by James Jones
“No. You wouldn’t like them. Let the bastards sit. I just wanted to talk to you, Sandy.” George looked vaguely around the gayness of the kitchen with its red and white checkered motif. “Jesus, I love this place. We done a good job on it, Sandy, you know it? I used to think about it a lot. I still do.”
But the woman was already at the kitchen door and she did not hear. “Hey out there!” she called. “Come on in and have a drink.”
There was a murmur of words from the car she could not understand and she opened the screen door and went outside to the car in the steaming cold winter night. A man and woman were in the front seat, the man behind the wheel. Another woman was in the back seat by herself. She was smoothing her skirt.
Sandy put her head up to the car window. “George is drunk,” she said. “Why don’t you go on home and leave him here and let me take care of him?”
“No,” the man said.
“He’s been here before.”
“No,” the man said sharply. “He’s with us.”
Sandy put her hand on the door handle. “He shouldn’t be drinking,” she said. “In his condition.”
The man laughed. “Liquor never bothers me,” he said.
“Poor George. I feel so sorry for him I could cry.”
“No, you couldn’t,” the man said contemptuously. “I know you. Besides, it ain’t your sympathy he wants.” He thumped the thigh of his left leg with his fist. It made a sound like a gloved fist striking a heavy-bag. “I pawned one myself,” he said.
Sandy moved as if he had struck her. She stepped back, putting her hand to her mouth, then turned back toward the house.
George was standing in the door. “Tom’s a old buddy of mine,” he grinned. “He was in the hospital with me for ten months out in Utah.” He opened the screen.
Sandy stepped inside with slumped shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell me? I said something terrible. Please tell him to come in, George, he won’t come now unless you tell him.”
“No. Let them sit. We got a couple of pigs from Greencastle with us.” He grinned down at her belligerently through the dark circles and loose lips of an extended bat.
“Ask them all in, for a drink. I’m no Carrie Nation, George. Tell them to come in. Please, George. Tell them.”
“All right. By god I will. I wasn’t going to, but I will. I just wanted to see you, Sandy.”
“Why don’t you stay here tonight, George?” Sandy said. “Let them go and I’ll put you to bed.”
George searched her face incredulously. “You really want me to stay?”
“Yes. You need to sober up, George.”
“Oh.” George laughed suddenly. “Liquor never bothers me. No sir by god. I ain’t runnin out on Tom. Tom’s my buddy.” He stepped back to the door. “Hey, you bastardsl” he bellered. “You comin in here an have a drink? or I got to come out and drag you in?” Sandy stood behind him, watching him, the big bulk of shoulder, the hair growing softly on the back of his neck.
There was a laugh from the car and the door slammed. The tall curly-haired Tom came in, swinging his left side in a peculiar rhythm. After him came the two women, one tall and blonde, the other short and dark. They both smiled shyly as they entered. They both were young.
“Oh,” said the short one. “This is pretty.”
“Its awful pretty,” the blonde one said, looking around.
“You goddam right its pretty,” George said belligerently. “And its built for utility. Look at them cupboards.”
George introduced the girls by their first names, like a barker in a sideshow naming the attractions.
“An this heres Tom Hornney,” he said, “and when I say Hornney, I mean Hornney.” George laughed and Tom grinned and the two girls tittered nervously.
“I want you all to meet Miss Sandy Thomas,” George said, as if daring them.
“Sure,” Tom said. “I know all about you. I use to read your letters out in Utah.”
George looked at Sandy sheepishly. “A man gets so he can’t believe it himself. He gets so he’s got to show it to somebody. That’s the way it is in the Army.”
Sandy smiled at him stiffly, her eyes seeming not to see. “How do you want your drinks? Soda or Coke?”
“They want Coke with theirs,” Tom pointed to the girls. “They don’t know how to drink.”
“This is really a beautiful place,” the blonde one said.
“Oh my yes,” the short one said. “I wish I ever had a place like this here.”
Sandy looked up from the drinks and smiled, warmly. “Thank you.”
