by James Jones
Affectionately, he arranged them between hotel water glasses for bookends and then, still holding the bottle from which he had not drunk yet, went back into the other room to the windows. Freddy was just coming back around the corner carrying a paper sack. Dave watched him go in under the marquee, feeling a strange sense of loss for that imposed fatherhood he had suffered in the 3615th QM Gasoline Supply Company. When the knock came on the door, he went over and opened it.
The clerk set the ice bowl down on the table and immediately reached for his pocket.
“They didn’t give me a deposit slip. They wrote it down in a bank book. It’s in the slot.”
He looked at Dave questioningly.
Dave nodded and went through the motions of opening the checkbook and checking the amount because he knew that was what the other wanted. Freddy appeared satisfied and handed him his change.
“I had to get the whiskey,” he said.
“That’s fine,” Dave said, and handed him back a five-dollar bill.
“Thanks,” the clerk said. He stuck it in his pocket.
“Do you want another drink?” Dave said.
“Well, I might have just one.” His face was already liquor-flushed, and he did not look like a tough ex-vet anymore. Nowhere, that is, except for that one icily dispassionate, bright blue old soldier’s eye that some Army doctor had stuck in his face by way of replacement.
He’s just a kid, Dave thought with surprise. He’s no more of a tough ex-vet than I am.
“That air kind of hit me outside,” Freddy said, picking up the bottle and studying it. “Say, do you know Ned Roberts, the Second National cashier?”
“Ned Roberts?” Dave said. “Ned Roberts. Yeah. Sure. He was two years ahead of me in school. Is he their cashier?”
Freddy nodded. “He remembered you.”
“He did, hunh?”
“He looked funny,” Freddy said. It was clear he knew there was something a little out of the ordinary that he was not in on. “I couldn’t tell if he was surprised because it was you, or if he was surprised because it was that much money.”
Dave grinned. “Probably both. Maybe he was thinking about my brother on the board of the other bank.”
The clerk nodded, indifferent. But he was looking at Dave curiously. “You know, I’ve lived in this town almost four years, and I still don’t know anything about it,” he said. “It’s a funny kind of town.”
“Not so funny,” Dave said. “Probably not much like Jersey City, though.”
“No. Not much. Well, I’ll see you later,” Freddy said. He went to the door, and then turned back, his face closed up tight like a poker player making a big raise. “Mind if I ask you something?”
“No. Shoot.”
“You was in the QM.” He nodded at Dave’s shoulder patch.
Dave nodded. “3615th QM Gas Supply Company. I was Company Medic.”
“If you was in the QM, how’d you get that Combat Infantryman’s Badge?” He nodded again, at the emblem of the Kentucky rifle on its blue field with the silver wreath around it.
“My outfit fought as Infantry during the Bulge,” Dave said. “They gave it to us by Division Special Order. We were up there gassing tanks, when the breakthrough came.”
“That was a rough go,” Freddy said.
“I didn’t get it in any Army store,” Dave smiled, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Well,” the clerk said, “thanks for them drinks.” It sounded awkward, as if he felt he had gotten out of line.
“What were you in?” Dave said. “Infantry?”
“No. Air Corps,” Freddy said. “But my brother was. He got his in the Hürtgen Forest.” He went, his last sentence hanging in the air, an awkward attempt at explanation, embarrassed.
Dave mixed himself a whiskey and water and sat down in the chair of the desk which had been placed in the corner between the windows. Tilting it back on two legs, he looked out the side window up the street to the square.
It was such a funny thing, about soldiers. Funny, in a way that made you want to cry. Everybody always assumed the other guy had had it tougher than he did. The men in Europe thought the men in the Pacific had it tougher because of the jungle. The men in the Pacific thought the men in Europe had it tougher because of the firepower. And it carried right on down the line.
It’s like some kind of a mass male guilt psychosis, he thought. Nobody thinks he has as much guts as he should, and the man who only lost one hand drops his eyes before the man who lost them both.
