It really was funny.
Wouldn’t anybody laugh at a thing like that?
I really have to get out of here, he thought. Even if Milt was a blood relative, like the lady thought, I’d still have to leave.
But it sure would be dirty to leave him here. Somebody had to be with him.
He recrossed the field, back to the motel, to the office. The lady and her Oklahoma husband were not in sight. At the pay phone he laid out the slip of paper with Cathy’s number and put a dime into the phone. The operator told him how much to deposit and he dropped in the proper amount. The connection was made. A woman, not Cathy, answered the phone. He asked for Mrs. Hermes, and after an interval he found himself talking to her.
“This is Bruce Stevens,” he said.
“How is he?” Cathy asked, without a pause, aware at once why he had called.
“He’s in bed,” he said. “He’s worn out.”
“How far did you get?”
“Pretty far,” he said. He knew now that this was Washington, just outside a town called Pasco. “But we’re off the road now at this motel. We stayed here overnight. I didn’t realize until this morning how bad he was. I recall that you warned me, but anyhow here we are. What are your feelings?” he asked her.
“I can’t do anything,” she said.
“You have his car. You could drive out after work.” He began to tell her where the motel was, but she broke in.
“I don’t have the key. I threw it to him.”
“It’s in the driveway,” he said.
“No it isn’t,” she said. “I looked this morning and I didn’t see it. As a matter of fact I was late to work because I spent so much time looking all around for it.”
“I know it’s there,” he said. “He didn’t pick it up.”
Cathy said, “I know it’s not there.”
“Could you come out on the bus, then?” he said.
“No,” she said.
“I have to drive on to Seattle,” he said. “I have to settle this business.”
“Are you telling me the truth? Would you actually drive off and leave him when he’s flat on his back sick in bed in a motel?”
“I have to,” he said. When she said nothing he said, “Anyhow it’s my car.”
She said, “I do have the key to the Mercedes.”
That did not surprise him. “Then drive out here,” he said. He gave her a long complicated set of directions.
“It’ll take me a long time,” she said, in a balking, frantic way. “I can’t drive that far in one hop. I’ll have to stop along the way; I don’t think I can get mere until the day after tomorrow. Ill have to arrange for time off from work. I don’t even know if I can do that. Does that mean he’ll be alone until then, or will you stay with him until I get there?”
“I should leave now,” he said.
Near tears, she said, “Then there’s no point in my coming. Suppose you leave him, and then while I’m trying to get there he leaves?”
“He can’t leave because he won’t have any car to leave in.”
“That’s so,” she said. “No,” she decided. “I won’t do it. You have to stay with him. It’s your fault anyhow.” The phone clicked. She had hung up.
Now what should I do? he asked himself.
He hung up the receiver. Should I call her back? But there’s nothing I can do over the phone; I can’t make her drive out here, or come out on the bus. If she won’t come then that’s it. And when she says it’s my fault she’s right.
But I don’t see how she can’t come, he thought to himself. I would have thought she’d jump right in the car and drive on out. Didn’t she drive all over Pocatello that night searching for orange juice for him? And it’s an easy car to drive. And she’s familiar with it.
Leaving the motel office he looked around outside, among the cabins, for the owner. He found her in an empty cabin, fixing fresh towels. “Can I get some change from you?” he asked her. “For the phone.”
“Did you find out from your friend what he has wrong with him?” she asked, as they returned to the office.
“It’s nephritis,” he said. “It’s not contagious.”
Back in the office she changed a five-dollar bill for him. “Has he got a family?” she said “A wife?”
“I think so,” he said. Putting money into the phone he called Susan in Boise. The motel woman hung around for a moment, and then she left the office. “I have some bad news,” he said into the phone. “I’m up here in Washington with Milt Lumky, and he’s sick.” He explained to her along the lines that he had explained to the motel woman, but she interrupted him.
“I know about Milt’s kidney trouble,” she said.
“He’s apparently had it most of his life,” he said.
“You better stay with him,” Susan said. “Do you have enough money with you? I can wire you some.” They had arranged it so that when the time came for him to buy she would wire him the money.
“I’ll be okay,” he said.
“When he has an attack he’s usually laid up flat on his back for a couple of days,” she said. “And it’s very painful.”
“I had plenty of warning,” he said. “The girl he’s been living with in Pocatello told me, and when I got there he was already sick. So I have nobody to blame; I certainly can’t blame him.”
“You can to this extent,” Susan said, in a careful, rational tone. “He’s the one who’s in the position to judge, and if he went along with you, then it’s not your fault. You have to assume he knows what he’s doing; he’s a grown man. You can’t be expected to make judgments about somebody else’s illness, especially somebody you barely know. Why doesn’t she come out and take care of him, this girl?”
“I talked to her on the phone,” he said, “but she said she didn’t feel like it.”
“It’s not your worry,” Susan said. “Unless you want to make it your worry. Unless you feel responsible. There’s the intangible aspect to it.”
