Appointment in Samarra

by John O'Hara

  This had been done by Dr. William D. English, chief of staff, Gibbsville Hospital, and also father of deceased, the first physician called after the body was discovered.

  The body had been discovered by Herbert G. Harley, next-door neighbor of deceased. Mr. Harley was an electrical engineer, employed by the Midas Washeries Company, operators of the Midas, Black Run, Horse Cave and Sadim washeries. Mr. Harley was at home reading, the night of the death of Mr. English. Mrs. Harley had gone to bed early, being exhausted as it was the day after Christmas and with children in the house, the day after Christmas you know how it is. Well, so Mr. Harley was reading a book called N by E, by Rockwell Kent. He happened to remember that because he had met Mr. Kent once while on a visit to New York; he had met him at the Princeton Club. And that was how he happened to remember the name of the book. He was reading it, or rather to be exact studying the pictures in it, when he heard the car start in Mr. English’s garage. The time, he should judge, as nearly as he could place it, was roughly about ten-thirty. In the evening. Ten-thirty P.M. He thought nothing of it at the time, as he and Mr. English came and went and while they were always very friendly and polite in a neighborly way, they never were what you would call good friends, as Mr. English traveled with, well, a different crowd from the one Mr. Harley traveled with. He had known Mr. English about four years and saw him on the average about once a day usually.

  Well, so he went on reading the book and then for some reason that he couldn’t explain, he got some sort of a premonition. It wasn’t a premonition exactly, but more like the feeling you get when you know someone is in the room even before you see the person. That was the feeling he got, and Mr. Harley wanted to be sure to make it clear that he did not believe in spiritualism or anything like that, as he had a scientific education and he did not believe in that kind of bunk. It was all right for some people; they could believe what they liked. But Mr. Harley did not hold with that school of thought, and to prove it, he had an explanation, what might be called a scientific explanation, of why he had that feeling. The explanation was this: he had been sitting there perhaps a half an hour, and something inside him told him something was wrong. In a minute he understood what it was; it was the motor running.

  All that time the motor had been running in Mr. English’s car. You could feel the low vibration of it, hear the distant sound of it. Not loud, the sounds weren’t; and the vibrations weren’t strong. But out where they had their home you get so you know every little sound, and it was very unusual for a motor to be running that length of time. Mr. Harley debated with himself and finally decided to go take a look and see what was what. He thought perhaps Mr. English was having trouble with his car, and he was going to volunteer his assistance.

  Well, the moment he stepped out on his front porch he knew there was something amiss. The motor was running, but the garage was dark. He got closer to the garage and he looked in a window—the one in the west wall of the garage—and all he could see was the car. The dash lights were the only lights in the whole garage that were burning. He thought it best to go tell Mr. English that he had left his motor running and to warn him against staying in the garage any length of time. Mr. Harley of course knew the danger of carbon monoxide and had known one or two cases of carbon monoxide poisoning in his engineering experience. He went up and rang the bell of the English home, then he opened the door and called out, but there was no answer from anyone. Then he ran as fast as he could back to the garage. He opened the big door and the windows so as to create a draft, and then he opened the front door of the car, and there was Mr. English.

  He was lying sort of slumped down on the seat, half of his body almost off the seat. Mr. Harley had a little trouble, as Mr. English was not a small man, but finally he got him and carried him, fireman-fashion, out of the garage and laid him down on the drive-way. He felt Mr. English’s heart and there were no beats, and he felt his pulse, and there was no pulse. He tried giving him artificial respiration, because he knew the value of artificial respiration in such cases, and he yelled as loud as he could to his wife, and when Mrs. Harley stuck her head out the bedroom window he told her to call Dr. English.

  He continued giving artificial respiration until Dr. English came, but Dr. English examined his son and pronounced him dead. They carried the body inside the house and then Dr. English thanked Mr. Harley and Mr. Harley went back to quiet Mrs. Harley, who by that time was almost out of her wits, with not knowing what it was all about.

