Some Came Running

by James Jones

  “Dave Hirsh meet Dewey Cole and Hubie Murson. You don’t mind if I call you Dave?” ’Bama Dillert said as they sat down.

  “No,” Dave said. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” the other two said in unison. They were younger. They were all three drinking Griesedieck out of the bottle.

  ’Bama had leaned himself back into the corner easily, so he could face Dave beside him as well as the other two across. “You seen Frank yet?” he sneered.

  “Not yet,” Dave said. “I talked to him on the phone.”

  “He ought to be right glad to see you,” ’Bama grinned. “Don’t he look like Frank?” he said.

  “Yeah,” Dewey Cole said, “but that’s no compliment in my book.”

  “Dewey here use to caddy for Frank out the Country Club,” ’Bama grinned.

  “He never did learn to play golf,” Dewey said. “He beat himself to death every day and he never did learn.”

  “Frank ain’t learned nothin about it yet,” Hubie Murson said as if he were an echo; he spoke in a naturally high complaining nasal from which the Gs were noticeably absent. Dewey gave him a disgusted look.

  “He always won his bets though,” Dewey said. “He made them give him enough strokes so he could win. Or he wouldn’t bet.”

  ’Bama laughed. “Plays poker the same way. Only he’s a good poker player.”

  Dewey apparently did not even hear him. He was looking hard at Dave. “I used to beat Frank’s scores all the time when I was caddyin out there,” he said. “I could do it again, too, in a week. But of course I’m not a member of the Country Club. And I don’t caddy anymore.”

  “No, now he’s a plasterer,” ’Bama said. “Among other things. You know your old girlfriend still lives down at New Lebanon,” he grinned at Dave. New Lebanon. It was a country community, ten miles south of Parkman by a gravel road. Back here in Illinois, they pronounced it Lebanon, New Lebanon.

  “Not my girlfriend,” Dave said. “She never was.”

  “If you seen her, buddy, you’d double that,” Dewey said.

  “Yeah, matter fact, she’s got seven kids now,” Hubie Murson drawled.

  ’Bama laughed. “Yeah. A very respectable lady now. If a little dowdy. She married one of them other two guys who were sleeping with her the same time you were. Did you know?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Dave said. “Frank wrote my sister. I know all about it.” So did they apparently. The pregnant girl, the departure, probably the carnival, too. I wonder if they know about the goddamned five dollars, too, he thought.

  “I spent four months with a carnival myself once,” ’Bama grinned. “I didn’t much like it.”

  “Neither did I,” Dave said, wishing now he hadn’t come over. The sense of anticipation ran down out of him as suddenly as it had come. Women. He was thinking about a woman all right, but not the one they thought. They had never heard of Harriet Bowman. To a goddam stinking lawyer! Hell, think about that German woman. Or that girl in— Well, you figured the whole town knew about it, didn’t you?

  “What the hell’d you ever want to come back to this dump for?” Dewey Cole said.

  “Oh—I got drunk up in Chicago,” he said.

  “Well it was sure a loaded man’s idea all right,” Dewey said. “Don’t you think?”

  “What do you stay here for?” Dave said.

  “Hell, I live here,” Dewey said. He shrugged. “Me and your brother Frank, we live here.”

  “Well, I used to,” Dave said.

  “Yeah,” Dewey snorted.

  Dave looked at him, thinking he’d probably guessed right when he guessed they’d been out all night and were loafing getting ready for another.

  What he saw was an incredibly handsome young man of twenty-four or -five, with curly black hair and beautiful long lashes over innocent blue eyes. It was a Midwest type that Dave remembered, slim and light, with that long narrow fine-boned skull that had come from England to Virginia to Kentucky to Illinois finally, and had taken many generations to develop. He was wearing an open GI shirt and an old field jacket with the collar up and which had had staff sergeant’s stripes daubed in black paint on the sleeves; and he was aware of Dave’s scrutiny and was staring back.

  Hubie Murson was a chunky blond youth with a big bladelike nose, about that same age. He wore an Eisenhower jacket and khaki pants and combat boots.