He and Freddy had just made the same mistake, about each other. Now Freddy thought he had it tough. Well, ordinarily—except that he had been coming home to Parkman—he didn’t wear them, any of them (his Purple Heart was purely a technicality). But that could become a pose, too.
Except for the Combat Infantry Badge. That he was truly proud of. But why? Because he had never been Infantry, of course.
Will we ever get free of it all? Will we ever live it down? and get far enough away from it so we will be able to digest it? He doubted it. And then the next war would come along, with its crop of cripples, and oust us from our place we are reluctant to give up.
From the window, he could see, up the street in the corner of the courthouse yard, the Cray County Honor Roll. With the war over almost two years, it was beginning to flake its paint just like all the rest. The scoreboard, he thought. In another year, they’d take it down. Moved by a sudden impulse, he wanted suddenly to walk back up town and see if his name was on it, although he already knew it wasn’t. He had been drafted from Hollywood.
Curious, wasn’t it? that though you’d lived in Hollywood eleven years you would still give your home address as Parkman, Illinois? That was the reason he had been discharged in Chicago.
And so now he was here, who had never had any real intention of ever coming back. By a series of snap decisions made on the spur of the moment. And yet all leading in the same direction. Well, he would give it a week. It wasn’t worth any more than that.
Suddenly, he grinned with a sly heavy levity. So Old Ned Roberts was cashier of the Second National Bank. Prissy little Old Ned.
At the same time, he was wondering why he had ever convinced himself into coming back here. It would only make for unpleasantness, and basically he was not a man who liked unpleasantness.
Well, a week was all he was going to give it.
Chapter 2
HE SAT THERE FOR perhaps twenty minutes. Once he got up to go and mix himself another drink. Then he came back and watched the wet scene of the town from the window. What he planned to do was wait until he was sure Brother Frank had had plenty of time to find out the news. Then he was going to call him at the store. Right now the phones were probably ringing all over the town, or would be before long. He wanted to give Frank plenty of time to stew and worry over his reputation, the son of a bitch.
That was what he planned. But when he finally got up again, just as he went across the room to mix himself a third drink, his own phone rang shrilly.
It was so unexpected he jumped. Who in hell in Parkman, Illinois, would be calling him? He couldn’t think of a soul. He was so surprised as the phone continued ringing that he almost didn’t answer it.
“Hello, Dave,” the voice said.
“Who is this?”
The phone laughed heartily in his hand. “He’s been away so long he don’t even recognize his own brother.”
“Who, Frank?” There were, as a matter of fact, three other brothers, one in Milwaukee, one in New York, one in St Louis. The one in New York he had not even bothered to call when he was there.
“You got any other brothers in Parkman?” the voice said.
“No,” Dave said. “Well, what do you want?”
“Why I just this minute found out you were in town.”
“You did, hunh?”
“Ned Roberts at the Second National called me.”
“I just got in this afternoon,” Dave said.
�
�But why didn’t you let us know ahead of time you were comin?”
“I just decided to come on the spur of the moment.”
“You could have called long distance,” the voice said.
“I never thought about it.”
“Yes, and that’s a fine way to act, after three years in Europe.”
Dave could feel himself grinning a little, stiffly. “Well, I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me, Frank.”
“Not want to see you!” the phone said. “Listen, what are you doin tonight? Why don’t you come out to the house for dinner?”
“Well,” Dave said. “What for?”
“We won’t have nothin special, because Agnes didn’t know you were comin, ” the phone said. “But you can take potluck with us. I know Agnes and little Dawn will be excited to see you.” There was a pause, “How about it?”
“Well, Frank, I—”
“Good,” the phone said. “I’ll pick you up.”
“Goddam it, I can’t!” Dave burst out.
“Nonsense! Why can’t you? Of course you can. I tell you what. It’s only three now. I can’t possibly get away from the store, but we close at five-thirty in winter. I’ll be over for you soon as we close.”
