by Walker Percy
“Where’re we going?” he asked her, trying to keep up as she sailed through the pantry.
“I am to deliver you to someone who wishes a word with you.”
The next thing he knew, he was sitting in Kitty’s tiny Sprite, his knees about his ears as they went roaring up and over the mountain and down into the city.
“What is this place?” he asked when they stopped in an acre or so of brand-new automobiles.
“The shop, crazy. Poppy wants to talk to you!”
He sat blinking around him, hands on his knees. The “shop” was Mr. Vaught’s Confederate Chevrolet agency, the second largest in the world. Dozens of salesmen in Reb-colonel hats and red walking canes threaded their way between handsome Biscaynes and sporty Corvettes. By contrast with their jaunty headgear and the automobiles, which were as bright as tropical birds, the faces of the salesmen seemed heavy and anxious.
“Come on,” cried Kitty, already on her way.
They found Mr. Vaught in a vast showroom holding another acre of Chevrolets. He was standing in a fenced-off desk area talking to Mr. Ciocchio, his sales manager. Kitty introduced him and vanished.
“You see this sapsucker,” said Mr. Vaught to Mr. Ciocchio, taking the engineer by the armpit.
“Yes sir,” said the other, responding with a cordial but wary look. The sales manager was a big Lombard of an Italian with a fine head of thick curly hair. In his Reb-colonel hat he looked like Garibaldi.
“Do you know what he can do?”
“No sir.”
“He can hit a golf ball over three hundred yards and he is studying a book by the name of The Theory of Large Numbers. What do you think of a fellow like that?”
“That’s all right.” Mr. Ciocchio smiled and nodded as cordially as ever. The engineer noticed that his eyes did not converge but looked at him, one past each ear.
“He is evermore smart.”
The engineer nodded grimly. This old fellow, his employer, he had long since learned, had a good working blade of malice. Was this not in fact his secret: that he had it in for everybody? “Sir,” he said, politely disengaging himself from Mr. Vaught’s master grip. “Kitty said you wished to see me. As a matter of fact, I wanted to see you earlier. Jamie said he wanted to take a trip out west. I told him I would take him if it met with your approval.”
Mr. Ciocchio, seeing his chance, vanished as quickly as Kitty had.
“But now, it seems, plans have been changed. Jamie tells me he wishes to postpone the trip. I might add too that I asked Kitty to marry me. This seems as good a time as any to inform you of my intentions and to ask your approval. I am here, however, at your request. At least, that is my understanding.”
“Well now,” said the old man, turning away and looking back, eyeing him with his sliest gleam. Aha! At least he knows I’m taking none of his guff, the engineer thought. “Billy boy,” he said in a different voice and hobbled over to the rail with a brand-new limp—oh, what a rogue he was. “Take a look at this place. Do you want to know what’s wrong with it?”
“Yes sir.”
“Do you see those fellows out there?” He nodded to a half dozen colonels weaving fretfully through the field of cars.
“Yes sir.”
“I’ll tell you a funny damn thing. Now there’s not a thing in the world wrong with those fellows except for one thing. They want to sell. They know everything in the book about selling. But there is one thing they can’t do. They can’t close.”
“Close?”
“Close out. They can’t get a man in here where those fellows are.” He pointed to more colonels sitting at desks in the fenced-off area. “That’s where we sign them up. But they can’t get them in here. They stand out there and talk and everybody is nice and agreeable as can be. And the man says all right, thanks a lot, I’ll be back. And he’s gone. Now you know, it’s a funny thing but that is something you can’t teach a fellow—when the time has come to close. We need a coordinator.”
“Sir?”
“We need a liaison man to cruise the floor, watch all the pots, see which one is coming to a boil. Do you understand me?”
“Yes sir,” said the engineer gloomily.
“I’m going to tell you the plain truth, Billy,” said the old man in a tone of absolute sincerity. “You can’t hire a good man for love or money. I’d pay twenty thousand a year for just an ordinary good man.”
“Yes sir.”
“I can’t understand it.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“What makes those fellows so mis’able? Look at them. They are the most mis’able bunch of folks I ever saw.”
“You mean they’re unhappy?”
“Look at them.”
They were. “What makes them miserable?”
“You figure that out and I’ll pay you twenty-five.”
“Yes sir,” said the engineer absently; he had caught sight of Kitty waiting for him in her Sprite.
“Listen son,” said the old man, drawing him close again. “I’m going to tell you the truth. I don’t know what the hell is going on out there with those women and Jamie and all. Whatever yall want to do is all right with me. And I’m tickled to death to hear about you and Kitty. More than delighted. I know that you and I understand each other and that I’m more than happy to have you with us here any time you feel like it.”
“Yes sir,” said the engineer glumly.