He said, “I feel it’s my fault, because if I hadn’t started talking to him about the typewriters he wouldn’t have come along; after all, this trip is so I can get the typewriters. He gets nothing out of it. It’s a favor he’s doing for me.”
“You can’t afford to be bogged down very long,” she pointed out.
“True,” he said. “But I feel I have to.”
“Okay,” she said. “Keep in touch with me.”
“I’ll call you again,” he said. He told her not to worry and then he hung up. After a moment or so he left the motel office and trudged back in the direction of the cabin.
It’s just one of those things, he thought. When a person is ill it takes precedence over everything else, especially questions of what’s practical. You can’t always do simply what you consider to be in your own best interest. Nobody can live like that. Economic gain isn’t everything, he thought. Or even the most important thing. I know if it was me who was sick Milt would stay.
That’s why he’s here in the first place, he thought. Because he put his friendship with me over practical considerations. So that’s the hell of it, he thought. And there’s just nothing that can be done.
When he opened the cabin door Milt, in the bed, murmured, “I feel better. This god damn business comes and goes.” He had propped himself up to a sitting position, me pillow behind him. “Close the door,” he said. “The light’s blinding.”
Closing the door, Bruce said, “The motel people are afraid it’s the bubonic plague.”
“Then tell them to start fleeing,” Milt said. “Listen,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about this. Maybe you should drive on. Look in my coat pocket in my wallet. I’ve got the name of the man written down on me back of a card. The guy who owns the machines.”
“That’s okay,” Bruce said. “I’ll stick around.”
“Bring it,” Milt said.
Carrying the wallet over to the bed he handed it to Milt. Grunting with effort, Milt sorted through the cards and fo
lded slips of paper; as he examined each he took an interest in it, halting to ponder and recall what it meant and why he had kept it. Some of the cards had stuck together, and he put his eyes close to them as he cautiously pulled them apart. One of the cards sent him off into reverie, and for a considerable time he neither spoke nor moved.
Finally he resumed and found the one he wanted. “Phil Baranowski,” he said, reading the back of the card. “Here’s his address and phone number. Phil is a funny guy. I met him at a wholesalers’ party. Then later on he showed me the machines, among me rest of the junk he had hold of that he wanted to peddle. That was six or seven months ago. He’s probably still got all of it plus a ton more.” .
“I’m not going,” Bruce said. “Partly because it’s obvious that if you’re not along he won’t sell me the machines, and partly because I don’t think you should be left alone. I don’t think you’re well enough.”
“He’ll sell them if you use your intelligence. Make it clear that you know me.”
In the end he wound up accepting the card. But the worry continued to nag him. He might make the trip by himself, arrive at Seattle, and have Baranowski refuse to do business with him. Even though he did not intend to go, even though he meant to remain in the motel with him, he said, “Could you write some sort of note to him? Or phone him?”
Milt shrugged. “Not necessary,” he said, scowling.
“If we get to discussing it, can I have him phone you?” He felt guilty, but he could not afford to take chances with the matter.
Rousing himself, Milt said, “If you want. If you can get hold of me. There’s no phone here.”
“There’s one in the motel office.”
Milt nodded.
Seating himself in the chair in the corner, facing Milt in the bed, he tried to relax. But his restlessness grew. “Listen,” he said, standing up. “I think I’ll go roam around and maybe buy something to read. Do you want anything? A magazine or a book?”
Gradually Milt had sunk down in the bed. He opened his eyes and regarded him and then he said, “Bruce, there’s something I’ve been going to say to you. I’ve been thinking about it, trying to figure out what it is that’s wrong with you, why you’re the way you are. I think I’ve finally got you figured out. You don’t believe in God, do you?”
This time he did laugh. This time the question was too inane and too seriously asked; he began to giggle and once he had started he could not stop. He found himself lying back in his chair, his hand over his eyes, wheezing and weeping, gasping, while across from him Milt continued to watch him somberly. And still he could not stop. The more he tried to stop, the harder it became to stop. At last he lost the ability to make any sound at all. Even his laughing was soundless. Not since his grammar school days, not since Saturday afternoon at the Kiddies’ Matinee at the Luxury, watching a Three Stooges comedy: he had not laughed so much since then. He knew that Milt was kidding. Now he realized that Milt had been kidding before, in the car. The whole time he had been kidding straight-faced. Looking back, realizing that Milt had been pulling his leg, he laughed harder and harder, until his ribs ached and he had exhausted himself and become dizzy.
When he was able he got to his feet. “Excuse me,” he managed, and walked step by step into the bathroom. There he shut the door and rinsed his face with cold water. He rubbed his face with the towel, combed his hair, glanced at himself in the mirror, and then he returned to the room.
In the bed, Milt lay as before.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce said shakily, sitting down again in the chair.
Milt said, “I must be dreaming or something. I ask you a perfectly simple question and you laugh your head off.”
“Not again,” he said weakly, lifting his hand.
“Not again what?”
“I can’t stand it.”
Milt stared at him and then he said with ferocity, “Are you out of your mind? Stand back and take a good look at yourself. What kind of a person are you to laugh at a question like that?” He sat up in bed and smashed the pillow into place behind him. His face had flushed and become wrinkled, as if the bones and teem had been removed, had slipped back down inside and been dissolved.