  There was that same quality about all of them, something not exactly dangerous, something that just gave the impression of dangerousness, the dangerousness in just living, which most of us managed to forget, some intangible proof of hard living and wild midnight revels and a complete lack of social responsibility, goddam the hindermost. That something, that quality, always attracted him.

  The only way you could say it, he thought, was that the life they lived still had fist fights in it. Every town had a group like that, living on the fringes, always within the law, not criminal, but at the same time not respectable. A little wild. It always did attract him. Probably mainly because the respectables always bored the hell out of you, with their lies about themselves they’d convinced themselves of finally. Why shouldn’t it attract you he thought miserably, you’re one. She always said you were one, didn’t she? He still wished he hadn’t come over.

  “I take it apparently you guys don’t think so much of Brother Frank,” he said wryly.

  For a moment, Dewey Cole’s face looked almost startled. Then he said, “I guess I been running on too much.”

  “No more’n usual,” Hubie Murson drawled.

  Dewey gave him a dirty look. “Frank’s all right,” he said. “It’s just that he wants to be a goddam institution.” He took a drink of his beer and grimaced. “Yeah. An operator. Like Old Wernz.” He moved his head behind him, and Dave knew what he meant and looked out through the plate-glass window at the Second National Bank building across the street, which Anton Wernz III, still living, had built back in 1924. There were two other storefronts with it, and the whole was labeled WERNZ BLOCK—1925 in concrete. It was Anton III’s only stab at competing with his father, Dave thought, with Old Anton II, now dead. Anton III just didn’t have it. Probably because Anton II who made the money had managed to beat it out of him, before he died.

  “I guess everybody that ain’t,” Dave said, “wants to be an institution.”

  “Not me,” Dewey said.

  “Yore one already,” Hubie grinned, “in a kind of a way.”

  This pleased Dewey and he grinned, his light blue eyes flashing with a shy charm. It was impossible not to like him simply because he was so handsome. “Look,” he said to Dave. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to get onto your brother like that.”

  “That’s all right,” Dave said, “as a matter of fact, I guess I’m inclined to agree with you; somewhat.”

  “Well, what I said about Frank, that don’t mean I got anything against you or your family, you know?”

  “I didn’t figure you did.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Dewey said, suddenly explosive, his eyes taking on a pugnacious glitter. Pride. “And if I ever do, you’ll know it. Because I’ll tell you.”

  “Fair enough,” Dave said, and looked up to see the gray-headed bartender approaching. A pause developed. Everybody looked down at the table. The gray head carried hot dogs and another round of beers; but it was not just the two hot dogs Dave had ordered, it was a dozen. As far as Dave knew, nobody had solicited it. But the man set them down and started serving the beers and picking up the empties. Nobody said a single word until he had gone away. He didn’t say a word, either. Nobody paid him.

  In the silence, Dave became aware of the personality of the wet, cold afternoon making itself felt again. Like him, the others all seemed to be savoring it momentarily, but he suddenly felt more miserable anyway.

  Dewey reached for a hot dog. So did the others. “You know I can remember when you left town,” Dewey said. He shifted a little in his seat. “You don’t know me, but I remember you. I was just a little kid at the time
. But I can remember you from the high school football team.”

  “Yeah,” Dave said, “we had the distinction of being the poorest team in Parkman’s history. I got kicked off my junior year.”

  “Yes, I remember that,” Dewey said, his eyes taking on a hateful glint of pleasure. “You and a bunch of other guys, for drinking.”

  “It like to broke Frank’s heart.”

  “I bet it did. Frank the star punter,” Dewey grinned again. “I remember all about how you left town, too.”

  “Well I don’t remember it,” ’Bama grinned. “Because I wasn’t here then. But I’ve been told about it enough goddam times.”

  “Well, you haven’t been told about it as many times as I have,” Dave said dryly.

  It got a laugh from all of them, especially Dewey, and Dave supposed he ought to be enjoying it and taking some pride in his fame, but the only thing he could think of was to get away without hurting their feelings, away from everybody, off to himself and just sit completely alone and be miserable. All he wanted to do now was get away and inside his clothes his muscles were almost twitching with it. This, though he knew beforehand the moment he got away he would be aching to be where there were people.

