Some Came Running

by James Jones

  But probably the thing that hurt her the worst, down deep where she could not even laugh about it, was when he had adopted Walter. She herself could have really borne him children. Real children. Only—she was prevented; by everything social, and private, and public, about their relationship. And so instead, he and Agnes had adopted a child. Janie, during her last months there, had talked about the little boy a lot. Jane had liked him, and because Jane liked him, Edith had found herself liking him. And because Jane could talk about him, Edith found herself urging Jane on to talk about him, as if in some way she had a need to prod and poke this sore spot deep inside her in order to make it hurt even worse, in the same way that it was almost impossible for you to stop biting down upon an aching tooth so that the greater pain might relieve the lesser. So, in the end, she wound up knowing almost as much about the little boy as Frank and Agnes themselves knew. In a way, he was almost her little boy. After all, it was she who was really responsible for him, wasn’t it? They would never have got back together and adopted him if it had not been for her, would they?

  The boy himself Edith had seen a number of times at the store. And he was a cute little codger, so solemn and like a tiny little old man. But she did not want anything to do with him. And did not even want like to be around him. So she had been very distant with him. And as if he sensed that she did not want to be around him, after the first time he never talked to her again, except when required, and kept away from her. Which was exactly the way Edith wanted it. And she admired him for his depth of acumen.

  He was a smart little devil, and in truth, Edith did not think she had ever seen so mature a youngster. He was the most polite, most unobtrusive little boy she had ever seen. He very obviously did not intend to let anything break up his new windfall, if he could help it, and for that Edith doubly admired him, although she did not want to associate with him.

  But if she herself did not want to associate with him, Janie had had no such compunctions. On Fridays when she cleaned at Frank’s, she had played with little Walter, and he had helped her with her work. They got to be great pals.

  Oh, Janie! Edith thought despairfully. Janie! If only she had known!

  The night it happened did not seem to be a bit different from any other night. How was anyone to have any idea that this was the night she was going to die? Janie was her same fragile, worn, large-eyed self as she had been every other night the past few months. Edith had cooked the supper. She had been doing that for some time. Not only so that Janie would not have to do it, but also because Janie could not do it—could not do a good job of it. They had all three eaten sitting at the kitchen table. John, as was his dull wont, had immediately taken himself off to bed. Janie had gone to bed almost as immediately herself. Edith had sat up a little while in the little living room, reading a magazine, and then she had sewed on a skirt she was altering. And finally had gone to bed herself. How, in any possible way, could she have guessed that Janie would not be there in the morning? Edith had paused at her door before she went to her own room, and everything had been quiet.

  Jane, in her room, had heard her pause, and she smiled to herself. She was a good kid, Edith was. Janie waited until she heard her go on, and then rolled herself over wearily in the bed, her face to the wall again. She wanted to go to the bathroom and wash her hands, but she knew she would have to wait until the kid was asleep before she could. Good kid, she thought, such a good kid.

  Goddam that son-of-a-bitching Frank Hirsh, she thought fierily, for perhaps the ten millionth time in the past year and a half. Goddam that son-of-a-bitching Jew bastard. She knew he was a Jew. She just knew it. That ornery, slippery, dirty bastard. You might know he would pull some damned trick like that. Christ, he would have tried to make her herself, Jane, years ago if she hadn’t been so hefty he was scared she might hurt him if she ever did get in bed with him. Damn him, she thought half-affectionately, the fire subsiding in her for lack of fuel. Well, it was the kid’s problem. She’d have to solve it for herself. I’m too old to try to do anything about it; and John’s too dumb. And anyway, nobody oughtn’t to nose into affairs of the heart like that, especially when it’s somebody else’s heart.

  She rolled back over on her back again and stared upward in the dark, worn out, and yet not sleepy. Damn it all.

  If she only just knew where she could have got it. That was the damned thing. Back over a year ago, when she had first thought she got it—the time she had been so scared she had give it to Old Vic Herschmidt—it had gone away of itself and she had thought she was all right. She decided it just must have been a strain. Men got strains and had a running; could women get them, too?

