Some Came Running

by James Jones

  Chapter 30

  FRANK FELT DAMNED RIGHT enough, when he finally heard about it. He may or may not have been subconsciously aware of his old man’s Benediction, but he was convinced that the old bastard had gone and done this thing deliberately, just to cause his eldest son embarrassment. Damned was exactly how he did feel. Damned to a life of being the perpetual laughingstock and punching bag of Parkman. It was hard to imagine what terrible evil deed he must have committed in his life, to be cursed with the father he had had forced upon him. But whatever it was it must have been really something.

  Frank could think of so many men, hundreds in fact, who would have made him a decent father. And instead, what did he have? Not only the orneriest, most vicious, most irresponsible—but also apparently one of the longest-lived. You’d think the very least the old son of a bitch could do was die. Now everybody in town would be laughing at him behind his back over this family escapade. And after he’d just cleaned up Dave’s.

  Actually, Frank did not learn the news until a couple of weeks after the night Old Vic had tried unsuccessfully to get hold of Jane again. And he probably would not have learned it then, if he had not gone into Ciro’s for a beer with Judge Deacon just after work to discuss some business. Judge had gotten over his pique about the taxi service and was apparently back on the best of terms again—if you could even use that phrase in connection with Judge, Frank thought. Frank was still leery of him just the same.

  Well, there had been a bunch of those girls from the brassiere factory in there, that bunch which ran around with Dewey Cole and Hubie Murson. And he had just happened to overhear. They were talking about the Old Man and Jane Staley.

  Actually, it wasn’t scandal. It wasn’t even gossip. The girls just thought it was cute. And probably no one else in town, except that bunch who hung around the bars, knew about it. But that didn’t make it any more palatable to Frank. He would bet the whole town would hear about it eventually.

  The judge apparently read his face, because he grinned in that malevolent way of his and said in his sneering voice:

  “You mean you ain’t heard about Jane and Old Vic, Frank? Why, that’s the newest hottest love affair on The Strip.” That was what the judge called the run from Ciro’s to Smitty’s.

  “Is that right?” Frank said, and passed it off. But later on he thought of mentioning it to Agnes when he got home that night, and discussing it with her. He was beginning to get over his serious loss, in Geneve, a little. But Agnes had been needling him about his family for years and comparing it to hers. Whenever she was mad at him. And anyway she was still being too damned kind to him because of her triumph over Geneve. And that meant she would be sympathetic with him about the Old Man now. Although she sure wouldn’t like it. Any more than he did. He didn’t think he could endure her sympathy, so he decided not to mention it at all.

  He had already decided not to tell his mother. It would only upset her needlessly and call forth that cold, frightening anger which any mention of the Old Man always caused in her. He was still going up to see her once a week in the apartment he had leased for her at the Wernz Arms, and had been trying to get Dave to go up with him, too. She was a strong old woman, he thought fondly, the kind that had made this country great; like the Pioneer Mother. She had raised a big family and worked hard all her life, and it was time she had a little luxury and rest. She would almost certainly find out about the Old Man and Jane Staley from the members of her church anyway; but at least he would not be there to see it.

  From what he could find out—largely through his new spy Albie Shipe—the two old reprobates had only been out once or twice apparently, and it was nothing serious and all this talk about a love affair was only amusement on the part of the brassiere factory girls and the judge. But if it got to be general knowledge in town, Frank didn’t know what in hell he would do. Finally, for lack of anyone else, he talked about it to Edith Barclay at the store. There was just an off chance that she might be able to handle her grandmother. If anyone could handle her at all, Edith could.

  “I hear my old man and your grandmother are steppin out together now,” he said, trying to make it sound like an easy laugh.

  He must have failed, because Edith turned around and looked at him sympathetically. “I’m sorry if it’s causing you any embarrassment, Mr Hirsh.”

  “Embarrassment! Who, me?” he said. “Hell, no. I think it’s amusing.”

  “Well, I know what a thorn in your side your dad is, Boss,” Edith said delicately.

  “Hell, I don’t care what the old bastard does,” Frank said.

