The Laughing Matter (20 page)

He was at the door to let them in. While they were bringing in the stretcher he telephoned Altoun's office and spoke to the doctor.

“I'm reporting it as a heart attack,” the man said in their own language. “I'm sorry. I think you'd better look after your brother.”

The ambulance men carried her out of the house. At the door Dade told them to take her to the undertaking parlor in Madera. He then telephoned the place and told the man not to touch her until he called again.

Evan Nazarenus came out of Dade's room just as Dade was hanging up. Dade leaped at him, knocked him down, and bit his wrist until the fingers loosened and the pistol slipped out of his hand. He lifted the pistol and struck Evan across the temple with the butt of it. He got up and tore off his shirt to find out where the wound was. It was where it had been years ago. He ran to his room with the pistol, got the other two, and put them where he knew his brother would never find them. He threw a cup of cold water on his brother's face, and after a moment Evan Nazarenus opened his eyes.

“Help me get this slug out again, will you?” he said. His brother got up slowly.

“I'm sorry, Dade,” he said. “I'm sorry.” He began to cry
at last. “My dirty luck,” he said. “My dirty life.” He looked at his brother. “I'm sorry, Dade.”

They went to the kitchen.

With his good arm Dade got water into a pan to boil, then dumped the stuff out of the case into the pan. He took the towel away from the wound.

“All right now,” he said. “Get in there and get it out.”

“I'd better get you some aspirin first,” his brother said.

“No, just make it fast,” Dade said. “She's at a place in Madera. Patch this up and we'll go there, and try to think what we're going to do next.”

“You'd better get to bed,” Evan said.

“Get the slug out,” Dade said.

Even drove to Madera. Dade sat beside him, smoking one cigarette after another. On the way Evan stopped the car.

“I want to go out and walk in that vineyard,” he said.

Dade watched him go. His brother examined a vine, pushing aside the new canes, the new leaves, to see the vine itself, and the grapes ripening on it. He went deeper into the vineyard to examine another vine, then turned to stare at the house. He stood staring at it a long time. When he came back he was holding a bunch of Red Emperors.

“He's got a fine vineyard there,” Evan said. “A fine house, too. We were going to look for a place of our own. Swan liked the idea. Walz and I were going to look at a few places this afternoon.” He took a grape off the bunch and ate it, then another. “This might have been one of the places we'd look at.” He got back into the car and held the bunch out to Dade, who broke off an upper stem with a dozen grapes attached to it, and ate the grapes. Evan began to drive again, staring at the house and the vines of the vineyard as he drove by.

“She begged me not to make her do this,” he said. “She told me again and again in a hundred different ways that she was scared. I didn't believe her. I
wouldn't
believe her. For God's sake, Dade, what difference would it have made? Other animals don't bother about things like that. Why do we
have
to bother? Or go mad, or kill ourselves, or kill one another? Who do we think we are, anyway? I've killed my wife, Dade, I've killed Swan, I've killed Red's mother, Eva's mother. She begged me, but I wouldn't listen to her. I just wouldn't listen, that's all. Who,
me?
Evan Nazarenus? No. You just don't do that, that's all. You're a man, and you don't do that. You're the animal that lives by moral law, and you don't do that. You go mad, by the moral law. You kill, by the moral law. Who,
me?
Let a thing like that happen to Evan Nazarenus? Never. That's all right for animals, because they don't know any better, but it's not all right for me. I live by the moral law. I know right from wrong, and it's not right enough to live, to give life, to protect life. It's not nearly right enough. Anybody who is mine must be mine alone, because I have pride, and I've taken a long time to establish that anything that hurts my pride is
wrong. It's just wrong, that's all. I won't stand for it. I won't stand for it in my wife, in the mother of my children. I'll kill her first. I'll kill myself first. I'll lull my children first. My pride is not to be taken from me. What difference would it have made who the father happened to be?
Swan
would be the mother, wouldn't she? Swan would be alive, wouldn't she? Swan would be Swan, wouldn't she? What's the matter with us, Dade?”

