink after his hot and dusty trip. ‘Thank you kindly,’ his neighbor said, ‘for the truth is, I am sorely parched.’

“ ‘You we’come,’ the countryman said and told his wife to bring the lemonade. Then they both, the countryman and the neighbor, sat down on the porch swing. The neighbor could see that the countryman was a mite uneasy, though he tried to hide it by carefully matching his push on the swing with his own, the neighbor’s, push.

“ ‘Excuse me,’ the neighbor said, ‘I misremembered myself and have plumb forgot to give you the letter.’

“ ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ the countryman said, but from the relief on his, the countryman’s, face, he, the neighbor, could see that it, the letter, had in fact been on his, the countryman’s, mind.

“The neighbor excused himself and asked if he could go on back to the outhouse as he had ‘business.’

“ ‘Surely you may,’ the countryman said.

“ ‘Thank you kindly.’

“ ‘You we’come.’

“Now the neighbor had no ‘business,’ having done it, his business, in the big woods after starting out with the letter for his, the neighbor’s, neighbor, the countryman. All he wanted was to give the countryman time to read it, the letter, and when he figured that he had had enough, time, to read the letter, it, he, the neighbor, came back outside and returned to where he had left him, the countryman, sitting, on the porch, the porch.

“Now when he returned, what was his surprise to see that there were tears in his eyes. He didn’t want to ask him about it and he knew it so he told him.

“ ‘From my brother.’

“ ‘Oh?’

“ ‘He says Paw is dying. I must be off. Enjoy your lemonade.’

He kissed his wife and small babe and solemnly shook his neighbor’s hand, but the neighbor, feeling he had badly served his neighbor the countryman by delaying the twenty-four hours before he brought the letter, and fearing, too, that it might already be too late and wishing to make amends, rose and offered to go back with him and take him to the city where he knew the countryman’s father lived and was now dying or already dead.

“ ‘Take me? How you fixin’ to do that?’

“ ‘In my pickup.’

“ ‘You got a pickup?’

“ ‘I live where the trail from the start of the big woods leaves off at the start of the county road. I do.’

“ ‘Thank you.’

“ ‘You we’come.’

“And he was good as his word, that he had a pickup and that he would drive them, himself, the neighbor, and the countryman, to the city, where his, the countryman’s, Paw was dying or already dead.

“They drove all day and all night and the morning of the next day and the miles flew by and they were already close to the city where his, etc., etc., was dying or already dead, when the pickup sputtered and steamed and gave out.

“The countryman was heartbroken. ‘I am sure sorely sorry,’ he said. ‘I would not have had that to happen for anything. Why to think,’ he, the countryman, said, ‘and all you wanted was to he’p a neighbor, me, a countryman, up to his eyes in it, shit, trouble, and your pickup is all busted and won’t never to run again and lick up the miles like they ’us on’y just steps. I am sorely sorry and when this is all over I will save and save till I get enough, money, to buy you another one, a pickup. And now I must be on my way to my Paw’s sick side. Thank you.’ And he was already out his side of the pickup before he, the neighbor, could properly say, ‘You we’come.’

“ ‘Ho’d up,’ he called, ‘ho’d up.’

“The countryman looked back and, seeing it was his neighbor calling, stopped in his tracks in the road.

“ ‘What?’

“ ‘It ain’t busted,’ he said.

“ ‘It ain’t?’

“ ‘I to’d you.’

“ ‘Why don’t it to go then?’

“ ‘ ’Cause we worked her too hard. The radiator boiled over. All we need is to get us some water and pour it in the radiator and she’ll go again good as new.’

