Some Came Running

by James Jones

  Already, she was sick all over. And it was not make-believe. It always did this to her when these things happened. She was really sick. Weakly, she reached over for the phone and called Doc Cost.

  The big man arrived soon, his little MG sputtering up into the drive outside. As he always did, he only rapped lightly and came on in, right on into the bedroom where she was with just a sheet over her nightgown, carrying that same old, battered old black bag. As he bent over her, the smell of the whiskey on his breath wafted about the room. And Agnes breathed it in comfortingly.

  “Well, it looks like you really got it bad this time, Agnes,” he said, after he had checked her pulse and temperature. “Little fever. Bones ache? Nose plugged up. Looks like you might have a touch of that summer flu that’s been going the rounds.” He reached for his black bag and handed her some pills, then he stood up and in that characteristic way he had, folded his big arms and looked down at her shrewdly.

  “Frank out of town again?” he said.

  Agnes only nodded.

  For a moment, he stood looking down at her, this big man who always instilled such reassurance in you that you actually felt he might be God, then he smiled affectionately.

  “I have a pain right here in my side, too,” Agnes said weakly.

  “Right side?” He leaned over her and pressed her side just below the ribs. “Here?” he said, and straightened back up. “Might be having a little trouble with your gall bladder. Been eating a lot of greasy foods lately?”

  “No,” Agnes said, weakly, a curious peace creeping over her.

  “I’ll go out the kitchen get you a glass of water for those pills,” Doc Cost said and turned around and ambled out through the door.

  Agnes listened to his footsteps going away toward the kitchen comfortably. Nothing ever seemed so bad when Doc Cost was around. All the genuine sympathy, the unspoken understanding, the caring, that she never seemed to get anywhere else in her life seemed to emanate to her from this big awkward sorrowful-looking man. Doc Cost. Suddenly, Agnes wished she could just cuddle up against him, and have him stroke her head and tell her it would be all right like her father used to do. She could cry and tell him what the real trouble was. There was so much kindness, so much real tenderness in him. What any woman, like that first wife of his: Louise, would want to leave him and run off with some other man for, Agnes couldn’t understand. He came back through the door carrying a glass of water that looked midget-sized in his big hand.

  “Here now,” he said gently, and handed it to her. “Take one of those every four hours or so. The other envelope is sedatives if you need them.” He stepped back again, and folded the big arms, and smiled at her. “I expect you’ll be all right in a day or two.”

  “I hope so,” Agnes said weakly. “I have to take care of little Walter, you know.”

  “Do you want me to send you out a girl?” Doc said. “I can send you out a private nurse for a couple days,” he offered, “if you want.”

  “No,” Agnes said. “I guess I’ll be all right.”

  Silently, his big arms still folded, he continued to stand, smiling down at her—and suddenly, for the first time in her life, Agnes realized with a kind of inward start that he was—available, she thought, if she wanted him. Not out of lust, or salaciousness, or anything like that, but kindly, and affectionately, because he liked her, and had sympathy for her, and because he thought she was attractive. Doc Cost was—available.

  For a moment, she actually toyed with the idea. He was a handsome man; not handsome like a movie star, but attractive in his bigness. And he was kind and tender. And suddenly, Agnes realized that there were probably a large number of women in this town that Doc Cost had been to bed with in his career; just how many she would probably never know. Nor would anybody else. He was discreet, Doc Cost. And he was a man who understood—and sympathized with—women. A whole lot of women, probably. Not out of conquest, not out of lust, just out of simple friendliness and sympathy and liking. The thought astounded her; and even almost embarrassed her. And for a moment, she toyed with it. Why not? It certainly couldn’t be said that she would be doing any injury to Frank that he did not deserve. But then, she had never been that kind of woman. Even though this, with Doc Cost, would not be that way, would only be friendly, and warm, a kind of comforting of each other by two human people. But she had always believed in loving one man only. And because of this, after toying with it for several moments, she rejected it.

  As if he read the look on her face, Doc Cost unfolded his big arms and smiled at her, and picked up his bag.

  “Well, Agnes,” he said, “I’ll stop back out tomorrow and have another look at you.”