“I really love your place,” the blonde one said. “Where did you get those funny spotted glasses? I seen some like them in a Woolworth’s once.”
George, laughing over something with Tom, turned to the blonde one. “Shut up, for god sake. You talk too much. You’re supposed to be seen.”
“Or felt,” Tom said.
“I was only being polite,” the blonde one said.
“Well, don’t,” George said. “You don’t know how.”
“Well,” said the blonde one. “I like that.”
“Those are antiques, dear,” Sandy said to her. “I bought them off an old woman down in the country. Woolworth has reproductions of them now.”
“You mean them are genuine antiques?” the short one said.
Sandy nodded, handing around the drinks.
“For god sake, shut up,” George said. “Them’s genuine antiques and they cost ten bucks apiece, so shut up. Talk about something interesting.”
The short one made a little face at George. She turned to Sandy and whispered delicately.
“Surely,” Sandy said. “I’ll show you.”
“See what I mean?” Tom laughed. “I said they couldn’t hold their liquor.”
Sandy led the girls out of the kitchen. From the next room their voices came back, exclaiming delicately over the furnishings.
“How long were you in the Army?” Sandy asked when they came back.
“Five years,” Tom said, grinning and shaking his curly head. “My first wife left me three months after I got drafted.”
“Oh?” Sandy said.
“Yeah. I guess she couldn’t take the idea of not getting any for so long. It looked like a long war.”
“War is hard on the women too,” Sandy said.
“Sure,” Tom said. “I don’t see how they stand it. I’m glad I was a man in this war.”
“Take it easy,” George growled.
Tom grinned at him and turned back to Sandy. “I been married four times in five years. My last wife left me day before yesterday. She told me she was leaving and I said, Okay, baby. That’s fine. Only remember there won’t be nobody here when you come back. If I wanted, I could call her up right now and tell her and she’d start back tonight.”
“Why don’t you?” Sandy said. “I’ve got a phone.”
Tom laughed. “What the hell. I’m doin all right. Come here, baby,” he said to the blonde one, and patted his right leg. She came over, smiling, on his left side and started to sit on his lap.
“No,” Tom said. “Go around to the other side. You can’t sit on that one.”
The blonde one obeyed and walked around his chair. She sat down smiling on his right thigh and Tom put his arm clear around her waist. “I’m doin all right, baby, ain’t I? Who wants to get married?”
George was watching him, and now he laughed. “I been married myself,” he said, not looking at Sandy.
“Sure,” Tom grinned. “Don’t tell me. I was out in Utah when you got the rings back, remember? Ha!” he turned his liquor-bright eyes on Sandy. “It was just like Robert Taylor in the movies. He took them out in the snow and threw them away with a curse. Went right out the ward door and into the snowing night.
“One ring, engagement, platinum, two-carat diamond,” Tom said, as if giving the nomenclature of a new weapon. “One ring, wedding, platinum, diamond circlet—I told him he should of hocked them.”
; “No,” Sandy said. “He should have kept them, then he could have used them over and over, every other night.”
“I’ll say,” Tom said. “I’ll never forget the first time me and George went on pass in Salt Lake City. He sure could of used them then.”
“Aint you drinkin, Sandy?” George said.
“You know I don’t drink.”
“You used to. Some.”
“That was only on special occasions,” Sandy said, looking at him. “That was a long time ago. I’ve quit that now,” she said.
George looked away, at Tom, who had his hand up under the blonde one’s armpit, snuggled in. “Now this here’s a very fine thing,” Tom said, nodding at her. ‘She’s not persnickity like the broads in Salt Lake.”
“I didn’t really like it then,” Sandy said.
“I know,” George said.
“George picked him up a gal in a bar in Salt Lake that first night,” Tom said. “She looked a lot like you, honey,” he said to the blonde one. The blonde one tittered and put her hand beneath his ear.