  But then, just when she was beginnin to feel all right and git her confidence back, beginnin to lose a little weight and feel better, then the son of a bitch had started up again. She was only sleepin with two guys at the time, and she knew it couldn’t have come from either one of them. So she had decided it had to just have been from that other time, and that she hadn’t really got cured up after all. And yet, she hadn’t give it to either one of them. Well—

  At least, she hadn’t give it to nobody, she thought with relief again. That little boy Walter; she had to be so careful around him. It would be awful if she was to give it to a little kid like that, and she still scrubbed herself religiously.

  It was probably that that was makin her lose all this damned weight. But she had never heard of the clap doin anything like that to nobody. She really ought to go down and see Doc Cost about it, Jane thought miserably. But she just couldn’t. She just couldn’t have nobody find out about it. People laughed at her enough as it was, by God. Just because she was big and hefty—used to be, anyway—and talked in a voice like a rock crusher, people thought she didn’t have no feelins. But she had feelins just like everybody, by God. And she just couldn’t have nobody find out. But most expecially the kid. Expecially, Edith. It would shame the kid to death. Hell, it would shame herself to death.

  Old whore, she said once again to herself bitterly. That was what she was all right. And everybody knew it, and laughed about it. No wonder the kid use to get mad about it. So damned wore out all the damned time, she thought wearily, and moved her legs again. She really ought to git up and go wash, but Edith might not be asleep yet. And thinking this, she finally fell asleep.

  She woke up suddenly, her heart beating in her ears and no idea of what time it was, to a terrible pain in her groin. She had never had no pain like that before. It almost made her grunt out loud. She lay feeling it, hard and bright there in her belly; and then, just when she thought she was going to have to yell, it went away to only a tiny dull ache. Janie relaxed, and took a deep breath. Now what the hell was that? She had never felt nothin like that before, by God. She relaxed herself down into the bed with relief and lay looking up into the dark. Wow! She hoped she didn’t have no more pains like that, by Christ! But in a few moments, as she lay still relaxing from it, she began to feel the pressure in her belly. She lay back and shut her eyes as it kept on growing stronger. Now, what the hell? She suddenly felt woozy, and then she began to feel cold, and then she found she couldn’t get her breath. And the uncomfortable pressure in her belly kept on growing stronger, and it was then that she realized she was dying.

  She lay for a moment, finding it hard to believe. It was like something had bust loose inside her. Was she maybe bleedin to death inside? They would find her in the morning. And when they found her, they’d find her old belt on her. No, they mustn’t find that. Was she really dying?

  No, sir, by God! By God, I’ll show the sons of bitches! And powerfully, using the arms that even now, thin and weak as she was, still had the rock-hard muscles of a man, she surged up in the bed. I’ll show all the sons of bitches! and yet at the same time was still the same thought in her mind that she mustn’t make no noise that might wake Edith. Powerfully, with those strong man’s arms, but quietly, she grasped the top of the headboard and pulled herself up into a sitting position. Sons of bitc
hes! Think you can kill Old Jane Staley? Then she fell over sideways on her face, and everything faded out.

  And that was how Edith found her in the morning: lying sideways on her face, the top of her gray head toward the door.

  She had gotten up early to fix breakfast. She had waked John so he wouldn’t be late for work, and then had cooked bacon and eggs. She had been glad Janie was sleeping late for once. But after John had finished eating and was getting ready to leave, and Janie still had not appeared, she had thought she’d better call her, and went to her room.

  The moment she opened the door and saw her in that odd wrenched position, she had known nothing would really be any use. But she had made herself walk forward and lift the muscled arm and try to raise her. The arm fell back down slackly. There was something—something obscene, about touching another person’s dead body. Instinctively, you knew they wouldn’t have liked it. It had never hapened to Edith before. She stepped back to the door and stood looking at her for a dull moment.

  Clearly, Janie had fought hard. And neither one of them had waked up and come to her. Maybe they could have helped her. At least, they could have been there. Edith called for John, her voice high and squawky.

  “Daddy! Daddy! Come here quick!”

  With his slow, dull walk, John appeared behind her, carrying his work jacket over one arm, his cap already on his head. Edith put her hands up over her mouth and turned to him, tears—as she realized the finality of it—beginning to spurt from her eyes and make John appear to shimmer. He looked placidly past her through the door.