“It was an accident,” Dade said. “When we get through in Madera I want Doctor Altoun to come back. I'll tell him I shot myself by accident. You've got to look after the kids. You've got to tell them Swan's gone to visit her family.”

“She's got no family,” Evan said. “She's got an aunt in Philadelphia that she lived with until she was seventeen. She's never had parents or a home. I don't even know her aunt's name or address. It's only the past few days I've discovered she's been looking for parents and a home all her life. That was the idea of the vineyard—to get her a home and a family—if not parents, at least children—they're parents, too—and a husband who could love her the way she is. What good is love if it isn't entire? She begged me, but I wouldn't listen to her. I'm sorry, Dade. I'll tell the kids she's gone to Philadelphia to visit her aunt. I'll get you to your bed as quickly as possible.”

He was driving very swiftly now.

“Less than twelve hours ago,” he said, “Swan was crying, then laughing. She was laughing because she wanted us to be together. Once more. One last time. I should have known from that alone. I should have known it wouldn't do. It might do for anybody else, but it wouldn't do for her. Swan didn't need to die. I killed her, that's all. My pride killed her.
It killed the mother of Red and Eva. So now I've got my pride.”

“It might have happened, anyhow,” Dade said.

“Not if I loved her,” Evan said. “She was mad all right, but which of us isn't? I'm sorry, Dade. I might have killed you. Look at my kids. They were born out of Swan. They'll never see their brothers and sisters now. I killed their mother and their brothers and sisters because I couldn't let her have a son of her own.”

“She didn't want a son of her own,” Dade said.

“She didn't, for my pride,” Evan said. “She didn't, hoping to get back my small, cheap love. She could have lived for years, except for hoping to live with me on my proud, cheap terms. She could have had one son of her own among the sons and daughters that would have been ours together, couldn't she?”

“No,” Dade said. “No, she couldn't. Get that straight. Get it straight once and for all. Get it straight that an accident has killed Swan. The accident of her own nature, the accident of yours, the same accident that sooner or later maims, maddens, and kills everybody. Get that straight and take it from there. Your own accident has already maimed and maddened you. See if you can keep it from doing anything to Red and Eva.”

“How do I do that?”

“How? Make arrangements for the funeral, that's how.”

“God damn you, Dade!”

“You asked me,” Dade said, “and I'm telling you. Make plans for Red and Eva—for this
afternoon
, I mean. Make plans for your face. It's been struck with a fist and with metal, and with loss—failure, anger, and madness. Make
plans for the work you are going to do. The life you're going to live. If you want to love entire, love entire, make plans to love entire. Love Swan entire.”

“She's dead,” Evan said.

“Love her entire,” Dade said. “Red and Eva are Swan. Love them. Love them entire. You have already wept for Swan. I have still to do so. Remember that. You have already accused yourself of killing her. I have still to do that. You've got to help
me
. Make arrangements for the funeral. I'll be there with you.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence. The wound was still bleeding. Dade had never had much to say, but the wound had put him to trying to say something. He'd had little enough to say since he'd hustled around the streets of Paterson, and a good deal less since he had lost his wife and his children, all of them alive and well but not his own, not
his
family, which in the nature of things were the only people
he
could love entire.

The place was called Gladding and Starch, and the man was one of the younger Gladdings. He had things to say about everything the firm dealt in, including costume and make-up.

“Listen,” Dade said at last. “This casket.”

“That's one of our less popular models,” the man said. “It's the plainest we have.”

“This casket,” Dade said wearily. “The nightgown she's wearing. No make-up. Don't touch her at all. Thursday afternoon at two.” He brought some money out of his pocket and handed it to the man. “Pick out a place near a tree.”

“What kind of services?”

“No kind. We'll be here at two Thursday. From here we'll go to the cemetery.”

