Some Came Running

by James Jones

  “She had an argument with her daddy,” Dave said.

  “That’s what I figured. About going to school. You know how I figured? Because every time that happens, she stands me up. See, Frank wants her to go to school, but she wants to go to New York and—”

  “I know all about it,” Dave said. “But this argument was about literature.”

  Wally nodded. “Well, she asked me and I advised her to go to New York, if she felt like that and wants to be an artist. Run off if she had to.”

  “I didn’t advise her anything,” Dave said. “It’s a pretty tough proposition, to break into the stage in New York.”

  “True,” Wally said. “True, true. On the other hand, lots of other girls have done it, Mr Hirsh.”

  “Yes,” Dave said. “By sleeping with all the stage managers, and producers, and male leads and female leads and coaches, that they have to sleep with first.”

  “You forgot the agents,” Wally said.

  “And agents,” Dave nodded. “And producers’ brothers-in-law, too, for that matter.”

  “I really don’t see what difference all that makes, though,” Wally said. “If a girl really wants to act. If she has that drive to greatness. Girls all get had sooner or later. It seems to me you’re getting old, and conservative, Mr Hirsh.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Dave said.

  “Well, if we intend to get laid—sooner or later,” ’Bama said, “we better get movin.”

  “You getting Dave here all fixed up with something?” Wally grinned at him. “Hey. Hey.”

  “Well, I’m tryin” ’Bama said. “It’s them three up in that booth alone. We can’t decide which two. Whyn’t you go along with us and take one?”

  “Noo, I guess not,” Wally said, a little wistfully. “Not tonight. I got to work tomorrow. I know your parties. Anyway, I know that Ginnie. She was in the same grade with me in school. She was sleeping with everybody in our class in the sixth grade and even grown men, before I ever knew what it was all about.”

  “I admit they ain’t a whole hell of a lot,” ’Bama said. “But it’s the best I could do under the circumstances, on such short notice.”

  “’Tisn’t much, but I give it to you in the name of the Lord,’” Wally said, “as my grandmother used to say when she handed her leftovers to the bums. You know, there don’t seem to be near as many bums as there used to be thirty, forty years ago when my grandmother used to feed them,” he said with the surprised air of a discovery. “I wonder why?”

  Dave sat silent, listening to the two of them talk, ’Bama with that strange pleased happiness that seemed to come over him whenever Wally was around, Wally with that same strained almost painful effort to be amenable to be regular that he had noticed before. My God, had that been today? Perhaps Wally was right: Maybe he was getting old, and conservative. Mr Hirsh. It made him mad. Not mad at Wally. But mad at the idea that anybody could think that about him. He looked at him; Wally was still talking frenetically to ’Bama, who was grinning.

  “You know, Wally, if you and I love the world too much,” he said suddenly, “that’s not the world’s fault, it’s our own.” Pompous, he thought, pompous.

  Wally stopped talking and looked at him thoughtfully. “That’s true,” he said.

  “The world didn’t ask us to,” Dave said.

  Wally nodded. “That’s right, it didn’t,” he said. “And it’s unnatural of us. And anybody who has this need to love—”

  “And be loved by—” Dave said.

  “The world, I mean really love,” Wally defined, “not just pretend and give it lip service,” thinking it out as he went along, “I don’t know how to say it, love to the point of self-destruction I guess, is really, when the world hasn’t asked us for it, has no place for it really, is really a real neurotic. Neurotic in the sense of being contrary to nature. How far would an amoeba or a lion get on love?”

  “Not far,” Dave said.

  “I don’t understand all this hifalutin crap,” ’Bama said, “but if we want to make them women, we’d better get our tails up there. You want to just sit with us, Wally?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Thanks. I think I’ll just sit here and drink my beer. I’ve got some things I want to think about,” he said. He turned to look at Dave, who was getting to his feet. “I take back everything I said this afternoon, Mr Hirsh,” Wally said. “Even though I meant it. It’s your affair. You have to work your own way out of the hole. Everybody does.”

  “Sure,” Dave said. “From the frying hole into the pan. See you later, Wallace Dennis,” he said, “Wallace French Dennis.”