By evening the engineer felt as uncommonly bad as he had felt good when he had set out for the university early in the morning of the same day. His knee leapt. Once he thought he heard the horrid ravening particles which used to sing in the pale sky over New York and Jersey. To make matters worse, everyone else in the pantry felt better than ever. It was the night before the Tennessee game. There was a grace and a dispensation in the air, an excitement and hope about the game on the morrow and a putting away of the old sad unaccomplished past. Tomorrow our own lads, the good smiling easy youths one met on the campus paths, but on the gridiron a ferocious black-helmeted wrecking crew, collide with the noble old single-wing of Tennessee. A big game is more than a game. It allows the kindling of hope and the expectation of great deeds. One liked to drink his drink the night before and muse over it: what will happen?
Ordinarily he too, the engineer, liked nothing better than the penultimate joys of a football weekend. But tonight he was badly unsettled. The two brothers, Jamie and Sutter, had been deep in talk at the blue bar for a good half hour. And Rita had Kitty off in the bay, Rita speaking earnestly with her new level-browed legal expression, Kitty blossoming by the minute: a lovely flushed bride. Every few seconds her eyes sought him out and sent him secret shy Mary Nestor signals. Now it was she who was sending the signals and he who was stove up and cranky. Only once had she spoken to him and then to whisper: “It may be possible to swing a sweetheart ceremony with the Chi O’s as maids. I’m working on it.” “Eh? What’s that?” cocking his good ear and holding down his knee. But she was off again before he had a chance to discover what she meant. It left him uneasy.
Something else disturbed him. Son Thigpen had brought over a carload of classmates from the university. Son, as morose as he was, and devoted exclusively to his Thunderbird and the fraternity (not the brothers themselves but the idea, Hellenism, as he called it), had nevertheless the knack of attracting large numbers of friends, lively youths and maids who liked him despite his sallowness and glumness. Now, having delivered this goodly company, he stood apart and fiddled with his Thunderbird keys. His guests were Deltans, from the engineer’s country, though he did not know them. But he knew their sort and it made him uneasy to see how little he was like them, how easy they were in their ways and how solitary and Yankeefied he was—though they seemed to take him immediately as one of them and easy too. The young men were Sewanee Episcopal types, good soft-spoken hard-drinking graceful youths, gentle with women and very much themselves with themselves, set, that is, for the next fifty years in the actuality of themselves and th
eir own good names. They knew what they were, how things were and how things should be. As for the engineer, he didn’t know. I’m from the Delta too, thought he, sticking his hand down through his pocket, and I’m Episcopal; why ain’t I like them, easy and actual? Oh, to be like Rooney Lee. The girls were just as familiar to him, though he’d never met them either. Lovely little golden partridges they were, in fall field colors, green-feathered and pollen-dusted. Their voices were like low music and their upturned faces were like flowers. They were no different at all from the lovely little bitty steel-hearted women who sat at the end of the cotton rows and held the South together when their men came staggering home from Virginia all beaten up and knocked out of the war, who sat in their rocking chairs and made everybody do right; they were enough to scare you to death. But he for his Kitty, a little heavy-footed, yes, and with a tendency to shoulder a bit like a Wellesley girl and not absolutely certain of her own sex, a changeling (she was flushed and high-colored now just because she had found out what she was—a bride). For example, Kitty, who had worked at it for ten years, was still a bad dancer, where every last one of these Delta partridges was certain to be light and air in your arms.
They were talking about politics and the Negro, who was now rumored to be headed for the campus this weekend. “Do yall know the difference between a nigger and an ape?” said Lamar Thigpen, embracing all three Deltans. They’re good chaps, though, thought the engineer distractedly, and, spying Mr. Vaught circling the walls, thought of something he wanted to ask him and took out after him, pushing his kneecap in with each step like a polio victim. They’re good chaps and so very much at one with themselves and with the dear world around them as bright and sure as paradise. The game was tomorrow and they were happy about that; they knew what they wanted and who they hated. Oh, why ain’t I like them, thought the poor engineer, who was by no means a liberal—never in fact giving such matters a single thought—but who rather was so mystified by white and black alike that he could not allow himself the luxury of hatred. Oh, but they were lordly in theirs, he noticed, as he hobbled along. Then forgetting what he wanted to ask Mr. Vaught, he fetched up abruptly and took his pulse. “I’m not at all well,” he said to himself.
“What’s the matter,” asked Sutter, who had been watching him from his kitchen chair at the blue bar. Jamie, the engineer noticed, had left.
“I don’t feel well. Where’s Jamie?”
“He went to bed.”
“I wanted to ask him what his plans were.”
“Don’t worry about him. He’s all right. What about you?”
“I think my nervous condition is worse. I feel my memory slipping.”
“What was that book you were reading earlier?”
“Freeman’s R. E. Lee.”
“Are you still strongly affected by the Civil War?”
“Not as strongly as I used to be.”
“How strongly was that?”
“When I was at Princeton, I blew up a Union monument. It was only a plaque hidden in the weeds behind the chemistry building, presented by the class of 1885 in memory of those who made the supreme sacrifice to suppress the infamous rebellion, or something like that. It offended me. I synthesized a liter of trinitrotoluene in the chemistry lab and blew it up one Saturday afternoon. But no one ever knew what had been blown up. It seemed I was the only one who knew the monument was there. It was thought to be a Harvard prank. Later, in New York, whenever there was a plane crash, I would scan the passenger list to see how many Southerners had been killed.”