  As nearly as Mr. Harley recalled, Mr. English was attired in dark gray trousers, white shirt without a tie, black shoes. There was a strong odor of whiskey about his person. His eyes were open and his face was pinkish, or, rather, pallid with a pinkish tinge. Mr. Harley asked permission to add that in his opinion, judging by the position of the body and what he knew about such cases, Mr. English may have wanted to commit suicide when he first got in the car, but that he had changed his mind just before becoming unconscious, but had not had the strength to get out of the car.

  Well, that did not alter the main fact, in the opinion of Dr. Moskowitz. All they had to go on proved pretty conclusively that deceased had taken his own life, no matter what else might have been in his mind. The jury returned a verdict to that effect.

  Dr. English thought it best not to try to influence the verdict of the jury. In this case let the little kike quack Moskowitz have his revenge, which Dr. English knew Moskowitz was doing. Dr. English knew Moskowitz loved every bit of testimony that pointed toward suicide, for it gave Moskowitz a chance he had wanted ever since the time Dr. English had given a dinner to the County Medical Society and failed to invite Moskowitz. Dr. English thought he had good reason: the dinner was at the country club, and Jews were not admitted to the club, so Dr. English could not see why he should violate the spirit of the club rule by having a Jew there as his guest. Anyway he despised Moskowitz because Moskowitz once had said to him: “But, my dear Doctor, surely you know the oath of Hippocrates is a lot of crap. I’ll bet your own wife uses a pessary. Or did. Mine always has, and still does.”…Let Moskowitz have his revenge; Dr. English would have something to say hereafter about the deputy coronerships. Without that Moskowitz could not live.

  Dr. English thought of himself as crushed by Julian’s death. He knew people would understand that; crushed. His wife, on the other hand, was a little silly, bewildered. She cried, but he did not think he heard pain in her cry. He thought he might expect a nervous breakdown when the enormity of her grief touched her, and he began immediately to plan something, say a Mediterranean cruise, which they could take together as soon as Julian’s affairs were settled. Julian had been dead only twelve hours when the thought first entered the doctor’s head, but it was well to have something ahead to look forward to when a sad loss crushed you. He would recommend the same thing to Mrs. Walker, and at least offer to pay Caroline’s share of the trip. Not that Mrs. Walker needed it or would accept it, but he would make the offer.

  Dr. English was not afraid of what he knew people were saying—people with long memories. He knew they were recalling the death of Julian’s grandfather. But inevitably they would see how the suicide strain had skipped one generation to come out in the next. So long as they saw that it was all right. You had to expect things.

  * * *

  It was a lively, jesting grief, sprightly and pricking and laughing, to make you shudder and shiver up to the point of giving way completely. Then it would become a long black tunnel; a tunnel you had to go through, had to go through, had to go through, had to go through, had to go through. No whistle. But had to go through, had to go through, had to go through. Whistle? Had to go through, had to go through, had to go through, had to go through. No whistle? Had to go through, had to go through, had to go through.

  “Caroline dear, please take this. Sleep will do you good,” her mother said.

  “Mother darling, I’m perfectly all right. I don’t want anything to make me sleep. I’ll sleep tonight.”

  “But
Dr. English gave me this to give to you, and I think you ought to get some sleep. You haven’t slept a wink since one o’clock this morning.”

  “Yes, I did. I slept a little.”

  “No, you didn’t. Not a real sleep.”

  “But I don’t want to sleep now. Specially.”

  “Oh, dear, what am I going to do with you?” said Mrs. Walker.

  “Poor Mother,” said Caroline, and she held out her arms to her mother. She was sorry for her mother, who had no great grief in this, but only sadness that was stirred by her own grief. She was just sort of on-call, ready to supply sadness which made her eligible actively to share Caroline’s grief.