  Wally grinned. “Guess I’ll have to change my pen name.”

  “Come on,” ’Bama said. “Dave. If we’re goin.”

  He had used the name again, in that same way. Dave followed him, moving in that frightful, boiling energy of arrogant frustration that made everything seem perspectiveless, unconnected, but having drunk enough now to have dulled the painful down into the only dully malicious, followed him up along the bar to the booth, where the three young women sat of whom he was to choose just one.

  It did not take him long. With the same sense of belligerent challenge he had felt before he chose the same one he had picked before sight unseen as we used to say with marbles he thought uproariously: Rosalie. And immediately he had picked her, began to ignore her and to antagonize her in just about every way available. He happened to be sitting beside her, with ’Bama sitting across from him with the other two. It suddenly seemed to him too much effort to keep swinging his head around to include her, it made his neck stiff. Why should he make himself uncomfortable? He directed all his conversation across the table.

  ’Bama, who was no inexperienced slouch at this game, had understood immediately which one he’d picked, and at once had started subtly directing everything toward that end, committing them as soon as possible to the two, to Rosalie and Mildred, and letting Ginnie know she was out.

  ’Bama kept signaling him with his forehead and eyes to let up a little, take it easy. Dave ignored it. He couldn’t help it.

  He had got off to a very slow start, anyway. When ’Bama had introduced them, and named Mildred’s last name as Pierce, he had grinned with heavy levity:

  “Sure, I know you. There’s a novel about you by James M Cain.”

  Mildred had laughed rather weakly; she was evidently used to this. “I saw the movie,” she said. “I didn’t know there was a book.”

  “Sure. Jim Cain’s a good friend of mine out on the Coast. Do you know Jim?” he said.

  “Not really,” Mildred smiled, though with a good deal less interest. “You see, that movie’s not really about me.”

  “I’ll have to tell Old Jim I saw you,” he said with the same heavy levity, ladling it on.

  Mildred laughed, a little coldly. “Please do. I’m sure he’ll be glad to know.”

  “I’ll make a note of it,” he grinned, and sat down heavily.

  Beside Rosalie.

  Rosalie had already been introduced to him, before the exchange on James M Cain. She had met him with the thin smile and raised brows of a very superior person and said hello as if she were dropping a pearl of rarest price. After that, sitting by her, tongue-tied and irritable, he made three short remarks to her, which she answered in a similar vein and even more shortly and then sat back and waited, looking at him as if he had been hired to entertain her. When he stopped talking to her, she lapsed into silence and, leaning back in her corner, hurt and still superior, drank her beer and smiled thinly and listened with raised eyebrows. It was an old pattern. He had known all along what would happen. She was really a very good-looking girl. Except for her face. Not ugly. Just plain. If her height sitting in the booth was any indication of her height standing, she was probably three or four inches taller than him.

  With ’Bama still signaling at him, he began to talk with the other one. Ginnie Moorehead, she had been introduced as. Both of the other two, Ginnie and Mildred, we
re apparently trying to be nice to him. Especially Ginnie.

  She was a horror, all right. But not quite the horror ’Bama had described. Or maybe I’m drunk he thought. She wasn’t really fat, just dumpy. Her breasts were of that type which before very long would appear to be one solid roll of flesh from armpit to armpit, rather than two separate entities. They were almost there now. She had a moon face with almost no nose, which was considerably enhanced by a double chin. Her shoulders were round, and to all intents and purposes, she was waistless. She hunched. But all of that was not so especially bad, if it had not been for her eyes. They were as blue as Dewey’s, but washed out and vague instead of icy, and they had an intent look of inarticulate, frightened dullness.

  “So you live in California? In Hollywood?” Ginnie said, evidently trying to play along with ’Bama’s suggestion that they not let on they knew about Dave. She had apparently accepted the fact that she wasn’t going.

  “Yes,” Dave said, “that is I used to before I got drafted.”

  “I’m a singer myself,” Ginnie said.

  “Oh, is that right? Where?”

  “Well, not now, so much. Just a little, locally. But before— Oh, Terre Haute, Vincennes, Danville. Durin the war, I lived in Ind’anapolis, you know where Camp Atterbury is, and sang in two three clubs over there. I love to sing,” she said anxiously.