“I told you I’m sorry,” Bruce said. “What else can I say?” He got up and came over, holding his hand out.
Milt shook hands with him, and at the same time said, “I’m deeply worried about you. I wouldn’t try to talk to you seriously if I wasn’t worried about you.” He let go of his hand. “You’re smart and personable; there’s no reason why you won’t go far. I can’t stand seeing you settle for a compromise.”
“What compromise?” he said.
“Giving up what you really want. You’ve set your sights on a material life of getting a buy and making a profit. You were cut out for -” He searched for the word. “You ought to be after something spiritual.”
Bruce said, with difficulty, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to start laughing again.” His jaw began to tremble of its own accord; he had to sit with his chin in his hands to keep it still.
“Why does that strike you as funny?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“There’s only one reason why a person goes into business,” Milt said. “To make money.”
“No,” he said.
“What else, then?”
“There’s a satisfaction in it,” he said.
“Balls,” Milt said.
He said, “You mean I should be a fireman or a cowboy?”
“You should have some values in your life, something permanent.”
“Like you have?” he said, laughing, unable to stop laughing.
“I don’t want you to be like me,” Milt said.
“You shouldn’t have become a salesman, if you feel like that,” he said. “Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with it.”
“That’s what I mean.”
Bruce said, “Wanting to make a store run is a permanent value, for me. I’ve always wanted to do it. Since I was a kid.”
“Maybe you think that now,” Milt said. “That’s self-deception.”
“Wouldn’t I know? Better than you?”
“An outside person can tell better,” Milt said. “Nobody has any insight into themselves.”
“Can you tell me what I want better than I can?” he said. “You can’t read my mind. You don’t know what’s going on in my mind.”
“I can tell you what’s best for you. What you ought to be doing, instead of wasting your life.”
“I’m not wasting my life,” he said.
“Sure you are,” Milt said. “What are you, if not a punk kid trying to hustle some cheap Japanese typewriters. What’s there to be proud of in that?”
“The hell with you,” he said.
“Yes,” Milt said. “The hell with everyone. Me, Susan, everybody else. But face the truth about yourself. I know what’s the matter with you. You don’t have the maturity to care about anything but teen-age values. You’re selfish and immature. You’re a good kid and everybody likes you, but you’re just not an adult, as much as you’d like to be. You’re still a long way off, and if you expect to get there you better learn what’s worthwhile and spiritual in life.”
“Take your own advice,” he said.
“I know why you’re the way you are,” Milt said, nodding.
To Milt he said, “I guess I’ll go roam around and get something to read.” He opened the motel door; sunlight blinded both of them.
In his bed, Milt said nothing.
“See you later, then,” Bruce said, still lingering. But Milt said nothing more.
Stepping outside, he shut the door after him.
AN HOUR OR SO LATER, when he re-entered the cabin with his magazine, he found Milt sitting up in bed writing a check.
“Here,” Milt said, handing the check to him. “This is what I promised you. Your wedding present.”
The check was made out for five hundred dollars.
“I can’t take th
is,” he said.
“You won’t get the machines without it,” Milt said. “Anyhow I’m not giving it to you; I’m giving it to Susan. This is my last chance to let her know how I feel.” He smiled slightly. “After this it becomes a crime. Anyhow, I’ve got plenty of money and no one to spend it on.”
Putting the check in his wallet, Bruce said, “Thanks.”
Neither of them said anything about their argument.
“Did I tell you I called Cathy?” Bruce said.
“No,” Milt said.
“She found the car key. So she can drive out here. I gave her the address of the place.”
Milt nodded.
“And the motel people are conscious that you’re sick. They have the names of local doctors; I was asking them about it.”
“Fine,” Milt said. ‘They probably can bring me what I need.” He seemed impassive.
“How would you feel, then,” he said, “if I did drive on?”
Milt said, “I told you to.”
“If you feel you’d be okay, I think I will.”
“Are you driving back this way after you finish up in Seattle?”
“No,” he said. “I thought I’d drive down the Coast and back up by US 26, through Oregon.”
Milt said, “I’m sorry you called Cathy. There’s no reason why she should have to drive out here. I’ll be up and around in a day or so and there’s no reason why I can’t go back there on the Greyhound.” He lay back and stared up at the ceiling. Presently he said, “I hope you swing the deal for the typewriters.”
“I hate to leave,” he said, “with you still sore at me.”
“I’m just upset,” Milt said.
“Don’t worry about me,” he said.
“Okay,” Milt said.
“Even if I don’t believe in God,” he said, “I can still have a full life.”
Milt said, “There’s just something dead in you.”
“No,” he said.
“You’re like these scientists making H-bombs,” Milt said. “Cold as hell, rational as hell.”
“But no soul,” Bruce said.
Milt nodded.
“Maybe we’ll all be blown up,” Bruce said. “And then it won’t matter.”
In Milton Lumky Territory (1984) Page 18