  “Well, I know it’s pretty hard on you sometimes on account of him,” she said. “What with trying to run a reputable business, and with the social position you have to keep up. It’s different with me and Jane. I don’t have any reputation to maintain.”

  “Yeah, I spose that does make a little difference in our viewpoints,” Frank said.

  “I guess I’ve gotten used to her ways over the years. Are you planning to let Jane go?” Edith said.

  “What?” he said, startled. “Hell, no. She’s the best cl— the best worker we’ve ever had at home. Been with us damn near since we were married. God no,” he said. “I just thought—you know—she might of said something about it to you.”

  “No, she hasn’t.” Edith turned around to him, looking thoughtful. “Jane hasn’t been quite herself lately,” she said. She sort of grinned. “I suspected she was maybe falling in desperate love again; you know—she had all the symptoms. But she seems to be getting over it, now, whatever it was. I couldn’t say anything to her about it for you.”

  “Oh no,” he said. “Course not.”

  “Jane lives her own life,” Edith said, still looking at him. “And I feel she has a right to. Even though I might disagree with her on a lot of things.” Here she flushed a little. “Anyway, she wouldn’t listen to anything I said to her anyway. Not Jane.”

  “No, not Jane,” Frank said. “In fact, she’d be more inclined to do just the opposite, I’d bet.”

  “Anyway, I like Jane!” Edith said defiantly.

  “Hell, of course you do!” Frank said. “I like her, too. Hell, the only reason I brought it up was because I find it so amusin.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t feel free to interfere in anything Jane did,” Edith said. “Although I hate to have her causing you embarrassment, Mr Hirsh. It’s funny, they’ve never run around together before. Your dad never used to hang around the bars much, I guess that’s probably why. I guess your dad never used to have the money to, did he?”

  Frank stared at her. Suddenly he snapped his fingers. “You’ve hit it, Edith! By God, you’ve hit it!”

  “Hit what?” Edith said, startled.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Forget it. Listen, if anyone wants me I’ll be back in half an hour.” He was up, had grabbed his topcoat and hat and was gone out the door before she could even answer, headed for the taxi stand.

  Yes, sir, that Edith was about the smartest, as well as the most understanding girl he had ever known! Put her finger right on it.

  At a half run, he burst into the taxi stand where Dave and Albie Shipe were both sitting reading, Dave at the desk near the phones, Albie over in the corner by himself.

  “I want to talk to you, you son of a bitch!” Frank said. “Have you—.” Then he saw Albie in the corner. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’m readin,” Albie said. He held out his comic book as proof.

  “You’re supposed to be off today.”

  “I’m loafin,” Albie said. “I got nothin better to do, y’see.”

  “Well, look,” Frank said. “Go get us all a Coke and bring it back, will you?”

  “Okay, Boss,” Albie said. “I’ll go right away. I’ll run all the way.” He shut his book and jumped up.

  “Take your time,” Frank said.

  “Okay,” Albie said. He grinned. “You want to give me the money first?”

  “Oh,” Fra
nk said. “Here.” He reached in his pocket.

  “Thanks, Boss,” Albie said. He winked and left.

  Frank could hardly wait. “Listen, have you been givin the old man money?” he said furiously.

  “What old man?” Dave said innocently. Dave had been watching him with Albie.

  “What old man! Our old man, damn you.”

  “Oh, you mean Old Man Herschmidt.”

  “Yes, Old Man Herschmidt!” Frank shouted. “You smart son of a bitch.”

  “Why, no,” Dave said. “Why? Should I have?”

  “Don’t lie to me!” Frank shouted. “I know you have. There wasn’t any other way he could get it!”

  “Okay, so what if I have?”

  “Well, you can’t do it anymore.”

  “I can’t?” Dave said. “Why can’t I?”

  “Stop needling me!” Frank shouted. “Because I say you can’t, that’s why! You’re gettin him into trouble. Hes been out layin Old Jane Staley with the money you been givin him.”

  Dave’s innocent look slowly crumpled up into a broad grin and he laughed. “Old Jane? No! Well, I’ll be goddamned,” he said.