“There was a stream close by the road and the neighbor, who kept a five-gallon gas can in the back of his pickup for just such emergencies, took the can and filled it at the stream and carried it back and poured its contents into the radiator and, after waiting a few more minutes for the engine to cool, started the pickup smooth as anything and they were on their, the neighbor’s and the countryman’s, way again as if nothing, the pickup sputtering and steaming and giving out, had ever happened. But the neighbor noticed that there was an odd expression on the countryman’s face. It was a troubled expression, but not the same sort of troubled expression he had seen when he had first returned from the outhouse where he had gone to pretend to do a business he had already done in the big woods on the way to his, the countryman’s, place back in the hills, in order to give him time to read the letter he, the neighbor of the countryman, had brought him, the neighbor of the neighbor. A naturally polite man, he did not want to trouble this already troubled man with his curiosity but he must have seen this because he too was a polite man and knew that that was on his mind and he decided finally to introduce the subject as much for his satisfaction as for his.

“ ‘If,’ he said, ‘a wheel was to bust, what would to happen then?’

“ ‘If a wheel was to bust? Why, I’d just get a new wheel and stick ’er on.’

“The countryman nodded.

“ ‘What about if that thing you poured that ’ere water in from that stream was to crack and couldn’t to hold no water—what then?’

“ ‘The radiator?’

“ ‘That what you call ’er?’

“ ‘The radiator, yes, sir.’

“ ‘What would to happen?’

“ ‘Well then, I guess I’d have to have them solder the crack or have them to put in a new radiator.’

“ ‘Them?’

“ ‘The mechanics.’

“ ‘I see. Thank you.’

“ ‘You we’come.’

“ ‘Suppose the engine itself?’

“ ‘Same thing.’

“ ‘The mechanics?’

“ ‘Yep.’

“The countryman nodded.

“ ‘And the same,’ the neighbor said, ‘if it was pistons or rods or a transmission or a carburetor or if the battery was to die.’

“ ‘The mechanics.’

“ ‘Sho.’

“The countryman paused for a moment, then turned in his seat to face the neighbor. ‘Where,’ he asked, ‘do them mechanics get all that ’ere machinery?’

“ ‘Spar parts,’ the neighbor said.

“ ‘Spar parts?’

“ ‘Sho. You got you a intricate, complicated thing like a pickup, you got to be sure you can get your spar parts if somethin’ should to go wrong and she should need replacin’. They’s whole entire catalogues of spar parts. Not just for this pickup but for ever entire one we done passed or done passed us on the way to the city here, and not just for pickups but for sedans and coupes, too, and for convertibles and delivery trucks and the big rigs highballin’ it down the turnpikes and byways. For motorcycles and bicycles and everthin’ that moves.’

“ ‘I’ll be,’ the countryman said, ‘I’ll be.’

“ ‘Sho,’ his neighbor said.

“Well, they continued on into the city, and when they came to where the countryman’s brother lived and were told by his wife, the countryman’s sister-in-law, which hospital her father-in-law, her husband’s and brother-in-law’s Paw, was at, they went there at once.

“ ‘You go on in,’ the neighbor said. ‘I’ll find me a spot in the lot.’

“ ‘The lot?’

“ ‘The parking lot. They’s plenty sick folks in yonder hospital and they all have kin want to visit with ’em and cheer ’em up or’—and here he looked down, averting his eyes from the countryman—‘if it’s too late for that—to say goodbye.’ The neighbor looked up to see how the countryman had taken this last part, but instead of the sorrow he had expected to see on the guy’s puss, what was his, the neighbor’s, surprise to see not sorrow but a curiosity so sharply defined it might have been language.

“ ‘Go on,’ the countryman said, ‘about the parking lot.’

“ ‘Well,’ the neighbor said, ‘they’s nothing to go on
about
. The hospital knows that sick folks’ kin want to come visit and have to have a place to park so they put up parking lots. That’s all they is to it.’

“ ‘They charge money?’

“ ‘They do.’

“ ‘The mechanics with the spar parts, they charge money, too?’

“ ‘Course they charge money. Sho they do. You born yesterday, or what?’ he asked with some impatience.

“ ‘Seems like,’ the countryman said. ‘Seems like an’ that’s a fac’.’ The neighbor looked at the countryman, who now seemed preoccupied. ‘Well,’ the countryman said abruptly, bringing himself back from wherever it was he had been woolgathering. ‘You go on and park in the parking lot while I straightway attend to my bidness.’ The neighbor let the countryman out of the pickup and drove off. When he returned, what was his surprise to see the countryman still standing where he had left him. If it were not for the fact that he now held a small white paper bag that he had not had before, he would have sworn that the countryman had not moved a muscle.