Dave grinned. “I could just as easy come down past the store.”
“No, no, I’ll pick you up. Don’t want you havin to walk in this weather.”
“Oh, I don’t mind coming by the store at all, Frank.”
“Won’t hear of it. Pick you up right the hotel. Better yet, why don’t you just move on out here with us? We got plenty room.”
“What!”
“I said, move in with us.”
“No,” Dave said sharply. “I mean thanks, Frank, but I’m all settled in here now. Anyway, I’m only in town for a week.”
“Is that all?” the voice said. “You’ll wanta stay longer’n that. Anyway you could spend the week with us.”
“No!” Dave said.
“Well, all right,” the phone said. “But you’re sure welcome, Dave, you know that.”
“Sure,” he said, “sure.”
“I’ll pick you up at five-thirty.”
“All right,” he said, vaguely feeling he had won a point.
As soon as he had hung up, he began to think of all the things he could have said. He could have said sorry Frank I’ve got another dinner date tonight. Or he could have said not from the way you wrote to Francie you didn’t want to see me Frank. He hadn’t really won a point at all, about moving in, Frank had just donated him that to ensure the other.
What he should have done was not accepted.
Dave lit a cigarette. His hands were trembling. You wouldn’t think it would have bothered him that much. He smoked deeply. Gradually, it sorted itself all out.
In the first exchange, he had come off a good bit less than second best. He hadn’t even finished. Even in his fondest hopes of success, he had not anticipated so much success that it would make Frank call him first. That was the first mistake. And was why Frank had called, of course, instead of waiting to be called. And then when he had him off balance, he hit him with this unexpected invitation to dinner. It stole the offensive right out from under him. And Dave had not only been outsmarted, but completely out-generaled, too.
Suddenly, Dave laughed. It was a deep throaty laugh of sheer pleasure. By God, you had to hand it to the little son of a bitch. It was no fluke that he had run all the other jewelry stores in town out of business except two, and relegated these to the position of tolerated competitors. It had been so long since Dave had listened to that flat voice with its twanging nasal Midwest drawl with all the Gs so conspicuously missing. He had almost forgotten what it was like. The little lying cheating mean no-good bastard he thought happily and with a kind of tumultuous tight-lipped rancor. Maybe it was because Frank had always been the father in the family, from the time the old man had run off when Dave was in grade school. The authority. Maybe it was because it was Frank who had suggested—suggested? ordered!—him to run off with that carnival when he got that girl pregnant. He had given him five dollars. Five lousy dollars. Anyway the others never seemed to mean anything. And that included Francine; though he oughtn’t to say that, and felt guilty because he did. After all she’d done for him. But they none of them meant anything. One way or the other. Except Frank, he thought malevolently, the son of a bitch.
Dave looked at his watch. It was silly for his hands to be trembling. He was glad he had saved back a clean, pressed pair of ODs and some clean shirts. He poured himself a quick drink and went to lay them out. At least, he had gotten out of moving in with them in their house.
Who you kidding? he asked himself. He never had any intention of you moving in with them. What you should have said was sure I’ll pack and be right out. That would have scared the living daylights out of him. Agnes would flay him alive.
When he had laid out the clothes, he walked back into the living room. But suddenly, he could no longer stand the thought of spending two and a half hours in this hotel room.
Anyway, he was hungry. A guy should eat, shouldn’t he?
He looked at the overcoat and decided not to take it. What he wanted was some cold air on him. It was far too hot in here, all of a sudden, and his face felt flushed. There was a beer tavern-restaurant half a block up the street toward the square, he remembered. He looked in the mirror to see if his ribbons were on straight.
And suddenly, for no reason, he was thinking of Harriet Bowman. Miss Harriet Bowman of Greater Los Angeles. Only now she was married. To of all things a goddam lawyer. Promising young attorney. And to not ever have laid her even! He looked in the mirror. Oh, Harriet Bowman, if only you knew now what you missed. I wouldn’t care so much. It would make me feel much better. Who the hell gives a damn about marriage? Anger helped combat the sickness in his belly. What the hell had started him thinking about her? Maybe it was looking at himself in the mirror. He didn’t much like what he saw. But it looked a lot better than it did four years ago, when the Army took him.