  “If he gets to runnin around with Jane,” Frank said, “he’s goin to make me more of a laughingstock in this town than he has already. You keep on givin him money to hit the bars,” he warned, “and we will dissolve this damned partnership!”

  “Go ahead and dissolve the son of a bitch,” Dave said. “I’d just as soon you would, anyway.”

  “Now listen,” Frank said, more reasonably. “Be reasonable. You know the kind of reputation I’ve got to maintain in this town as a businessman. And you’ve got to help me.”

  “Well, don’t come running in here yelling at me like I was some of your hired help,” Dave said. “I’m sensitive.”

  “I’m sorry if I offended you,” Frank said. “But I was upset.”

  “Well, that upsets me,” Dave said. “I don’t know whether I’ll stop or not.”

  “Why do you hate me?” Frank said.

  “I don’t hate you!”

  “Yes, you do,” he said. “You both of you hate me. Why! Is it because I’m gettin to be successful? and neither one of you can stand it?”

  “Damn it, I don’t hate you,” Dave said—almost guiltily. He looked away, and then scratched at the back of his head. “I feel sorry for the old bastard,” he said. “I don’t like him any better than you do. But I don’t think I can look him in the eyes and tell him no. You see? Not because he’s our old man. But because I just can’t do that to anybody. I’m weak. Damn it all! I won’t know what to tell him.”

  “Well, that’s easy,” Frank said. “Just tell him you haven’t got it. Tell him you’re broke.”

  Dave looked surprised. “Yeah. I guess I could tell him that. I didn’t think of that.”

  “And after a while, he will know he ain’t goin to get any more and he will stop comin,” Frank said.

  “But he’ll know I’m lying,” Dave said. “I won’t be able to hide it. I never can.”

  “So what?” Frank said. “He won’t be able to prove it, will he?”

  “No, that’s right,” Dave said, looking surprised again. “He can’t prove it. And if he does know, what the hell difference does it make?”

  “That’s right,” Frank nodded.

  “Well, hell. It’s really easy,” Dave said, “ain’t it?” He should have felt happy about his discovery, but instead he looked irritable and unhappy.

  “Sure,” Frank said, “that’s all there is to it.”

  “You know, the old guy kind of tickles me,” Dave said with a big, wide grin. “He’s such a mercenary old devil.”

  “Well, he don’t tickle me,” Frank said.

  “Frank,” he said suddenly, “I’m not happy in this business. I wish I had my money back. I’m just not cut out to be a successful businessman like you are.”

  “I told you it would be rough for a while at the start,” Frank said.

  “I know it,” Dave said, “I know you told me. Frank, do you know why I really gave you that money and went into this thing like I did?”

  “Why?” he said.

  Dave opened his mouth, and was on the point of telling him the truth—but then he suddenly shut it again, and instead in a moment he said: “Because I thought I’d be able to sit back and draw down some income, and spend my time writing. I’ve got a book I want to write, Frank.” It was obviously a substitute statement, even to Frank.

  “You can do all that later, after we begin to make money,” Frank said.

  “Yeh,” Dave said. “Yeh, I guess.” Behind Frank the door opened and Dave turned his head to look as Albie Shipe came back in with the three Cokes.

  “Here you are, Boss!” Albie said, screwing up his face comically. “Three Cokes like you ordered.” He set two on the desk and took the third back with him to his corner.

  Frank picked his up, took a small sip out of it and set it back down. “You remember what I told you,” he said to Dave, and went to the door.

  Dave watched his brother through the window as Frank went back up the hill to the square. Dave felt irritable and badly repressed. Somehow or other Frank had managed to put it over on him again. He had not intended to promise he would stop giving the Old Man money. Why shouldn’t the Old Man have a little money? And in fact, he hadn’t promised. And yet, by God, it had ended up that way tacitly just the same anyway.

  “What was he mad about?” Albie said from the corner in his comic’s voice.

  “Maybe about life in general,” Dave said, “I guess.”

  “Well now that’s a good thing to be mad at,” Albie said. “I thought maybe he was mad because you been givin Old Man Herschmidt the money to go chasin around after Old Jane Staley.”

  Dave swung the swivel chair around to look at him, unable to resist an irritated grin.

