“I kept telling him how I hate’ golf pros and that I was going to make him suffer. The banter made it easier for both of us, but Laurie suffered and you better believe it. I made up my mind to play it cool and conservative—even when X-rays seemed to show that the hole had closed. I kept him on nothing by mouth for six weeks.”
“That’s awful,” Mary proclaimed.
“I know. Finally, two months after he’d ruptured his esophagus I closed the jejunostomy—where we’d fed him—and sent him home. His chest X-ray still looked lousy, but he was feeling better and gaining weight. He got along well until about February—six months after it all started—and then he developed empyema in his left chest.”
“What’s that?”
“Pus, baby. It was an unholy mess and it meant three more months in the hospital and three more operations, the last of which was taking out his left lower lobe. He’s had minor trouble since, but he’s okay. Maybe his golf game has suffered a little. I don’t know about that.”
“Get back to Ramsey,” ordered Mrs. Pierce, after Hawkeye had mixed two new drinks.
“Well, I remembered what Bette Bang-Bang told me about Ramsey and married women, so I called her in consultation. She was reluctant to cooperate but there are certain legal irregularities in her business, which I pointed out, so she came through. She didn’t know just which marriages Ramsey was tapping into, but she knew her customers, one of whom was Joe Harkness, that shylock from the Mutual Trust who’s on the board of directors of the hospital.”
“Oh,” said Mary. “I knew his wife Beth in college. A nice girl.”
“Ramsey Coffin agreed with you. I arranged for the next dose of clap in Bette’s organization to go untreated until it had been handed onto Joe Harkness. Before he knew he had it, he’d given it to Beth who anointed Ramsey who then passed the baton to Ruth Cox and so on. Pretty soon we had the greatest venereal ring-around-the-rosy you’ve ever seen.”
“God, you’re awful,” commented Mrs. Pierce.
“I know,” Hawkeye agreed happily. “Pretty soon Doggy Moore was treating half a dozen nonclap type females for clap, and he was getting awful curious. Duke and I were treating the husbands, most of whom had guilty consciences. If they didn’t, we told them that they had a nonvenereal infection. So only the wives had to go for help to Doggy.
“You know that Doggy’s a real bulldog. The second time Ruth Cox came in with a dose he pinned her right to the wall and refused to treat her until she told him where she got it. Ruth was scared and told him.
For the next two or three months Doggy asked every nonclap female if she’d been to bed with Ramsey Coffin and they all admitted it.”
“What did he do?”
“When he put it all together he blew the whistle, and that was the end of Ramsey Coffin in Spruce Harbor. Eight outraged husbands gave Ramsey the word.”
“You actually enjoyed yourself. That bothers me,” said Mary.
“I gotta admit I did. We couldn’t keep score with perfect accuracy, but the way we had it going we could figure pretty closely when Ramsey would diagnose his own illness. Every time he got a new dose Duke had Little Eva tail him for a couple of days. I think this tore it for Ramsey. That bloodhound was getting to him. Duke has claimed ever since that Little Eva is the only dog in the world that can diagnose the clap. Ramsey left town, I’m sure, hating all bloodhounds.”
“Truly a moving tale,” Mary said. “There’s someone at the door. I think Laurie and Bertha are here.”
The meeting of the Pierces and the Kirkaldys was a touch strained at first, but Mary and Bertha had common interests in teaching and Hawkeye and Laurie had a common interest in Scotch whisky and lauding each other’s virtues. So the evening ended sentimentally and convivially with a golf game planned for the morning. It was 11:30 P.M. when the door of the motel room opened, shedding light on a Pontiac from Saskatchewan. Out came Laurie Kirkaldy and Hawkeye followed by their wives. Laurie and Hawkeye were half in the bag and hugging each other and weeping a little as half-in-baggers are inclined to do.
“You’d better drive, Bertha,” Hawkeye advised
Mrs. Kirkaldy, the still pretty middle-aged school-teacher he’d spent so much time consoling two years earlier, “and don’t let him stop at any streams. He’d likely drown.”
