“Henry, a boy needs adult guidance. How can you live in a big house all by yourself? What about your meals?”
“I’m all right. I’m fine. I make my own breakfast and the school has a hot lunch program. At night I eat in restaurants. I take taxis to them, or sometimes if I don’t feel like going out I have a cab bring over some chicken from the Colonel.”
“Well, that’s all very fine, Henry, but I really think you shouldn’t be by yourself.”
“If I had a little brother … They wouldn’t let me adopt one, do you think?”
“No, Henry.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Listen, Henry, I’d like you to make me a promise.”
“What?”
“Will you promise?”
“I’ll have to hear what it is first. I won’t step into anything blindfolded.”
“I want you to promise that first thing tomorrow you’ll get in touch with the authorities and tell them about your arrangements. Will you promise me that, Henry?”
“Certainly not. I can take care of myself. Listen, I pay my bills. I’m never behind on the gas or electricity. The phone’s always taken care of. I go for my checkups when I’m supposed to and I leave the cash with the nurse right after the examination. They never have to bill me. If I need a plumber or a roofer I know how to get in touch with one. I use the Yellow Pages. I’m fair with the merchants. Cash on the barrelhead—which is more than a lot of adults can say. I even give to charity.”
“Well, who do you play with, Henry?”
“I don’t play much. But I go to ballgames whenever I want. Last September I wanted to see the World Series, so I just hopped on a jet and went. I got the tickets from a scalper outside the stadium but they were good seats. Listen, I’m very responsible. I’m no wild kid or anything.”
“It’s your life, Henry, but I think you’re making a mistake.”
“Don’t get me wrong. It was fine living with my grandparents. They were nice people. When they died I had a good relationship with my executor. He was an old friend of the family and we got along very well. The man who took his place when he died, that’s another story. Well, he was a perfect stranger. I’m sorry he had the heart attack, of course, but I didn’t mourn or anything. I just don’t want anyone adopting me for my money. Listen, I’m all right.”
“Except you can’t sleep nights.”
“What? What’s that? Well, yes, but your program helps a lot. That’s why I called. I want to join a Listening Post. I mean, I listen to all these old people who call up and tell you their troubles and they try to put a good face on things but you can tell they’re scared and that their hearts are broken. They break my heart. They remind me of my first executor. He was terminal, just like that Mrs. Dormer who calls from Sun City. I think it would help if I could write some of those people. I don’t mean I’d give them advice—though I could probably give them some pretty good advice. I could tell them that it doesn’t matter, that it’s important to have courage, that that’s what matters. But I don’t mean advice. Anyway, they probably wouldn’t take it from a kid. But maybe I could help some of them with money—you know, to get their operations or bring their sons home from San Diego to see them before it’s too late. I have all this cash lying around. I don’t need much. I’d move into a smaller house like a shot, but I can’t put the estate on the market because I can’t enter into contracts yet. That’s the big hitch about being a kid and living by yourself, you can’t enter into contracts. I think I might move into a smaller house anyway and just close down the big one. Anyway, I’d like to join one of the Listening Posts. I probably have more in common with some of these people than you might expect, and—let’s face it—it would make me feel a whole lot better to be able to help out. So that’s why I called. I wanted to thank you too. You do very good work.”
“You’re a good boy, Henry,” Dick said, and he hung up after promising to send the materials as soon as he got the boy’s application.
Moved by Henry’s call, but not quite certain that it wasn’t a joke, he felt strangely troubled the rest of the evening. The callers seemed similarly affected; they were subdued and even the number of calls fell off sharply. Dick had to stretch out conversations with people he normally wouldn’t have kept on the air more than five minutes.