  From the bed, impulsively, Agnes extended her hand to him. Doc Cost, smiling stepped forward and leaned over and took it.

  “Thanks so much for coming out, Doc,” Agnes said.

  “Think nothing of it, Agnes,” he said. And then he left.

  Already feeling much better, and also feeling more attractive than she could remember having felt in years, Agnes rolled over and smiled at the wall. By noon, she was able to get up and fix Walter’s lunch for him.

  But after that, after she had fed him and sent him out to play, she could not sustain the sense of feeling better; and the old depressive sickness came back over her again in waves and she went back to bed. The momentary feeling of attractiveness, and the kindness of Doc Cost, was not enough to erase what Georgia Sheldon’s letter had printed on her mind. The one man in the world she loved—had loved, she amended—the man she was married to, did not find her so very attractive, apparently; and she lay in the bed, bitterly facing this fact. After a while, she took another sedative. That made two already she had had today; and neither one of them had affected her a bit. She got no rest out of either one of them. As she lay in the bed, restlessly, she heard young Walter come back in from outside and come toward the bedroom. Oh, God, she thought wearily, what does he want now? Was she going to have to get up and do something else for him?

  Walter, as if he had sensed in his perceptive way that something was wrong, his solemn little old man’s face distressed looking, came to the side of the bed and stood looking down at her; and suddenly, Agnes’s eyes filled with tears again.

  “Mother, are you sick?” Walter said.

  “No, honey,” she said, “just tired. You go on back out and play.”

  Suddenly, Walter leaned forward and put his arms around her and put his cheek against hers. He did not say anything.

  Despairfully, Agnes put her own arms around his little body and squeezed him. “Your mother loves you, Walter,” she said tearfully. “Don’t you ever forget that. You’re my son. Whatever else happens, you’re my son.”

  Walter still did not say anything, and after a moment he stood back up, his little old man’s face solemn and worried. “Please don’t be sick,” he said tremulously. “Please don’t die.”

  “Oh, honey!” Agnes cried. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m all right.”

  Walter stared at her a moment longer, not saying anything, and then turned and went slowly out, and Agnes rolled back over in the bed, her face hardening at the thought of Frank.

  She was ready for him when he came home from Springfield the next day. More than ready for him. She had only got out of bed when she had to fix Walter’s meals, and the rest of the time she spent in the bed planning savoringly just exactly how she was going to cut Frank up into little pieces.

  He came in the house happily, carrying his bag, but when he found she was in bed, he stopped short..

  “Why, honey!” Frank said. “What’s the matter? Are you sick?” He laid the bag down, almost fearfully, on his own bed. He knew. He knew she knew.

  “Just tired,” Agnes said, and got up and put on her wrapper. “I’ve got something I want to show you,” she said, and went to the secretary and got the letter.

  As he read it, at first perplexed at why she should be showing him one of her newsy women’s letters, and then
guiltily when he came to the passage with the information, Agnes watched him coldly. Guilt seemed to roll down over his face like a curtain. If there had ever been any doubt in her mind, the look on his face erased it. He did not finish the letter.

  “Well!” he said hollowly. “Well! This is interesting. But why show it to me?”

  “The girl works for you, doesn’t she?”

  “Well,” Frank said, guilt actually appearing to drip down his face, “yes; she works for me. But what has that to do with this? Apparently, Old Janie didn’t really have much insurance. So Edith must have got the house some other way.”

  “Maybe some man got it for her.”

  “Well! I never thought of that,” Frank said.

  “Do you want a girl like that working for you?”

  “Well, her private life isn’t of any concern to me, honey. She’s an efficient girl.”

  “Yes, I’ll bet she’s efficient! I’ll bet she’s very efficient!” Agnes said, twisting the word around.

  Frank stared at her, trying to look puzzled by her implication, but the guilt on his face so strong that his attempted puzzled look hardly got through. Agnes stared back at him coldly. What a poor liar! What a cheap, sneaking, sniveling, little bad-liar.

  “Well, she is,” Frank said finally, still trying to pull off his act of puzzlement.