“And yet you are not one of them.” Sutter nodded toward the Thigpens.
“No.”
“Are your nationalistic feelings strongest before the onset of your amnesia?”
“Perhaps they are,” said the engineer, gazing at himself in the buzzing blue light of the mirror. “But that’s not what I’m interested in.”
Sutter gazed at him. “What are you interested in?”
“I—” the engineer shrugged and fell silent.
“What is it?”
“Why do they feel so good,” he nodded toward the Deltans, “and I feel so bad?”
Sutter eyed him. “The question is whether they feel as good as you think, and if they do, then the question is whether it is necessarily worse to feel bad than good under the circumstances.”
“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” said the engineer irritably.
“One morning,” said Sutter, “I got a call from a lady who said that her husband was having a nervous breakdown. I knew the fellow. As a matter of fact, they lived two doors down. He was a Deke from Vanderbilt, president of Fairfield Coke and a very good fellow, cheerful and healthy and open-handed. It was nine o’clock in the morning, so I walked over from here. His wife let me in. There he stands in the living room dressed for work in his Haspel suit, shaved, showered, and in the pink, in fact still holding his attaché case beside him. All in order except that he was screaming, his mouth forming a perfect O. His corgi was howling and his children were peeping out from behind the stereo. His wife asked me for an opinion. After quieting him down and having a word with him, I told her that his screaming was not necessarily a bad thing in itself, that in some cases a person is better off screaming than not screaming—except that he was frightening the children. I prescribed the terminal ward for him and in two weeks he was right as rain.”
The engineer leaned a degree closer. “I understand that. Now what I want to know is this: do you mean that in the terminal ward he discovered only that he was not so bad off, or is there more to it than that?”
Sutter looked at him curiously but did not reply.
“Did you get in trouble with him too?”
Sutter shrugged. “It was a near thing. His wife, who was a psychiatrically oriented type, put him into analysis with an old-timey hard-assed Freudian—they’re only to be found down here in the South now—and he went crazy. Of course I got the blame for not putting, him into treatment earlier. But she didn’t sue me.”
The engineer nodded toward the Deltans. “What about them?”
“What about them?”
“Would you put them in the terminal ward?”
“They’re not screaming.”
“Should they be screaming?”
“I should not presume to say. I only say that if they were screaming, I could have helped them once. I cannot do even that now. I am a pathologist.”
The engineer frowned. He felt a stirring of anger. There was something unpleasantly ironic about Sutter’s wry rapid way of talking. It was easy to imagine him ten years from now haunting a barroom somewhere and pattering on like this to any stranger. He began to understand why others made a detour around him, so to speak, and let him alone.
12.
He couldn’t sleep. As he lay at attention listening to the frolic in John Houghton’s room below, he began to skid a little and not recollect exactly where he was, like a boy who wakes in a strange bed. In the next bed Jamie breathed regularly. By three o’clock in the morning he was worse off than at any time since Eisenhower was President when he had worked three months for a florist in Cincinnati, assaulted by the tremendous déjà vus of hot green growing things.
At last he went out to the landing and, seeing a light under Sutter’s door, knocked. Sutter answered immediately. He was sitting in the wagonwheel chair, dressed in the same clothes, feet flat on the floor, arms lying symmetrically on the rests. There was no drink or book beside him.
At last Sutter turned his head. “What can I do for you?” The naked ceiling bulb cast his eye sockets into bluish shadow. The engineer wondered if Sutter had taken a drug.
“I have reason to believe I am going into a fugue,” said the engineer matter-of-factly. He turned up the collar of his pajamas. It was cold in here. “I thought you might be able to help me.”
“Jimmy is in there dying. Don’t you think I should be more concerned with helping him?”
“Yes, but I am going to live, and according
to you that is harder.”
Sutter didn’t smile. “Why do you ask me?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Tell me what you know.”
“Why don’t you get married and live happily ever afterwards?”
“Why was that man screaming that you told me about? You never did say.”
“I didn’t ask him.”
“But you knew why.”
Sutter shrugged.
“Was it a psychological condition?” asked the engineer, cocking his good ear.
“A psychological condition,” Sutter repeated slowly.
“What was wrong with him, Dr. Vaught?” The pale engineer seemed to lean forward a good ten degrees, like the clown whose shoes are nailed to the floor.
Sutter got up slowly, scratching his hair vigorously with both hands.
“Come over here.”
Sutter led him to the card table, which had been cleared of dirty swabs but which still smelled of fruity Hoppe’s gun oil. He fetched two chrome dinette chairs and set them on opposite sides of the table.
“Sit down. Now. I think you should go to sleep.”
“All right.”
“Give me your hand.” Sutter took his hand in the cross-palm grip of Indian wrestling. “Look at me.”
“All right.”
“Does it embarrass you to hold hands with a man and look at him?”
“Yes.” Sutter’s hand felt as dry and tendinous as broomstraw.
“Count to thirty with me. When we finish counting, you will then be able to do what I tell you.”