The Refugee called. He had come to the country before the war but that’s how he referred to himself. It was never clear what country he had emigrated from, and he spoke with no trace of an accent. He was a boring sort of refugee. The only clue to his foreign origin was that when he became excited—and being on the radio usually made him excited—he often confused the usages of “how” and “why” and of “good” and “well.” He would say that he liked his meat “good done,” and once he had made an impassioned speech in support of his local police. “It’s wrong, Mr. Gibson, why the public doesn’t support its policemen. The way these young punks scream ‘police brutality’ every time one of them is arrested is positively sickening. We should honor every last cop on the beat, and instead of castigating him we should get down on our knees and tell him ‘Good done, thou well and faithful servant.’” Maybe the Refugee was a joker too.
“Why are you tonight, Mr. Gibson?” the Refugee asked.
“Fine, and you?”
“Can’t complain. I’ve got my health and well name. What more could I want?”
“Not a thing.”
“That’s what I say. The important thing is to be merry, get along with your neighbors and show your wellwill.”
Dick wondered if the man was putting him on. Perhaps his callers were all unemployed actors.
“Are you still there, Mr. Gibson?”
“Here I am.”
“Good, as I was saying, it’s always a well idea to be friendly. It doesn’t cost a thing and it’s often good worth it.”
“Hmn.”
“That’s my thinking on it, anyway.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Sure I am. It doesn’t make sense to grouse and pout when you can wear a smile and be a well friend. I don’t know how these pessimists always look on the dark side of things. I ask myself how, but it just doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m sure you’re right.”
“Good, I don’t want to take up any more of your time. I just wanted to call and tell you why things are going.”
“Wellnight,” Dick Gibson said.
“Wellbye,” the Refugee said.
“Your feet stink.”
“Dick boy.”
“Mrs. Dormer?”
“Yes, Dick boy. That’s right, Dick boy.”
“How are you, Mrs. Dormer?”
“Not so fit as a fiddle. I don’t suppose it will be too much longer now.”
“That’s foolish, Mrs. Dormer. You’ve had these sieges before. You’ll get over this one just as you got over the others. Are you taking good care of yourself?”
“I’ve been in bed for the past week. Frances had to put the call through. I can’t hold the phone. Frances is holding it for me right now. I haven’t the strength.”
“How is Frances, Mrs. Dormer?”
“Frances is fine, Dick boy. I’m afraid I’ve been a terrible burden to her, but she’s a good girl. Do you know she missed Tom’s graduation to come out here when she heard?”
“She must be a comfort.”
She certainly is, Dick boy. She is a comfort, but I don’t see why she didn’t wait until her son graduated to come out. It would just have been a few days. That Dr. Pepper can be a terrible alarmist sometimes.”
“Well, he just wanted you to be comfortable, Mrs. Dormer.”
“I know that, Dick boy, but I’m thinking of poor Tom. He’s got no father and now here’s his mother who won’t even be at his graduation.”
“He’ll be fine, Mrs. Dormer.”
“Lord, I hope so. That’s my prayer, Dick boy.”
“You just try to be comfortable and don’t worry about anything. That way
you’ll get better sooner.”
“I don’t really believe that, Dick boy, do you?”
“Well, certainly I do. Of course I do. You’re just a little discouraged now because of Tom.”
“She’s stopped taking her medicine, Mr. Gibson.”
“Who’s there? Who is that? Frances?”
“It’s Frances, Mr. Gibson. Mother’s stopped taking her medicine. She won’t take any of her pills. Would you say something to her? Just say something to her, would you, Mr. Gibson?”
“Mrs. Dormer?”
“I’m here, Dick boy.”
“This is shocking, Mrs. Dormer. I’m really surprised. Here’s Frances, come to be with you all the way from Chicago, missing her son’s graduation. All she wants is for you to get better, and here you are acting like a naughty child who won’t take her medicine! How do you think that makes Frances feel?”
“I’ve called to say goodbye, Dick boy. I’m weaker every day. I’ll slide into a coma soon. You shouldn’t try to trick an old woman on her deathbed.”