  It was strange, and almost horrifying, coming back here this way, and getting involved with all these personalities and subtle undercurrents that he was not wise to. If he had gotten on the Super Chief for LA like he originally planned, he wouldn’t have even known they existed.

  “Have you seen your mother yet?” Dewey asked.

  “No,” he said, “not yet.”

  “Your old man’s still around town, too,” Dewey said. He was grinning in that peculiar way people always grinned whenever they mentioned Dave’s father, who had run off and then come back. Dave had forgotten it completely, that way of grinning, living out on the West Coast, but now he remembered it again from his high school days except that now it no longer embarrassed him.

  “The old son of a bitch,” he said with a grin. “I haven’t seen him yet, either.”

  “Him and your mother still ain’t speakin,” Dewey grinned.

  Dave suddenly felt like laughing, but then thought better of it. Anyway, at that moment the outside door slammed open, and a stolid faced young man in civilian clothes and an Army Air Force fleece-lined jacket burst into the place at a fast running walk. He headed straight for the booth, apparently in a great state of excitement, which didn’t show at all on his broad flat face, only in his movements.

  Dave noted ’Bama and the others were grinning at him.

  Here comes another one, he thought, a little sickly. I wonder how many other personalities I’m going to get involved with before I get away from this town.

  Chapter 3

  “HOWDY, MEN, HOWDY,” the newcomer said stolidly, stopping just at the edge of the booth. He seemed to deliberately not look at Dave. Below the Air Force jacket, which he wore proudly although he obviously was not old enough to have been in the war, he had on a loose-cut expensive pair of gray covert trousers which were mud splashed and rolled up two turns to expose high-heeled western cowboy boots.

  “Hope you men haven’t drunk up all the brew. I’m sure ready for my brews today,” he said, and swept the heavy jacket off his back, hung it on the post, and slid into the already crowded booth beside Dewey Cole. Under the jacket, he was wearing a fine wool Pendleton shirt.

  “Did real great today, man,” he announced. “Practically finished a chapter.” He still did not look at Dave.

  “Hi, Wally,” Dewey said. He elbowed Hubie. “Move over.”

  “Where?” Hubie said.

  “Hello, Wally,” ’Bama sneered. “Dave Hirsh meet Wally Dennis. Wally’s writing a novel,” he said. “He’s a writer.”

  “Is that right?” Dave said politely.

  Wally, for answer, looked up at him suddenly and stuck out his hand. It was as if he had just noticed Dave sitting there. He had a huge knot on his short nose, around which he seemed to be peering.

  “Wallace Dennis. Wallace French Dennis,” he said. “For my mother.”

  He quite obviously was not old enough to be of beer-drinking age (twenty-one in Illinois), but he couldn’t very well have fudged in Parkman where the bartenders knew everybody. He must have worked some angle. His hair was cut very long, cat-musician style.

  “Hello, Wally,” Dave grinned, taking the hand.

  Wally pumped his hand, eyeing him. “Know you, man, know you,” he said in his flat voice, “knew you all along. D Hirsh. I’ve read your stuff. Some of it’s real cool. But it smacks a little too much of Saroyan.”

  Dave’s grin faded. He could feel consternation spreading all over him, making his stomach quiver. Panicky indignation followed upon its heels, making his whole head feel red.

  Dewey had snapped his fingers. “By God, now I know what it was. I knew there was something else about you. You’re a writer!”

  “No, I’m not!” Dave said stiffly. He could gladly have kicked the innocent Wally right square in the tail. “Did you read the later stories and the novel?” he asked him instead.

  Wally nodded in his stolid way. “Read it all, man. All the stories. Both novels. Later stuff’s better. Hey, Jake!” he called, “bring me two brews one right after the other so they won’t get warm! Still too much Saroyan,” he said. “But better.”

  “I’m not a writer,” Dave said to Dewey. “I just did some writing once.”