“ ‘It’s ’leven fifty-two,’ the countryman said.

“ ‘No,’ the neighbor said, ‘cain’t be. I heard the noon lunch whistle when we was still back in the pickup waitin’ on the engine to cool.’

“ ‘No,’ the countryman said, ‘not
that
’leven fifty-two. Where Paw’s at.’

“ ‘Oh.’

“ ‘When you druv off to the parking lot I got to studyin’ on how we ’us gone to find my Paw in a gret big ol’ hospital like this ’un. I seen the winders. Take a full
day
to hunt in ever room, and s’pose he already dead an’ they fixin’ to bury ’im an’ there I ’us stumblin’ roun’ huntin’ ’im down in his room like some ol’ coon with a bad cold. What I do then, his ol’es’ boy an’ not even on time for his buryin’. And even if he still alive, ther I be bargin’ in ’mongst all them sick folks, goin’ roun’ to wher they sleepin’, all scrunched down in they beds, the sheets up over they heads an’ shiv’rin’ from they chills an’ fevers an’ me aksin’, “You my paw, mister? It’s me, you Paw?” ’

“ ‘Well, that’s not the—’

“ ‘That’s not the way they do it,’ the countryman said. ‘I remembered all you to’d me ’bout the spar parts and the parking lots and all them kin drops by to tell goodbye to all them sick folks an’ I thunk, Why they mus’ be some place right chere on the fust floor right wher you fust come in wher they keep the names and rooms wher them sick folks is. And I’ll be swacked if it weren’t jus’ the way I s’posed. I go in and right way ther’s this nice lady in a uniform settin’ at a table an’ she aks me whut do I want.

“ ‘How much you charge to tell me wher my paw is dying?’ I aks and I start to give her my name an’ stop, thinkin’,
No
, that’s not the way they do it, they’d use his name ’cause he’s the one dyin’ an’ I give her my paw’s name an’ she smiles an’ looks him up in what she to’d me later was a d’rectory an’ ther it is—’leven fifty-two.’

“ ‘How much she charge?’ the neighbor asked.

“ ‘Well, that’s the bes’ part. She don’t charge nothin’. That part’s free.’

“ ‘I be,’ he, the neighbor, said.

“ ‘Aks me ’bout this chere paper bag I’m ho’din’.’

“ ‘I ’us goin’ to.’

“ ‘It’s little chocolates. For Paw. Paw likes chocolates.’

“ ‘Chocolates.’

“ ‘I got to studyin’ whut you said ’bout all them kinfolks—’

“ ‘You to’d me that part.’

“ ‘I to’d you the part ’bout you sayin’ how they come to tell they sick folks goodbye. I ain’t to’d you nothin’ ’bout how I remembered the part where you said they come to cheer ’em up.’

“‘Oh.’

“ ‘And I studied on
that
part and I got the idea that they mus’ be some place right close by that they’d call it somethin’ all cheery like the Wishing Well wher kin could get some baubles fur their sick folks, an’ I aks the lady an’ she points it right out an’ it ain’t but thutty foot from wher I’m standin’ an’ she says, “Oh, that would be the Wishing Well,” an’ I went to it and they had everthin’ you could want—toys and little ol’ lacy nighties an’ comical books an’ chewin’ gum an’ the very same chocolates that my paw so dearly loves. Hershey Kisses they call ’em.’

“And with that the countryman tells the neighbor that it was time he went up to see his father and asks him, the neighbor, to come along, he’s come this far. The neighbor agrees and starts toward the stairway, but the countryman calls him back, telling him that if it’s a building where they put sick folks, then it would have to have an elevator or how would folks sick as his paw get up eleven stories and they would ride where the sick folks ride and it would have to be close by and if there was a charge why he, the countryman, would pay for them both since he, the neighbor, had been so nice already.