At the Dalhousie Country Club at 9 A.M. the next morning, there was a degree of dishonesty. Hawkeye, who’d whittled his handicap down to five in 1958, had played little and poorly in 1959, and had a card from Wawenock Harbor attesting to a ten handicap. For a week prior to this Canadian trip, however, he had practiced as though he had been invited to the Crosby, and was hitting the ball very well. Laurie Kirkaldy, on the first tee, lamented that ever since his extensive surgery with multiple incisions and loss of half a lung, his swing had been impaired and that he, himself, suffered the indignity of a five handicap.
“Look, you Scotch thief,” said Hawkeye. “I got you right where I want you. The bartender at the Golden View is a ten and you give him six blows. That’s what I want and that’s what I’m going to get.”
“Och, mon!” protested Laurie. “The bartender is Bertha’s cousin and it’s in the family and he has five kids. It’s an act of charity.”
“Six blows, Laurie, or I continue my trip to the Gaspé Peninsula right here and now.”
“I suppose I owe you for saving my life,” said Laurie unhappily. “Six it is.”
Hawkeye Pierce, not really a good golfer, particularly on a strange course, had one of his best days. He shot seventy-six. Laurie Kirkaldy shot sixty-seven and won fifteen dollars from Hawkeye.
While Laurie, Mary and Bertha found a table in the dining room, Hawkeye went to the pro shop, realizing that he should have done this before, not after the match.
“What’s Kirkaldy’s handicap?” he asked the pro.
“Laurie? Oh, sir, he plays at scratch and he’s often under par. I hope you get strokes from him, sir.”
“I got six strokes, shot seventy-six, and lost,” said Hawkeye.
“What a shame,” observed the pro.
Returning to lunch, Hawkeye told Mary: “Lunch and drinks are on this Scotch thief. Order the most expensive thing on the menu.”
Laurie Kirkaldy chuckled. “Eat, Hawkeye, and enjoy it,” be said. “You’ll never know what a delight it is until you’ve been denied the privilege.”
11
TEDIUM Cove Wharf was quiet. Seagulls cried in the background. A lobster boat idled, unloading the morning catch.
July fifth was a sunny morning with little wind. A lobsterman leaned against the wharf railing, smoking, looking across the harbor. He appeared to be lost in deep thought. Actually, he was just lost.
A large young man, in his late twenties or early thirties, wearing Bermuda shorts, walked with the bouncy stride of either a birdwatcher or an associate professor of sociology. He approached the lobsterman and said: “Good morning, sir. Isn’t this a fine morning?”
“Ayuh. Finestkind.”
“Are you a lobsterman?”
“How’s the fishing these days?”
“Wouldn’t das’t say.”
“But aren’t you a fisherman?”
“Give it up. Just go lobsterin’.”
“I see. My name is Jim Russell. I’m in the sociology department at the University of Maine. I’m making a study of people in the lobster and fishing industry.”
“You be?”
“Ahuh—I mean, yes, sir, I am.”
“You know Zeke Simmons’s boy?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t. Does he go to the University?”
“Claims to.”
“What’s he studying?”
“He ain’t.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t neither. He ain’t learnt nawthin’ cept how to jerk bulls.”
“I’m afraid I still don’t understand.”
“Gawd, boy, I don’t neither. He be interferin’ with nature.”
“Oh, now
I get it. He must be in the agricultural course, learning about artificial insemination.”
“Ayuh. By Gawd, Zeke says they don’t none of them Spanish bullfighters hold a candle to this boy.
Tain’t nawthin’ to wave a blanket at some bull and stab him with one of them swords compared to——“
“Really, sir, I don’t believe this is done in quite the way you imagine.”
“It ain’t? Gawd, boy, I dunno. Zeke says some bull knocked his boy toes up. He failed the test.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean by ‘toes up.’”
“Jeezly bull knocked him ahss over teakettle. They hauled him off toes up. By Gawd, I guess that bull musta thought Zeke’s boy was some queeah. Wish’t I coulda seen it.”