“This gal,” Tom continued, “she thought George was wonderful; he was wearing his ribbons. She asked him all about the limp and how he got wounded. She thought he was the nuts till she found out what it was made him limp.” Tom paused to laugh.
“Then she got dressed and took off; we seen her later with a marine.” He looked at George and they both laughed. George went around the table and sat down beside the short one.
“You ought to have a drink with us, Sandy,” George said. “You’re the host.”
“I don’t feel much like being formal,” Sandy said.
Tom laughed. “Me neither.”
“Do you want something to eat?” Sandy asked him. “I might eat something.”
“Sure,” Tom said. “I’ll eat anything. I’m an old eater from way back. I really eat it. You got any cheese and crackers?”
Sandy went to one of the cupboards. “You fix another drink, George.”
“Thats it,” Tom said. “Eat and drink. There’s only one thing can turn my stommick,” he said to the blonde one. “You know what’s the only thing can turn my stommick?”
“Yes,” said the blonde one apprehensively, glancing at Sandy. “I know.”
“I’ll tell you the only thing can turn my stommick.”
“Now, honey,” the blonde one said.
George turned around from the bottles on the countertop, pausing dramatically like an orator.
“Same thing that can turn my stommick.”
He and Tom laughed uproariously, and he passed the drinks and sat down. The blonde one and the short one tittered and glanced nervously at Sandy.
Tom thumped George’s right leg with his fist and the sound it made was solid, heavy, the sound his own had made out in the car.
“You goddam old cripple, you.”
“Thats all right,” George said. “You can’t run so goddam fast yourself.”
“The hell I can’t.” Tom reached for his drink and misjudged it, spilling some on the tablecloth and on the blonde girl’s skirt.
“Now see what you did?” she said. “Damn it.”
Tom laughed. “Take it easy, baby. If you never get nothing worse than whisky spilled on your skirt, you’ll be all right. Whisky’ll wash out.”
George watched dully as the spot spread on the red and white checked tablecloth, then he lurched to his feet toward the sink where the dishrag always was.
Sandy pushed him back into his chair. “Its all right, George. I’ll change it tomorrow.”
George breathed heavily. “Watch yourself, you,” he said to Tom. “Goddam you, be careful.”
“What the hell. I dint do it on purpose.”
“That’s all right, just watch yourself.”
“Okay, Sergeant,” Tom said. “Okay, halfchick.”
George laughed suddenly, munching a slab of cheese between two crackers, spraying crumbs. “Don’t call me none of your family names.”
“We really use to have some times,” he said to Sandy. “You know what this crazy bastard use to do? After we got our leather, we use to stand out in the corridor and watch the guys with a leg off going down the hall on crutches. Tom would look at them and say to me, Pore feller. He’s lost a leg. And I’d say, Why thats turrible, aint it?”
Sandy was looking at him, watching him, her sandwich untouched in her hand. Under her gaze George’s eyebrows suddenly went up, bent in the middle.
“We use to go to town,” he said, grinning at her. “We really had some times. You ought to seen their faces when we’d go up to the room from the bar. You ought to see them when we’d take our pants off.” He laughed viciously. “One broad even fainted on me. They didn’t like it.” His gaze wavered, then fell to his drink. “I guess you can’t blame them though.”
“Why?” Sandy said. “Why did you do it, George?”
“Hell,” he said, looking up. “Why? Don’t you know why?”
Sandy shook her head slowly, her eyes unmoving on his face. “No,” she said. “I don’t know why. I guess I never will know why,” she said.
Tom was pinching the blonde one’s bottom. “That tickles mine,” he said. “You know what tickles mine?”
“No,” she said, “what?”
Tom whispered in her ear and she giggled and slapped him lightly.
“No,” George said. “I guess you won’t. You aint never been in the Army, have you?”
“No,” Sandy said, “I haven’t.”
“You ought to try it,” George said. “Fix us one more drink and we’ll be goin.”
“All right, George. But I wish you’d stay.”
George spread his hands and looked down at himself. “Why?” he said. “Me?”