  “But I guess life in general is a lot better thing to be mad at,” Albie said quickly. “There’s so much more opratunity.”

  Just then one of the phones on the desk rang. Dave picked it up.

  “606 South Beech,” he said and wrote it down and turned back to the window.

  “Old Lady Archey,” Albie said hollowly from the corner. “Wantin to go over to Miz Burdieu’s and gab awhile.”

  Dave didn’t bother to answer, and merely sat, staring out the window at the December town. The view was dismal under the cold gray damp day. This seemed to be three fourths of what this damned “job” consisted of: staring out the window.

  Since the rebellion of over two weeks ago Dave’s dissatisfaction with his “job” had been increasing steadily, instead of decreasing. So had his dissatisfaction with everything else. If he had thought more time off would help him, he couldn’t have been more wrong. And now Frank had to come over here and pull this on him!

  Quite suddenly, Dave felt like throwing the phones out through the pane and onto the public sidewalk. The “Rebellion for the Rights of Man in the Hirsh Taxi Service of Parkman, Illinois.” He could laugh about that now, yeah. My God no wonder Frank was inclined to think he was a screwball. He must have sounded pompous as hell. A regular idiot. Well—

  Well, what? Well, hell.

  The sad thing was, it hadn’t done him a damned bit of good, his Rebellion. Now he got every other Sunday off. And now he and Albie traded shifts so that he got every other evening and daytime off. He got just as much money as he had before. And he still couldn’t stand it. Just simply could not stand it; it was as simple as that.

  And it was making him so he hated everything. And consequently, everything was going badly: With some time off now, he had started on the book, and found he could not write. He was rusty. He could not concentrate. He could hardly string the words together, let alone give them meaning. Hell, even Wally Dennis was beating him.

  Also, he had had no appreciable success with Gwen. Didn’t she know how much he needed her? And she needed him. She wouldn’t have that guilt and that nymphomania if she had him. A
ll she needed was a little real love. He could give her that. And the more she held him off at arm’s length like this, the more it made him need her. Apparently, he was falling in love with her. My God, he must be crazy! really insane! he thought.

  Nevertheless, it was like a sudden revelation. A thought he had never entertained before. He was falling in love with her. Had fallen in love with her.

  Cocking his feet up on the windowsill, Dave continued to stare through the window—as though he believed in some mystical way that if he did this long enough, everything would miraculously change, would become all right.

  Maybe she was doing it on purpose. Just to make him fall in love with her. It had been easy to tell her he was in love with her before when he wasn’t—but now that he was he couldn’t. And he had seen her three times in the past two weeks, and every time the consensus of everything she had to say to him was why wasn’t he getting more work done on his book? On Sunday—his first full day off—he had driven over there to spend the day. In fact, he had not even waited till Sunday but had gone over in the middle of Saturday night. He probably shouldn’t have done that; but then how did he know they were going to act conventional?

  After closing up Saturday night at eleven-thirty, he had had several drinks by himself in the office and then had decided he would go over right now and not wait till tomorrow. They could all sit up and talk and have a good time like they did before. So he had gone over. He had had to pound on the door a long time before he raised anybody. Then they had come down, both of them, tousleheaded and in their pajamas and robes, to see what it was. Neither seemed very glad to see him. They did not sit up and talk. Bob showed him where to get a bottle of gin if he wanted it, and they both went back to bed. He sat up by himself and drank, in front of the fire, until finally he got sleepy too and went up to his room to bed. And all day Sunday, it was the same way. There was no rapport, no communion, no meeting of minds. He ate their food and took up their time, that was what it amounted to. He played Bob one poorly played game of chess. They did not talk about his book because Gwen said there wasn’t anything she could talk about until he had something to show her. In the afternoon, Wally Dennis had come over with part of a chapter he wanted Gwen to look at, and the two of them spent the afternoon huddled together in a corner. Bob read. Finally, he himself left without even waiting for supper. Nobody seemed especially perturbed to see him go. That night and the next, he struggled with the first chapter of his book and tried to write, and he couldn’t. The day after, which he had off, he couldn’t write, either. It was miserable; the writing, the trip, everything.