  “You’re a poor liar,” Agnes said coldly. “Did you notice the name of the company that paid her such a large check?”

  “Why, yes,” Frank said. “That’s one of the Greek’s outfits.”

  “And he did it for you, didn’t he? It was you who bought her that damned house, wasn’t it?” Agnes smiled. It was a very nearly murderous-looking smile.

  “Who?” Frank said. “Me?” He laughed hollowly, guilt all over his face. “My God! The Greek handles all kinds of business for all kinds of people. He might have handled somethin like that for anybody here in Parkman. Hell, maybe it’s even Clark Hibbard who’s keeping her! Who knows?”

  “I know,” Agnes said, in a clear—but low—voice. “And you’re going to admit it! You’re going to admit it to me!”

  Frank laughed, nervously. “Honey, honey! Why should I admit something I ain’t responsible for? Honey, you’re just upset. You—”

  “God!” Agnes cried. “What a cheap, sniveling little creature you are! Frank Hirsh, the big shot! Frank Hirsh, the rich man! God, what a cheap, sneaky, sniveling little pipsqueak of a laughingstock you are! That’s what you are; you know that, don’t you? A laughingstock. All over Parkman. Running around, trying to be a big shot; and everybody laughing at you behind your back!”

  Frank stood and took it, still holding the letter, his jaw hardening a little, and anger replacing some of the guilt on his face. But not all of it. Up to now it had all followed the same old, oh-so-familiar pattern. He would stand and take it, guilt written all over his face, and steadfastly he would refuse to admit it. Then he would rush out and drop the women like a hot rock. He had never yet admitted to her that he had ever once been out with Geneve Lowe.

  Well, this was one time he was going to admit it. He owed her at least that much for what he had done to her. Slowly, and methodically, and pleasurably, Agnes peeled the skin right off of him down into a bloody bundle of ruptured ego lying on the floor about his feet. Carefully, she built up a picture of the reverse side of the coin of Frank Hirsh the success: Frank Hirsh, the pipsqueak, the front man for the real big shots, who had done nothing, and deserved nothing—except what the real big shots chose to dole out to him; Frank Hirsh, with his cheap trashy little mistress, the granddaughter of his own cleaning woman, the office girl in his own store; Frank Hirsh the laughingstock of Parkman, whom everybody was giggling at behind his back. It was all of it true, too. And what was more, he knew it.

  Frank stood and took it, in silence, still holding the letter until finally he remembered it and laid it on the secretary. Several times he tried to protest, unconvincingly. When he went to lay the letter down, Agnes followed him, relentlessly, her voice still cutting and slashing at him, coldly, coolly. He could stand and take it as long as he wanted to, she didn’t give a damn. He could not outlast her. She could go right on forever, if he wanted to stand and take it that long. This time, he was going to admit it to her. And she was right. Finally, when it got to be too much, he did admit it to her. And as soon as he admitted it, he changed.

  “All right,” he said, smiling almost dangerously, all guilt disappearing from his face, “it’s true. I did buy her the house; and she is my mistress. And has been for a year and a half now. So what? What are you goin to do about it?”

  “Do?” Agnes said, coldly. “Do! I’m going to demand that you never see her again.”

  “But you can’t make me,” Frank said, still smiling almost dangerously.

  “No, I can’t make you,” Agnes said; “but if you don’t, I’ll leave you.”

  Frank’s smile changed, into a grin, almost. He didn’t believe that. “What?” he said soothingly. “Leave Old Frank? Just when we’re gettin really rich. Why, in a year or so, we’re liable to be millionaires. You want to leave all that?”

  “Yes,” Agnes said. “I will.”

  Frank grinned at her disbelieving, and that was when he began to sweet-talk her, almost confidently.

  “I don’t know,” he said, making himself sound abject but not feeling it, where before he had been abject and trying to hide it. Agnes watched him closely. “All I know is that I love you. You’re my wife and I love you and I’ll always love you. You know that, too. But I want a mistress. Almost all the men I know have mistresses. And them and their wives love each other. Why do you and me have to be so different? I don’t know. Maybe— Maybe all men are just—just—”

  “Polygamous?” Agnes said coldly.