  She tried, that first day, not to think about Julian but what on earth else was there to think about? She would think back to the early morning, when her mother came in her old room and told her Julian’s father was downstairs and wanted to see her. Sometimes when she thought about it she would say, “I knew it right away. I got it immediately,” but again she would be honest and accuse herself, for she had not got it right away. That there was something wrong she knew, but the truth was she was on the verge of refusing to go downstairs. She knew it concerned Julian, and she did not want to hear more of him, but her intelligence and not her instinct pointed out to her lying in her warm, sweet bed that Julian’s father was the last man in the world to wake you up at that hour of the night—one o’clock in the morning, almost—without some good reason. He said he had terrible news for her—and it was just like prefacing a story with “this is the funniest thing you ever heard,” or “this will kill you.” Nothing Dr. English could say could come up to his prefatory words. But he was a considerate man; he told it all at once and did not wait to be asked questions. “Mr. Harley found Julian lying in the car, in the garage, and he was dead then, although Mr. Harley didn’t know it at the time. He died of carbon monoxide, a poison gas that comes out of a car. The motor was running.” Then, after a pause. “Caroline, it looks like suicide. You didn’t get any note or anything like that, did you?”

  “God, no! Don’t you suppose I’d be up there now if I did?”

  “I didn’t mean to imply anything,” said the doctor. “I just wanted to be sure. The coroner will ask things like that. I don’t see how we can avoid a verdict of suicide, but I’ll try. I’ll see what I can do.” He had the sound of a politician who doesn’t want to admit that he can’t get a new post office.

  “Why should you want to? Of course he killed himself,” said Caroline.

  “Caroline, dear!” said her mother. “You ought not to say that till you’re sure. That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  “Why is it? Why the hell is it? Who said so? God damn all of you! If he wanted to kill himself whose business is it but his own?”

  “She’s hysterical,” said her mother. “Darling—”

  “Ah, go away. You did it. You, you don’t like him. You did, too, you pompous old man.”

  “Oh, Caroline, how can you say things like that?”

  “Where is he? Come on, where is he? Where’d you take him. Do you know he’s dead? How do you know? I don’t think you even know when a man is dead.”

  “He’s my son, Caroline. Remember that please. My only son.”

  “Yaah. Your only son. Well, he never liked you. I guess you know that, don’t you? So high and mighty and nasty to him when we went to your house for Christmas. Don’t think he didn’t notice it. You made him do it, not me.”

  “I think I’ll go, Ella. If you want me you can get me at home.”

  “All right, Will,” said Mrs. Walker.

  “Why did you call Mother first? Why didn’t you tell me first?”

  “Now, dear. Good night, Will. I won’t go to the door.”

  “Aren’t you going to take me to him? What’s the matter? Is he burnt up or mangled or what?”

  “Oh, please, darling,” said Mrs. Walker. “Will, do you think—for a minute?”

  “Yes, I guess so. I just thought it’d be bad for her while the news is fresh.”

  “Well, then, if you really want to see him tonight, dear,” said Mrs. Walker.

  “Oh, God. I just remembered. I can’t. I promised him I wouldn’t,” said Caroline.

  “You promised him! What is this? What are you talking about? You knew he was going to kill himself!” Now the doctor was angry.

  “No, no, no. Don’t get excited. Keep your shirt on, you old—” In her mouth was one of Julian’s favorite words, but she had shocked her mother enough. She turned to her mother. “We both made a promise when we were married, we promised each other we’d never look if one of us died before the other. If he died first I—oh, you know.” She began to weep. “Go away, Doctor. I don’t want to see you. Mother.”

  They stayed there a long time, Caroline and her mother. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” Mrs. Walker kept saying, and she kept herself from weeping by thinking of the sounds that Caroline made. It was strange and almost new to hear Caroline crying—the same shudders and catches of breath, but in a firmer voice. That made it new, the firmer voice, the woman part. The little girl in woman’s clothes, who never could put on girl’s clothes again. What was it Pope said? Was it Pope? This dear, fine girl. A thing like this to happen to her. It was as though Julian had not existed. Only Caroline existed now, in pain and anguish. Poor girl. Her feet must be cold. They went upstairs together after a while, the mother prepared for a long vigil; but she was not used to vigils any more, and sleep won.