“Now Mrs. Dormer, you mustn’t say things like that. You’re a religious woman, Mrs. Dormer. Only God can tell when a person’s going to … what you just said. You believe that, don’t you?”
“I called to say goodbye to you and all my friends in the Listening Posts, and to thank all the nice people who took the trouble to send me cards and little notes. I don’t think I’ll be able to speak to you again, and I want you to listen. It’s a great effort for me to speak at all, and you shouldn’t make me argue about what is obvious. Now you’ve got to listen. Will you listen, Dick boy?”
“I wish you wouldn’t—”
“Will you?”
“Yes, ma’m. I’m listening.”
“Mr. Gibson, she won’t even take her pain killers. I’m sorry to blubber like this, but you don’t know the agony my mother’s in.”
“Frances?”
“Gracious, Mr. Gibson, do you know she’s actually lying here naked on the bed because the pressure of her night clothes is just too painful on her skin? I never saw my mother naked in my life, Mr. Gibson, and now she won’t even cover herself with a handkerchief. She’s going to get pneumonia. Besides everything else, she’s going to come down with pneumonia. If she’d take her pain killers we could dress her properly and then she wouldn’t come down with pneumonia. She won’t listen, Mr. Gibson. I’m going to put the phone back to her ear. You make her listen, will you?”
“Frances, Dick boy doesn’t want to hear all this. Shame on you for making such a fuss. I’ve got wonderful friends in the Listening Post organizations who love me and who I love, and a lot of them are just as sick and broken as I am, and you’ve got no right to upset them like this. I wanted to say goodbye to my good friends, and it looks like no one is going to let me do that.”
“Mrs. Dormer?”
“What is it, Dick boy?”
“Look, Mrs. Dormer, you have got wonderful friends in the Listening Posts. You have. And because they do love you they don’t like to see you give up like this. They want you to fight back, just as you fought back in the past. Why don’t you take your pain pills and whatever else Dr. Pepper thinks you ought to have. Don’t let those good friends down. Don’t give up. Will you promise that? Will you make that promise to me and to your good friends in the Listening Posts?”
“No, Dick boy, I won’t. And who said anything about giving up, Dick boy? It’s because I haven’t given up that I won’t take those pills. That boy who was on last week, that Henry Harper, he mentioned my name and said he wanted to give me advice, that old dying people should have courage. Well, I’ll show him courage! What does he know about it? That’s why I won’t take those pills. Do you know how it hurts me? I hadn’t meant to talk like this, but it seems no one will let me say what I wanted to say, that you all want me to believe everything’s all right, not so’s you can believe it too, but so’s you can believe I believe it and be comforted. I call that selfish. And everything isn’t all right. Do you know how it hurts? Do you know how bad it is? My voice, just my own voice coming out of my throat is enough pressure to pull the skin off me. Just my words. Just the weight of my words in my throat is like being cut with knives. Just that. Just to say ‘flower’ is a torture to me. Just to whisper it. I’m killing myself, I’m killing myself to speak and now you make me say all this. I want to be still. All I want is to be still.”
“Hush.” Dick said, frightened. “Hush, Mrs. Dormer. Please hush.”
“I’m going to say it. Let me, for God’s sake, will you please? You’re killing me, Dick boy.”
“Go ahead, Mrs. Dormer. Go ahead, ma’m.”
“I want … I want … to thank you all. You’ve been … my family. Now I know, I know it’s awful for an old dying woman to call up and oppress folks this way and give them bad dreams. It’s awful. It’s vulgar, a phone call from the death bed. It’s inexcusable and I’m sorry, and now all this other has come out and I’ve made a mess—but I did have to tell you all goodbye and thank you for the happiness you’ve given me. And this is the only way I have, don’t you see? I had to make peace with my friends and give them my love. I had to. Goodbye, all my good friends, and God bless you. God bless you, Dick boy. Goodbye, my dear.”