  “That’s it,” Frank said, smiling. “Polygamous. I’m tryin to be as honest as I can. But that don’t mean that I don’t love you. I do love you, and I always have.” He smiled again, a little more confidently. “But I want a mistress.”

  “And you love her, too,” Agnes said.

  Frank smiled again. “Well—” he said; “well—yes, I suppose you could say that. In a way. But not like I love you.”

  “And all the time we were so close and so happy,” Agnes said, “you were making love to this—this—” she restrained herself: “this girl, too.”

  “She’s a nice girl,” Frank said, getting her meaning. “But I told you: It ain’t the same as when I’m makin love to you. You’re my wife. It just ain’t the same at all.”

  “You’ve got to get rid of her,” Agnes said coldly. “I demand that you get rid of her.”

  “What?” Frank said, smiling. “And what about the house? Hell, I spent over eight thousand dollars on that damned house. Don’t be ridiculous, honey.” He smiled at her again.

  “I don’t give a damn about the house,” Agnes said narrowly. She had never seen him quite like this. “But you’ve got to get rid of her.”

  Frank smiled at her again, his eyes thoughtful. “I can’t do that, honey,” he said.

  “Then I’ll leave you,” Agnes said again.

  “Aw, now, honey. You’re just upset,” he said joshingly. “You wouldn’t leave me. Leave Old Frank? Why, hell, just when we’re really beginnin to get into the big money?”

  “I don’t care about the money,” Agnes said.

  “You’re just mad, honey,” Frank smiled. “You’ll get over it. Look: I’ve got three appointments waitin on me right now downtown. You go back to bed and rest awhile, and when I come home, we’ll go out to the Club for dinner, and then when we come home, we’ll have us a ‘party’ like we use to do. A real one.”

  “I’m telling you, I’ll leave you,” Agnes said. “I’ll take Walter, and I’ll leave you. For good.”

  Frank smiled at her, almost cockily. “Aw, now, honey,” he said, “you wouldn’t do that.” Smiling, he approached her—although he did not touch her; her eyes forbade that—and began to talk soft
ly, love talk almost, telling her how he had to get to these appointments . . . how foolish she was to think all these things . . . etc., etc., etc.

  And as he talked, she looked at him coldly, feeling more hatred for him than she had ever felt for anybody in her life before. He actually didn’t think she would go. He thought he had her whipped. Had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat.

  Oh, God! If she had refused to love him, if they hadn’t been so full of love and happiness, hadn’t been on their “second honeymoon,” perhaps she could have understood it. Second honeymoon, hah! she thought acidly.

  And then he stood there and had the gall to tell her that a mistress meant nothing to him, and that she was the only one he loved. Well, if a mistress meant nothing to him, then why was it so damned important that he have one?

  She could not stand the thought of it, and Agnes looked at her husband coldly and bitterly and hated every inch of him. Every movement, every silly little action he made, every little allusion about his having to get down to the office, and all ready to take off and do his playacting somewhere else. Did he think she was a fool? Did he think he could handle her that easy? All right, go, she thought, and drop dead as you go. And it was then that she made up her mind.

  Frank put his hand on her shoulder, smiling. But there was steel in his eyes, too, Agnes thought looking into them. A curious kind of steel. That you could bend, and beat, and hammer, but that you could never break.

  “You’ll be all right in a little bit,” he said tenderly. “You’ll get over this. I’ll be back as soon as I can. And tonight we’ll celebrate. Celebrate our love,” he said softly. He still didn’t think she would do it. Confidently, smiling, he looked at his watch; and as she stood immobile, kissed her on the cheek and hurried out. He thought she couldn’t give up the money. Well, she could give up the damned money; as far as that went she could take damn near all of it away from him, if she wanted to; the law was on her side. But she didn’t want to. If she took anything, it would be only what she had given him, the price of her father’s store. She could give it up, even if he couldn’t give up the girl. Well, let him have the girl. Once she had made up her mind, Agnes acted swiftly. She went out in the back and got young Walter—who was sitting in his sand-dirt box, looking at his road equipment.