  “Well, I guess there ain’t nothin we can do,” he said slowly. “I guess she’s gone.”

  Edith wanted suddenly to slap his face. Damn him! Didn’t he ever feel anything?

  “I guess you better call the doctor, hadn’t you?” John said, after a moment.

  Edith got control of herself. Still crying, she called Doc Cost. Then, at his suggestion, also called the coroner.

  She hung up the phone, weeping uncontrollably. John came and put his heavy calloused hand awkwardly on her shoulder.

  “Don’t cry, Edith honey,” he said. “It had to happen some time.” Edith put her own hand up on his. “She’s been purty sick for a long time,” he said.

  “Oh, God,” Edith said, thinking of Old Janie, lying in there and dying all alone, not even anybody there to hold her hand. “What are we going to do?” she said.

  “Well,” John said, misunderstanding what she meant. “I reckon I better go on to work. There ain’t nothing much I can do here. But I don’t think you better try to go to the store today, upset like you are, Edith honey. Why don’t you call the store and tell them?”

  “Yes,” Edith said. “All right. I will.”

  “You sure you be all right here alone? till the doctor comes?” John said.

  “Yes,” Edith said. “You go on. I’m all right.”

  After he left, Edith stared after him almost calmly; then suddenly, like a sneeze, was struck by another fit of uncontrollable weeping. Then she called the store. And that was the way it went: She would be all right, and go about whatever had to be done; then, suddenly, she would remember something about Janie, and another uncontrollable seizure of weeping would take her like a sudden gust of wind shaking a tree.

  It was while she was sitting with her in the room waiting for the doctor and the coroner to arrive, that she noticed for the first time the worn old sanitary belt Jane was still wearing, under the sheet, and did not understand it. Later on, after the undertaker came and took her away, she and Doc Cost talked about it.

  Doc Cost took her out in the kitchen and sat down with her. He had only made a brief examination of her when he first came, and had told Edith then: “It looks like it was an internal hemorrhage.”

  “But there’s no blood!” she had said.

  “There was some,” Doc Cost said gently. Later, after he and the coroner had examined her together, and then the undertaker had taken her away, sitting at the kitchen table, awkwardly, with all of the sympathy and understanding that Edith had wanted John to have but which John hadn’t, Doc Cost reconstructed for her what he thought had happened.

  “I rather expect we’ll find it’s a diverticulosis of the lower bowel,” he said.

  “What’s a diverticulosis?” Edith said. She was dry-eyed now, and coolly in possession of herself.

  “Well, it’s a kind of a pocket,” Doc said. “A fistula. She’s probably had it for several years, and finally it ruptured.”

  “Fistula!” Edith said. “Janie?” And then: “That’s what’s caused her to lose all that weight and go downhill like she did?”

  Doc Cost nodded, gently. “Diverticulitis is a false pocket, in the large intestine. Fecal matter lodges in this pocket and causes an abscess. Sometimes, if it doesn’t heal by itself, it breaks through and adheres to the bladder or the uterus, and forms a fistula— Look, Edith,” he said awkwardly. “Do you want to know this stuff? There’s no need to go into all of the details of it with you.”

  “I want to know everything about it,” Edith said firmly.

  Doc Cost nodded, slowly. “Well, it’s been my experience with rectal-vesical fistula like this that it is often mistaken by the patient for a venereal disease.” He paused.

  “Oh, no!” Edith said, her eyes widening. She put her hand up to her mouth.

  Doc Cost nodded again, reluctantly. “I expect that’s what happened here,” he said. “Of course, if it’s caught soon enough, diverticulitis can usually be remedied by surgery.”

  “But why wouldn’t she ever go to a doctor with it? She knew she was sick!”

  “Well, I’ve known Janie for a number of years,” Doc Cost said, awkwardly. “I think I know her pretty well. Did you notice that—ahh—she was wearing a sanitary belt?”

  “Yes,” Edith said. “I wondered about it at the time.”