“Goodbye,” Dick Gibson said. “Goodbye, Mrs. Dormer. I love you.” He waited a moment to see if she would answer, but he heard nothing and finally he hung up and took another call.
There was a call on the Tennessee line.
“Night Letters. Go ahead, please.”
“You can wish me a happy birthday.”
“Happy birthday. Who is this?”
“Don’t you recognize my voice?”
“Help me out. Where in Tennessee are you calling from?”
“Knoxville.”
Dick opened the directory and turned to the Knoxville page. The voice was thickish with no hint of a Southern accent. Quickly he ran down the one- and two-word descriptions of voices he had penciled in beside each of the names. Next to one he found the word “whiskey.” He had a go. “Harold Flesh?”
“That’s right.”
“Get any cards from the Mail Baggers?”
“Them Mail Baggers come through when you’re laid up in the hospital. When you got a broken leg they come to your room and write their names on your cast.”
“Well, Harold, so many of the Mail Baggers have trouble, you see.” Recently he had begun to detect a note of piety in his voice. It was not unpleasant. “They’re kept pretty busy cheering up our Mail Baggers who really need it. An awful lot of our people have trouble, Harold.”
“They’re trouble shooters.”
“Well, there’s a lot of fun in them too, Harold.”
“They pitch in for a wreath. They sit with the kids when it’s time for the funeral.”
“That isn’t all there is to it, Harold.”
“They knit and they bake. They read to the blind from newspapers.”
“I think you’ve got it wrong, Harold.”
“Have I, yeah? They have the names of cleaning women and lend you Consumer’s Report. They bring back an ice cream when they walk to the corner. Naw, I didn’t get no cards from them. I can stand on my feet, nothing’s broke. I didn’t get no cards.”
“Do you know what I think? I think that as soon as you hang up folks are going to call to wish you a happy birthday. I’ll bet that’s exactly what happens. I’ll bet some of them sing their greetings right over the phone. You see if I’m not right.”
“Big deal.”
“You’ll see.”
“Big deal.”
“I’m certain of it. They’ll wish you happy birthday and sing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.’”
“Sure, sure.”
“They will.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll bet. I can imagine.”
“Mark my words.”
“Big deal. Federal case.”
“That’s what I think, Harold. The Mailbaggers—”
“We�
��ll see,” Harold cut in. Hurriedly he told Dick goodbye.
Then Henry Harper called.
“I’ve been trying to get Mrs. Dormer in Sun City since that night she spoke to you. Nobody answers the phone. Is she alive? Is she all right?”
“I don’t know, Henry. I haven’t heard.”
“Tell her she’s got to take her pills. That was foolish what I said about courage. She has to take her medicine. Mrs. Dormer, do you hear me? Please take your pills. You mustn’t have pain. You mustn’t have pain on my account.”
“My ears were pierced when I was ten years old,” a woman told him from Ft. Lauderdale. “It was the central event of my life.”
“How come?”
“My mother did it herself. She used a needle—like the gypsies—and for an anesthetic she held ice cubes to my lobes. The ice melted and soaked the collar of my dress. There was a lot of blood. It mixed with the melted water from the ice cubes, and with my tears too, I guess. Ice isn’t a good anesthetic. And Father was weeping to see me in pain, but Mother saw that the aperture would close. ‘Run,’ she said, ‘bring something we can slip through the hole.’ You’re supposed to use an earring, but Mother’s own ears had never been pierced and we didn’t have any. The colored girl offered hers but Mother wouldn’t take them. Father brought nylon fishing line. ‘It’s fifty-pound strength,’ he said, ‘it’s all I could find.’ They tried to push the fishing line through my ears, but it was too thick, of course, and Mother jabbed at my ears some more, pressing with the head of the pin this time, and a little white flesh fell off on my shoulder like the rolled-up paper in a punch- board, and after a while they could just slip the fishing line through. Father had used it before and there was salt from the ocean on the line—”
The Dick Gibson Show Page 34