“Do you wish to see the deceased now?”

“Yes,” Evan said. “Alone.”

Evan was taken to a small room in which a blue neon light was burning. There were sinks, faucets, hoses, bottles, and instruments of all kinds in the room. Swan was lying on a white cot on wheels. He took her head in his hands and tried to look into her eyes. He smoothed the red hair of her head, the hair Red wore. He lighted a cigarette and smoked it, standing over her, then went out and said to the man, “Get her out of that room. Put her in a room of her own.”

When she was in the new room Evan said, “Don't take her into that room again.”

He found Dade in the car, bent forward.

“You'd better get me home,” Dade said.

“Do you want me to phone Doctor Altoun to be there when we arrive?”

“He was here not more than half an hour ago with the death certificate,” Dade said. “He's not in his office. We'll phone from home.”

“Hadn't somebody here in town better do something first?”

“No.”

Evan drove swiftly.

“I'm sorry, Dade.”

“What do you want with a car, anyway?”

“What, Dade?”

“Wasn't it to earn money for a car that you went off and left her for two months?”

“Yes,” Evan said. “She hadn't been feeling well for months. I thought the separation would do us both good. She did, too.”

“Sure she did,” Dade said. “Sure you did. I've told you again and again, anything I've got is yours. You could have asked me for a car. I'd get you a car. I'd send you the money. People think they live their lives. They
don't
live them. Their lives are lived for them. A man can't leave a woman—any woman—the mother of any kids—and expect the living that is going to happen to her to be the same as if he had been there. It
can't
be the same. He's got to be there. If he's there, the living that happens to each of them can be poor enough, it can be tough enough, but whatever it is, it's got to happen to both of them, it's got to happen to them together, it's got to happen to the family, and there is nothing else. The family is all there is. Fool with the family and you've finished everything. You shouldn't have left her. That invites fooling with the family. Just a little fooling can finish the family.”

“A man isn't to trust his wife?” Evan said. “A wife isn't to trust her husband?”

“No,” Dade said. “That's this sick new thinking. That's crap. A man isn't to trust
himself
. He isn't to trust God. He is to love his family and he's to arrange for family things to happen to it. If you
had
to have a car, you could have told me, couldn't you?”

“I didn't want to bother you about a car,” the younger brother said.

“If I had to have something that you could give me,” Dade said, “I'd ask
you
, wouldn't I? You can't be a member of a family and behave like a stranger. If you do, you
finish the family, and
you
are a stranger. You can't invite Swan to be a stranger to you, to be curious about strangers. You can't invite yourself to become a stranger to her. If you do, the living that happens to you has got to be either without pride—small pride or large pride—or without meaning. So you went off for a car.”

He stopped suddenly, lighted a cigarette, inhaled deeply.

“I've got a fever,” he said. “I loved Swan. She was in our family, a radiant girl with red hair from some haunted life someplace, a girl of laughter and fun. The kids she gave you were ours. They were hers, too, but they were ours, too, and I'm sick in my heart that the poor living that happened to her has ended her. You could have taken her with you. You could have asked me to come up to Palo Alto and stay with the kids, or bring them here to Clovis.”

He stopped again.

“I'm delirious,” he said. “There was nothing you could do. Everything you did was right. It's happened, that's all. I just don't like it. I didn't expect the doctor to leave without talking to me, though. I can't understand that.”

“I gave him a hard time, Dade.”

“What did you do?”

“He came out and said Swan was dead. I told him he was a liar and took him back into the room. I told him to give her a shot of something to wake her up or I'd kill him. I kept him in the room half an hour. Why should she be dead? Other girls, other wives, other mothers go through a lot more and don't die. Why should Swan? I wouldn't let him leave the room.”

“What did
he
do?”

“He spoke to me in our language.”

“He's one of us,” Dade said. “You shouldn't have fooled with that gun. You haven't had enough experience with guns. If Red had been around, you might have shot
him.”