  “Well,” Doc said, painfully, “well, with diverticulitis of this type there is a certain amount of vaginal discharge in the later stages. Particularly, if the fistula has adhered to the bladder, there is frequency of urination, burning, and a pus discharge.” He paused, then shrugged. “In short, all the usual symptoms connected with gonorrhea. Of course, you know Janie probably better than anyone else, Edith,” he said apologetically. “But I know her pretty well. I’ve kidded with her a lot. She was a very sensitive woman, although a stranger wouldn’t have thought it, just to look at her. And now I—ahh—well, I expect she thought maybe she had contracted gonorrhea, or some other social disease like that, and that was why she wouldn’t go to a doctor. She was too embarrassed.” He looked Edith in the eyes, apologetically, hating to have to say what he had to say.

  Edith, as the implication dawned on her, put her hands up to her face. “Oh no!” she whispered. “Oh no! Oh no!”

  “She was very sensitive about her reputation in town,” Doc Cost said with a sad smile. “She kidded about it. But it bothered her, too, just the same.”

  “Doc—” Edith said haltingly, “Then— then it was me! I caused it! I— I called her an old whore once, when I was mad at her over something. And I used to try to shame her out of going out with those old duffers—just—just because it embarrassed me!”

  “Well,” Doc Cost said awkwardly, “I doubt very much if that had anything to do with it, Edith. There was a lot more to it than that. There was the whole town. You mustn’t blame yourself for it.”

  “Oh, but—but I did,” Edith said. “Doc, I did. And I caused it.” Suddenly, she broke off, and dropped her head down on the table, sobbing uncontrollably. Doc Cost reached across the table and took her hand, and then when she did not stop got up and came around the table and put his arm around her shoulder.

  Finally, she got control of herself again. After she did, Doc Cost tried to reassure her again that it was not her fault. To which, Edith said nothing. What was the use of weeping and wailing over your guilt? It was just something you would have to live with, that was all. And you would live with it
, too, she thought; all your life. She faced him then, red-eyed from weeping, but clear-eyed, too. And when he saw the look on her face, Doc Cost stopped expostulating with her, as if he knew it was no longer any use. Quietly, he got his hat and bag and left.

  At the door, he stopped and turned back. “You know, if you’d like, Edith,” he said, “we can have a postmortem performed on Janie. Then you would know exactly the cause of death. I’m reasonably sure my diagnosis is correct. And I’m positive there’s no—ahh—external vaginal infection. But I would suggest that you have a postmortem done.”

  “You mean, an—autopsy?” Edith said.

  He nodded, his face awkward and pained for her.

  “No,” Edith said. “No, Doc. I don’t think I could stand that. The thought of it. It’s—it’s somehow an—an indignity to Janie, Doc; do you see what I mean?” she said anxiously. “I don’t mean anything against you, you understand. But to cut her up like that, it’s—it’s obscene. I know Janie wouldn’t like it. Let’s just let her rest in peace.” She stood, looking at him.

  “Well,” Doc Cost said, “I know there are people who feel that way, Edith. Of course, to a doctor it’s purely a professional matter. I—ahh—” he paused awkwardly. “I wouldn’t make any charge for it, Edith. I suggested it because I thought it might help put your mind at rest.”

  “No,” Edith said. “No, Doc. I won’t let them do that to Janie. She’s had a rough enough time as it is. And I just won’t let somebody do that to her.”

  “Well, all right,” Doc Cost said “We’ll just let it go then. I’ll see you, Edith.” He tipped his hat and smiled, painfully, and Edith watched him walk down the porch to his funny little MG. How could he stand it? she thought; all the pain and agony he had to wade through in his profession? God! she thought; no wonder he drank as much as he did when he got home from work in the evening. She shut the door and went back into the house and sat down and began to weep again.

  And, suddenly, she knew something else that she was not going to let them do to Janie, she thought. When it came time for the funeral, she was going to insist the casket be left closed. She was not going to let all those people parade past and stare at poor old dead Janie. Staring at your dead body, that you yourself no longer had control over, it would make any one feel ashamed; it was embarrassing, and obscene, and it was barbaric. John probably wouldn’t understand, but she didn’t care. They had to take her to an undertaker, and expose her poor old body there, and that was bad enough. But they were not going to do any more than that, they were not going to expose her in her casket.