  “Well, it can be a great source of pleasure,” Dave said.

  “I don’t suppose you’re connected with the movies,” she said. “Out there.”

  “No,” Dave grinned. “As a matter of fact, a great many people live in Los Angeles who are not connected with the movies.”

  “I imagine that’s true,” Ginnie said. “I figured you weren’t, anyway. I’ve always figured on movin out there myself someday,” she said looking off at the bar, “and givin it a whirl. As a singer, you know.”

  Dave stifled himself from shouting with laughter. For a moment, he did not trust himself to answer.

  “Well, I reckon it would be an interesting experiment,” he said, and drank from his beer.

  “How you doing, Rosalie?” ’Bama asked. “Ready for another beer?”

  “I don’t know,” Rosalie smiled. “It’s gettin pretty late.”

  “That’s right, it is,” ’Bama said. He looked at his watch. “If we’re goin to go anywhere, we better get movin. Don’t you think, Dave?”

  “Where you going?” Rosalie asked.

  “Don’t know,” ’Bama said. “Indianapolis I guess.”

  “How long you going to be gone?”

  “Don’t know,” ’Bama said. “All depends on how we feel. May come back tomorrow, may stay three four days.”

  “Okay,” Rosalie said, smiling. “I’ll go.”

  ’Bama nodded indifferently; and Dave sat rooted, wondering how he did it. It was amazing. Absolutely amazing. It was unbelievable.

  “Well, Ginnie, I hate to break it up,” ’Bama said, “but I guess we’d better get started. If we want to get there before morning.”

  Again, Dave sat rooted, speechless.

  “Yeah,” Ginnie said, looking at the tall man with her washed-out eyes, “Well, have a good time.”

  “I don’t know if I ought to go or not,” Mildred Pierce said. “But I’m going anyway and to hell with it,” she added. “You tell the foreman I got some bad hamburger or somethin, Ginnie. We both work in C cup,” she explained to Dave.

  “Tell him she came around,” ’Bama said.

  “Can’t,” Mildred said. “I used that last week.”

  “I’ll fix it some way,” Ginnie said, somewhat wistfully.

  They had all risen.

  “You got another beer comin at the bar, Ginnie,” ’Bama grinned.

  In the next booth, Dewey and Hubie both had their arms around their girls, whispering, two closed couples rather than a foursome. They both looked up as ’Bama passed them.

  “You sure you guys don’t want to come along,” ’Bama said. “We can find room. We have before.”

  Hubie made as if to speak, looking anxious, then thought better of it.

  “Naw, I guess not,” Dewey said. He had been glaring at the silent Hubie. “We got to do that job tomorrow.”

  Hubie looked greatly relieved. He did not say anything.

  “Some other time, then,” ’Bama grinned. He ushered the two girls out.

  They went outside in single file, ’Bama first, then the two girls Rosalie and Mildred, and Dave bringing up the rear. Dave was aware that there were still other people, quite a few other people, still in the bar and yet at the same time it was as if he moved through a profound and frighteningly empty silence in a closed and empty bar where no one was, except the four of them. He followed them out and shut the door behind him.

  Outside, the snow had slacked up some, but it was still deepening on the street and sidewalk. ’Bama led the way to the Packard, the cinders beneath the snow crunching under their feet.

  “You think we can get to Indi’napolis?” Rosalie asked him in her abrupt way. “In this snow?”

  “I’ve driven there worse nights than this,” ’Bama grinned. “Besides, this’ll all be worn off the highway already.” He got in and started the heater.

  He was right, or at least partially so. When they got back downtown and on around the square to Wernz Avenue, the main street, which was also the highway, they found most of the snow was gone off the street just like he said. Out of town, on the pavement, it was even better.

  Nevertheless, for Dave, in his peculiarly locked-up, sensitized state of mind, that wild, midnight ride to Indianapolis, dreamlike if not actually nightmarish, remained forever afterwards the epitome of what a Walpurgis Night Witches’ Sabbath could—could? should!—be. Never would there be such another.