  All night Caroline did not sleep, until long after daylight she lay awake, hearing the heartless sounds of people going to work and going on with their lives regardless. The funny thing was, it was a nice day. Quite a nice day. That was what made her tired, and in the morning she did sleep, until near noon. She got awake and had a bath and some tea and toast and a cigarette. She felt a little better before she remembered that there was a day ahead of her—no matter how much of it had been slept through. She wanted to go to Julian, but that was just it. Julian was more in this room, more in the street where he had walked so angrily from her car yesterday, much much more in the room downstairs where once upon a time she had become his girl—than what was lying wherever he was lying was Julian. She looked out the window, down at the street, not one bit expecting to see that he had left footprints in the street. But if the footprints had been there she would not have been surprised. The street sounded as though it would send up the sound of his heels. He always had little metal v’s put in his heels, and she never would hear that sound again, that collegiate sound, without—well, she would hear it without crying, but she would always want to cry. For the rest of her life, which seemed a long time no matter if she died in an hour, she would always be ready to cry for Julian. Not for him. He was all right now; but because of him, because he had left her, and she would not hear the sound of the little metal v’s on a hardwood floor again, nor smell him, the smell of clean white shirts and cigarettes and sometimes whiskey. They would say he was drunk, but he wasn’t drunk. Yes he was. He was drunk, but he was Julian, drunk or not, and that was more than anyone else was. That was what everyone else was not. He was like someone who had died in the war, some young officer in an overseas cap and a Sam Browne belt and one of those tunics that button up to the neck but you can’t see the buttons, and an aviator’s wings on the breast where the pocket ought to be, and polished high lace boots with a little mud on the soles, and a cigarette in one hand and his arm around an American in a French uniform. For her Julian had that gallantry that had nothing to do with fighting but was attitude and manner; a gesture with a cigarette in his hand, his whistling, his humming while he played solitaire or swung a golf club back and forth and back and forth; slapping her behind a little too hard and saying, “Why, Mrs. English, it is you,” but all the same knowing he had hit too hard and a little afraid she would be angry. Oh, that was it. She never could be angry with him again. That took it out of her, that made him dead. Already she had begun the habit of reasoning with him
: “But why did you do it? Why did you leave me? Everything would have been all right if you’d waited. I’d have come back this afternoon.” But this time she knew she would not have come back this afternoon, and he had known it, and God help us all but he was right. It was time for him to die. There was nothing for him to do today, there was nothing for him to do today…. There, that was settled. Now let the whole thing begin again.

  “Kitty Hofman’s downstairs,” said her mother. “Do you want to see her?”

  “No, but I will,” said Caroline.

  * * *

  It was the news room of the Gibbsville Standard. “Don’t forget, everybody, it’s Saturday. We have early closing. First edition goes over at one-ten, so don’t go to lunch.” Sam Dougherty, the city editor of the Standard, had been saying that every Saturday for more than twenty years. It was as much a part of him as his eye-shade and his corncob pipe and his hemorrhoids. As city editor he also had to read copy and write the Page One headlines. “Say, Alice,” he said, putting down his pencil and interrupting his reading of a story.

  “What?” she said.

  “What do you hear on this English suicide? Any of your people have anything to say on it?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Did you ask anybody about it?” he said.

  “No,” she said. Then: “I heard the boss tell you to play down the story.”

  He shook his head. “See?” he said. “That’s your trouble, Alice. A good reporter knows ten times as much as he ever prints. That’s the kind of stuff you ought to know. Off the record stuff. The angles, girl. The angles. You oughta always get the angles of every big story, even when you can’t print it. You never know when it’s going to come in handy, see what I mean?”

  * * *

  Harry Reilly went to his hotel to wash up a bit before meeting a man for lunch. There was a message for him, and when he got upstairs he put in a call for Mrs. Gorman at Gibbsville one one one eight, Gibbsville, Pennsylvania.