  “There’s only one novel,” he said to Wally. “The first one don’t count. You’re probably right. In the thirties, we all copied Saroyan, out on the West Coast. He was the only one who was selling.”

  He was still wanting to holler No! No! like a man confronted by his wife with his own damning nude photograph. I didn’t! Don’t talk about it!

  “I was beginning to outgrow all that,” he said.

  “Good, man, good,” Wally said. “Glad to hear it.”

  It was a completely chaotic reaction he knew it he still couldn’t help it. Simmer down. Let’s get out of this.

  “With us, it was Saroyan,” he said angrily. “In the East, it was Thomas Wolfe.”

  “Now there’s a real great writer, man,” Wally said excitedly.

  Yes, and now we have to go through all that Dave thought the young always think that—

  “Real cool,” Wally said. “That man’s way out. He’s the only American writer who’s ever written a really accurate picture of what a hell a young man’s life is really like. Only trouble is,” he said, “he never got any older.”

  Dave was brought up short, startled by the perception. Interest gnawed at him. “Is that your own idea?”

  Wally shook his head. “My teacher said it. The point is,” he explained, “even if he didn’t do no better, you still can’t take away from him what he did do.”

  “Yeah,” Dave said. “Who’s your teacher?”

  “Guinevere French,” Wally said. “Miss Guinevere French. She teaches English out the college.”

  “You mean Parkman College?”

  “Yes, man. Where else. But I ain’t no Parkman College student,” he added. “I’m unclassified. Just takin a few courses of my own choosing, mostly English.”

  “Guinevere French. Is that any relation to Old Man French the English teacher?”

  “Sure, man, the poet. Robert Ball French. She’s his daughter. They’re relations of mine.”

  “He taught me English in high school,” Dave said. “He used to act out both sides of the duel scene in Hamlet with a yardstick.”

  “That’s him. He moved up to the college, after you left. But he’s retired now.” Wally took a drink of the first of his two beers which Jake had brought him. “You ought to meet them. Hell, man! That’s where I got hold of all that stuff of yours. You know I’ve read everything you ever wrote, man. Even them two little articles in that little magazine. What was its name?”

  Again Dave felt that flickering wave of dismay, that wanting to push it away with both hands. If they’
d just shut up about it. If they were just goddam sensitive enough to realize he didn’t want to talk about that. ’Bama and the others were listening with silent interest.

  “nous neurotiques,” he said, looking down at his glass.

  “That’s the one. Without the caps. I even read them,” Wally said. “They wasn’t very good.” He kept on looking at Dave, sort of hungrily, as if he expected him to do something miraculous.

  Dave didn’t look up from his glass. “Where’d you ever get hold of all that old stuff?”

  “From Gwen French,” Wally said. “She’s collected all your stuff. Partly because you was from here, I guess. But she collects lots of little-known writers like you. Uses them in her classes. Says you can learn more off them than the big ones. You know George Blanca?”

  “Sure, he used to be my best buddy out on the Coast, years ago,” Dave said.

  Wally nodded. “I know. She’s got all his stuff, too. Even his screenplays. Also that other guy you knew, the one who committed suicide.”

  “Kenny McKeean,” Dave said. The dismay flooded back over him full force, stronger than before, rendering him totally inadequate and making the insides of his elbows and fingers twiddle. In Parkman, Illinois, of all goddam places! He had not thought about any of them for a long time now, especially Kenny. He and George were the ones who found him. They had gone up drunk to get him to go on a party. It was such an easy thing to forget things, if you wanted to, that had happened a long time ago.

  But then something happened to make them come back full force, more real, fists in the face.

  “That’s the guy,” Wally Dennis said from a long way off. “Wrote two novels that didn’t sell and blew his brains out.”

  “He hung himself,” Dave corrected. “And there was more to it than that. There was a dame involved in it.”

  The others sat listening silently, as if they seemed to sense he had gone back into a past, re-creating it here.

  “You mean he killed himself for love?” Wally asked.

  “Yeah,” David said, “sort of. Love, or the lack of it.”