  ’Bama drove intently, peering forward over the wheel, hardly talking, pushing without taking chances—undue chances, Dave amended. Every time he pulled out to pass a spluttering diesel truck, the Packard slid dangerously for a split second as they crossed the slush roll from one set of tire tracks to the other. He drove expertly. Nobody passed him. And he passed just about every car on the road between there and the city.

  In the backseat, Dave tried to make some time with Rosalie. She allowed him to put his arm around her. He even was permitted to kiss her. It was awkward work in an Army greatcoat. He had never felt lonelier in his life. Finally, he scared up enough nerve to put his hand inside her coat. She didn’t move. All she did was say in a loud voice:

  “Please take your hand off my breast!”

  He did. As quickly as if he had put it on a hot stove.

  “Now damn it, Rosalie!” ’Bama said. “Cut out all this crap!”

  “I just don’t want anybody to think I’m easy,” Rosalie said in her brusque way.

  “Well, I’m sure nobody does,” ’Bama said. “So cut the crap.”

  “I don’t like some joker happy-handing me in the backseat of a car just because I agreed to go on a party with him.”

  “Thank you,” Dave murmured. He had already withdrawn his arm from around her.

  “Well,” ’Bama sneered from the front seat, “that’s fine, Rosalie. I respect your integrity. But you better cut the crap with my friend Dave because I’d hate to have to stop and kick you out.”

  “You’d do it, too, wouldn’t you?” Rosalie said in a brassy voice.

  “You know damn well I’d do it.”

  Rosalie said nothing further. Dave had already withdrawn to his own corner behind ’Bama and lighted a cigarette and the hell with it. Rosalie looked at him once, but he did not look back. Instead he watched the silhouette of ’Bama’s hat, pulled forward now, against the light of the headlights. Outside the window, the silent snow still fell. He felt a sudden warm uprush of such a powerful emotion for the sneering gambler it almost brought tears to his eyes. He crushed out the cigarette and leaned forward.

  “How you doin, buddy?” ’Bama said, glancing back.

  “Fine,” Dave said.
“Fine.” He hesitated. “You know, I’m going to stay on in Parkman,” he said in a low voice.

  “Is that right?”

  “Frank and I got a business deal cooked up.”

  “How long’ll you stay?” ’Bama said. Ahead of them, the taillights of a car appeared.

  “I don’t know,” Dave said. Over on her side of the front seat, Mildred Pierce was sound asleep. Rosalie was smoking a cigarette, staring out the window.

  “We’re going to start a taxi service in Parkman,” he said softly to ’Bama. He had no fear at all of telling him.

  “Yeah? Well, if yore in with Frank, you’ll do all right, believe me,” ’Bama said. He began to slow a little as the brightening taillights ahead slowly turned into the back end of a car. “Some poor bastard,” ’Bama said as he swung out to pass and the Packard slid sickeningly in the slush, “out on a night like this. What do you want to stay in Parkman for?”

  “Oh. I don’t know. No reason,” Dave said. “Got nothin better to do right now.” It seemed to him that ’Bama had taken the startling news awfully easily.

  “That schoolteacher gal, hunh?” ’Bama said, swinging the Packard back in and again it yawed.

  “Christ, no!” Dave protested. “No, I just thought I’d give the old hometown a whirl for a while.”

  “Okay,” ’Bama said.

  “Listen,” Dave said, “what’re we gonna do when we get to Indianapolis.”

  “Oh. Get some rooms at the Claypool,” ’Bama said. “Or someplace. Throw a party,” he said, raising his voice. “Don’t mind that pig Rosalie back there. She’ll come around. Remember I told you she was hard to get along with.”

  “Are you referrin to me?” Rosalie asked brusquely.

  “Yas, I’m referrin to you,” ’Bama said. “Who else is back there with you. Now shut up. You just earned yourself a pretty bad reputation, as far as I’m concerned. Don’t mind them,” he said to Dave. “We get over here and get to drinkin, they’ll be all right.”

  “I do not plan,” Rosalie said, “on doin any drinkin.”

  “Then I’ll pour it over yore head,” ’Bama sneered. “Or down yore throat. Shut up.