“Yes,” Sandy said. “You really do need to sober up.”
“Oh,” George said. “Sober up. Liquor never bothers me. Listen, Sandy. I wanted to talk to you, Sandy.”
Under the red and white checked tablecloth George put his hand on Sandy’s bare knee below her skirt. His hand cupped it awkwardly, but softly, very softly.
“I’ll get your drink,” Sandy said, pushing back her chair. George watched her get up and go to the countertop where the bottles were.
“Come here, you,” George said to the short dark one. He jerked her toward him so roughly her head snapped back. He kissed her heavily, his left hand behind her head holding her neck rigid, his right hand on her upper arm, stroking heavily, pinching slightly.
Sandy set the drink in front of him. “Here’s your drink you wanted, George,” she said, still holding the tabled glass. “George, here’s your drink.”
“Okay,” George said. “Drink up, you all, and lets get out of this.”
The short one was rubbing her neck with her hand, her face twisted breathlessly. She smiled apologetically at Sandy. “You got a wonderful home here, Miss Thomas,” she said.
George lurched to his feet. “All right. All right. Outside.” He shooed them out the door, Tom grinning, his hand hidden under the blonde one’s arm. Then he stood in the doorway looking back.
“Well, so long. And thanks for the liquor.”
“All right, George. Why don’t you stop drinking, George?”
“Why?” George said. “You ask me why.”
“I hate to see you ruin yourself.”
George laughed. “Well now thanks. That sure is nice of you, Sandy girl. But liquor never bothers me.” He looked around the gayness of the kitchen. “Listen. I’m sorry about the tablecloth. Sorry. I shouldn’t of done it, I guess. I shouldn’t of come here with them.”
“No, George. You shouldn’t.”
“You know what I love about you, Sandy girl? You’re always so goddam stinking right.”
“I just do what I have to,” Sandy said.
“Sandy,” George said. “You don’t know what it was like, Sandy.”
“No,” she said. “I guess I don’t.”
“You goddam right you don’t. And you never will. You�
��ll never be …”
“I can’t help the way I’m made.”
“Yes? Well I can’t neither. The only thing for us to do is turn it over to the United Nations. Its their job, let them figure it out.”
Tom Hornney came back to the door. “Come on, for Christ sake. Are you comin or aint you?”
“Yes goddam it I’m comin. I’m comin and I’m goin.” George limped swingingly over to the countertop and grabbed a bottle.
Tom stepped inside the door. “Listen, lady,” he said. “What the hells a leg? The thing a man wants you dames will never give him. We’re just on a little vacation now. I got a trucking business in Terre Haute. Had it before the war. There’s good money in long-distance hauling, and me and George is goin to get our share. We got six trucks and three more spotted, and I know this racket, see? I know how to get the contracks, all the ways. An I got the pull. And me and George is full-time partners. What the hells a leg?”
George set down the bottle and came back, his right leg hitting the floor heavy and without resilience. “Tom and me is buddies, and right or wrong what we do we do together.”
“I think thats fine, George,” she said.
“Yeah? Well then, its all all right then, aint it?”
“Listen, lady,” Tom said. “Someday he’ll build another house’ll make this place look sick, see? To hell with the respectability if you got the money. So what the hells a leg?”
“Shut up,” George said. “Lets go. Shut up. Shut up, or I’ll mash you down.”
“Yeah?” Tom grinned. “I’ll take your leg off and beat you to death with it, mack.”
George threw back his head, laughing. “Fall in, you bum. Lets go.”
“George,” Sandy said. She went to the countertop and came back with a nearly full bottle. “Take it with you.”
“Not me. I got mine in the car. And I got the money to buy more. Whisky never bothers me. Fall in, Tom, goddam you.”
Tom slapped him on the back. “Right,” he said. And he started to sing.
They went out of the house into the steaming chill February night. They went arm in arm and limping. And they were singing.
“Si-n-n-g glorious, glorious,
One keg of beer for the four of us,
Glory be to God there’s no more of us,