“I’m sure it would have been very interesting. By the way, sir, may I ask your name?”
“Ben Simmons.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to know you, Mr. Simmons.”
“I shouldn’t wondah.”
“I would be pleased if you’d be willing to tell me a little about yourself, your life here in Tedium Cove, your family and so forth.”
“You figure to settle heah, boy?”
“No, sir, I’d just like to ask some questions. Do you mind?”
“Dunno till I hear the questions.”
“Could we sit down somewhere and be comfortable?”
“You got any beah?”
“No, but I’ll get some, if you’ll tell me where I can buy it.”
“You can git some off’n George.”
“Where can I find George?”
“To the stowah, right over theah. Better git a six-pack.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be right back.”
Ten minutes later James Russell, Associate Professor of Sociology, returned to find Ben Simmons just where he had left him.
“Well, now, Mr. Simmons, here’s a nice cool one.
Open it up and let’s get down to business. Do you mind if I take a few notes?”
“Gawd, ain’t that some good! You got another one handy?”
“Oh, certainly, Mr. Simmons. My, but you drank that quickly.”
“Gawd, boy, I don’t drink the fust one. I just kinda pour her into me.”
“How old are you, Mr. Simmons?”
“I wouldn’t dast say.”
“You mean you don’t even know your age? How can this be?”
“I dunno.”
“Well, don’t you know your birthday?”
“Course I do. April 21.”
“Well, in what year were you born?”
“Dunno. Never give it no thought. It was backalong.”
“Well, don’t you have any idea? I’d say you might be about forty-five years old.”
“I shouldn’t wondah.”
“Tell me about your family, Mr. Simmons. Do you have children?”
“Ahuh.”
“How many?”
“Wouldn’t dast say.”
“Mr. Simmons, I’ve interviewed a lot of people. I don’t believe I’ve ever found’ anyone quite as secretive as you. You seem to evade a direct answer even to the simplest questions. I’ll bet you wouldn’t even give me the right time.
“I said I bet you wouldn’t even give me the right time.”
“How in hell you know? You ain’t asked.”
“Okay, I’ll ask. What time is it?”
“Dunno.”
“Why not, Mr. Simmons? I see a watch on your wrist.”
“Tain’t set right. She gains and I ain’t set her for goin’ on a week. She gains maybe a minute most every day.”
“What’s your watch say now?”
“’Bout twenty-two minute past ten.”
“Then it’s safe to say that the time is approximately ten fifteen.”
“Shouldn’t wondah. Wouldn’t dast say fuh showah. Why? Be you in a hurry to git somewheah?”
“No, certainly not, Mr. Simmons. Let’s get back to your children. How can you say you don’t know how many you have?”
“Gawd, boy, you can’t believe nawthin’ around heah. How in hell would I know how many I got? I got ten to home, then there’s three away and there’s some I got credit for but a feller can’t tell bout them things.”
“What do you mean by away,’ Mr. Simmons? Do you have three children who’ve moved away from Tedium Cove?”
“Gawd, no. They live in the Cove, right to home. One of them belongs to a widder woman who was sufferin’ some awful and Jess Simmons’s two kids is mine. less ain’t no good, so I helped him out.”
“How’s less feel about this?”
“Dunno. I ain’t never asked him.”
“Does he know that you are the father of his children?”
“Gawd, ain’t you some curious?”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Simmons. Can you tell me about your wife?”
“Ahuh. Which one?”
“You mean you have more than one?”
“Gawd, boy, you take me for a jeezly Mormon? Cuss I ain’t. My fust one left me.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you mind talking about it?”
“Damn fool woman fell overboard off’n Wreck Island whilst we was a haulin’ traps. Twas one of them Doggy days. I never see hide nor hair of her agin.”
“Did she drown?”
“More’n likely.”
“Well, didn’t you recover the body?”
“Coast Guard found her in sixteen foot of water off’n Dutch Neck. They was ten lobsters muckled onto her. They called and asked my instructions. ‘Git them lobsters off’n her and set her agin,’ I says.”