Buttoning up his collar and tightening his tie, he went out and locked the door behind him.
Outside the hotel, it was still drizzling snow, but it was beginning to slack off a little. He stood under the marquee a few moments, breathing the cold, wet air. Up the street in the same block as the bus station was the beer tavern. It was named Ciro’s. He remembered it from his youth, but the name had been different then. The neon of its sign shone bright red and green, inviting in the gray afternoon, but now that he was outside he didn’t feel much like going there. After a moment of indecisiveness, he walked up to it slowly through the dropping snow.
A tall gray-headed, long-nosed man was behind the marble top bar cleaning the sinks, as he went up to it. Back in one corner was a griddle and a glass-topped contraption for cooking hot dogs. On one wall hung the Anheuser-Busch reproduction of Custer’s last stand. A homemade crayon picture of one of those big old-fashioned beer goblets was scotch taped to the backbar with the words Have a Schooner! under it. The gray-headed man listened dourly to his order for two hot dogs and a schooner and went back to fix it.
The place had been re-furnitured since he’d seen it last, but that hadn’t changed it any. Feeling suddenly excited, Dave upended the heavy schooner the man brought him and drained half of it. Then he took a big bite of one of the hot dogs. His mouth watered. He was suddenly enthusiastic, and genuinely hungry. Back at the hotel, he hadn’t been.
Except for three young men drinking beer in one of the booths, there was nobody in the place. Dave caught them looking at him. One wore a natty light gray suit and pearl semi-western-style hat. The other two wore their old Army clothes. Quiet seemed to ooze into the place from the walls. The three young men looked as if they might have been out all night and just gotten in and were now tranquilizing themselves over a beer before starting out again tonight.
Dave caught them looking at him again, and when he ordered his second schooner the one in the suit and hat
said something to the others and got up and came walking lazily over to him at the bar, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Tall, thin, sway-backed, with a hanging belly due more to the abnormal curve of his spine than to paunch, setting his feet down with that same slow jerky lift and drop a horse has in its hind legs. He stopped in front of him, languid, arrogant, insulting, and Dave tensed himself. Then carefully with the ball of his thumb, the man pushed his hat back just exactly to his hairline exposing a widow’s peak. Only then, did Dave realize that the man was ill at ease.
“Hello, Mister Hirsh,” he sneered. “Welcome home.” Behind the biting Hoosier nasality was a trace of Southern accent. “I’m ’Bama Dillert.” He did not offer to shake hands.
“Hi,” Dave said, looking him over. He was well over six feet, with dark-circled eyes in a pallid face. Maybe thirty-three. The suit, in spite of looking expensive, nevertheless managed because of its narrow cut to look small-townish and countrified. It was badly wrinkled. Also he hadn’t shaved today and his cuffs and collar were grubby. It looked like a real bender. But above all of this, seeming to disdain all of it, the pearl hat stood out like a living jewel. There was not a smudge on it, and above the narrow western-style band its creases were sharp and distinct. It was obviously a Stetson.
“How you like bein back in Parkman, Illinoiz, by now?” he asked.
“How did you know who I was?” Dave said.
“Hell, anybody could look at you and tell yore a Hirsh,” the other grinned. “Besides, I already heard you were in town.”
“Already?”
“News travels fast in this burg,” the tall man sneered.
“I know. But I didn’t think it was that fast.”
“I happen to go by the bank. Why don’t you come on over and sit with us?” the tall man sneered. Apparently the sneer was ingrained. “Seeing as how you don’t know anybody.”
“Sure,” Dave said. “Why not?”
“Bring me two more hot dogs,” he called to the gray-headed man. He got his beer and followed the tall horse-walking Southerner over to the booth.