Ben liked to embellish this story and see how the summer complaints reacted but Mr. Russell, overcome by the enormity of it, or something, simply said, “I’m very sorry, Mr. Simmons. When did you remarry?”
“Oh, not for a while. I musta held off three or four month.”
“I see. How many children did you have by your first wife?”
“I should imagine five or six.”
“Really, Mr. Simmons. Oh, well, never mind. So you’ve had, then, four or five by your second wife?”
“Gawd, no. She only had two after we was married, but she claims the ones she come with was mine.”
“Mr. Simmons, I get the idea that marriage is a rather flexible arrangement in this community.”
“Gawd, boy, a feller got to have a little on the side. How ’bout another one of them beah?”
“Oh, of course. Tell me, Mr. Simmons, how many lobster traps do you have?”
“I wouldn’t dast say.”
“Oh, for Chrissake. I mean, can you give me some idea?”
“I got either one hundred and ninety or one hundred ninety-one, that I can find.”
A colleague, John Simmons, entered the scene. “Hi, Ben. How be yuh?”
“Finestkind.”
“Hey, Ben, I hear you been gittin’ something more’n food off’n that new cook over to the Inn.”
“Feller can hear most anythin’ if’n he listens.”
“I hear she’s a mite smooth on the tooth but right stemmy.”
“I wouldn’t dast say, John.”
“Do any good this mornin’, Ben?”
“Got enough to pay my gas. Didn’t need no moah. Feller from the college to Orono bought me a six-pack.
That’ll get me through the mornin’. John, this here’s Mr. Russell.”
“How do you do, John. I assume your last name is Simmons.”
“Gawd, you college fellers is some smart. How’d you ever know that?”
“It was an educated guess.”
“Well, I be goddamned. You stayin’ to the Inn, Mr. Russell?”
“Ayuh—I mean, yes, I am. A very nice place. The rooms are pleasant and the food is delicious.”
“Ayuh. They got a finestkind cook, or so I heah.
You seen her?”
“Yes, I have. I’ve had several pleasant conversalions with her.”
“Gawd, boy, if’n you get a chance, I wi
sh’t you’d put in a good word for me. You kin tell her Ben Simmons don’t hold no candle to the likes of John Simmons.”
“John, tain’t candles she likes,” offered Ben Simmons.
“Well, gentlemen, I really don’t think our cook would care to have me intercede, one way or another, in her off-duty time. I’m sure that between the two of you she’ll be well taken care of.”
“Ayuh!” (Ben Simmons)
“Ayuh.” (John Simmons)
“So long, Ben. So long. Mr. Russell. I gotta take my woman to the hospitaL She’s due to calve most anytime now.”
“Well, Ben, perhaps we could get on with our discussion.”
“If’n you’ve a mind to. I better have another one of them beah afore she cools off.”
“Of course, Ben. Can you tell me something about the religious life of your community?”
“Professor, you come direct to the right feller.”
“You mean you can tell me about the Tedium Cove Church? Frankly, I’m surprised.”
“Well now, don’t misunderstand me, boy. I’m a lot better acquainted to the parsonage than I be to the church. They only got church one day a week, but the Reverend’s got a young missus who spreads the gospel seven day a week while the Reverend, he goes to visit sick folks and others. By Gawd, religion has come on strong since them two come.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“The Reverend Titcomb and his missus is both of them hornier than a three-ball tomcat. Religion done took right aholt in Tedium Cove.”
“What denomination are they?”
“They’s Rollers. By Gawd, they beat hell out of them Baptists we had afore. Swimmin’ ain’t never goin’ to catch on around heah.”
“I see, I think. You mean the minister’s wife actually—”
“Oh, Gawd, boy, finestkind.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“It’s some good, too.”
A small cabin cruiser pushed by a big Mercury outboard approached the wharf. Hawkeye Pierce jumped from the bow, rope in hand, tied up, and hoped to negotiate with the natives for gasoline.
M*A*S*H Goes To Maine Page 13
