by James Jones
While up the street treading his way back to the square, Frank chewed on his cigar complacently. Underneath his complacency was an additional feeling of sad but implacable pride. He didn’t mind being called a son of a bitch. He probably had just as much of the son of a bitch in him as the next man. But Dave shouldn’t have called him that. Even if it was true. He’d been like a father to that boy all his life. Still, it had all turned out all right. It had been obvious from the start that no matter what he did, Dave was not going back to work at the stand like he’d hoped. So he’d given that up right away. But he couldn’t have sent Dave a check for six thousand if Dave had decided to take it. He didn’t have it now. Of course, he could have sold Dave his own interest, and put the money in on the bypass. But the taxi stand was a pretty good little investment and he didn’t want to let go of it, he thought. So it had all worked out fine. Damn! he’d sure had a lot of money in that wallet. Of course, it was probably all ones and fives. But it might be fifties and hundreds. If it was he sure wished there was some way he could have got him to invest it in on the bypass!
When Dave told ’Bama about the contest after the gambler got back to town, the tall man merely grinned. It was a good enough way to settle it as any. Dave would have the income off his share, and it ought to be worth more all the time.
For the rest of the week, it took Judge Deacon to find a suitable house for them, they spent their time loafing—that is, gambling—and hung out at Ciro’s and at Smitty’s Bar with Dewey and Hubie and the brassiere factory set. It was a very far cry from the high life they had lived up and down Miami Beach, although only Dave appeared to miss it; and everybody was very interested about the house they were going to get.
The house which the judge finally secured for them was not on Wernz Avenue, but just as close as he could get, without actually violating ’Bama’s instructions. It was located on West Lincoln, the first street south of Wernz, five blocks from the square in the west end, a big old-fashioned two-story clapboard house, with a wide front porch and a long backyard, and it was owned by Mr and Mrs Gene Alberson, the parents of Harold Alberson, who were retiring from Gene’s office job at the Sternutol and moving to St Petersburg, Florida, while Harold was taking a couple of rooms with friends of the family on the other side of town. The judge had leased it in his own name, and the Albersons did not know who was getting it.
Dewey and Hubie rode out with them and the judge the afternoon they went out to see it, making humorous remarks about setting up housekeeping.
“Hell, I never thought we’d be bosom buddies to a couple of faggots did you, Hubie?” Dewey said, lolling back in the backseat. “You guys shore learned a lot down there in Miami, hunh, Hubie?”
“It just goes to show you,” Hubie said, his elbow on the armrest. “You cain’t be shore of nobody no more, even your own friends. Hell, it’s lible to ruin our own reputations, you know it, Dewey?”
“You better scoot down in the seat, and not let anybody see you sittin up there, Hubie,” Dewey said.
“No wonder that Dave’s put on so much weight,” Hubie said, scooting himself down in the seat; “I think he’s pregnant.”
“No, I think it’s ’Bama who’s pregnant,” Dewey disagreed. “Look at his belly.” They looked at each other and then both reached for another can of beer from the box of them on the floor.
“I ain’t had nothin to do with faggots since I ran onto them Marines in New Britain, and they was just ama-toors,” Hubie called, “but if ever one of you guys decides to get a divorce, you let me know. I’m allus willin to learn. Is that it?” he said, as the car stopped.
“Why don’t you bums shut up?” ’Bama said, “or Ah’ll cut off yore beer. It looks all right to me, Judge,” he said.
“It better,” the judge said. “I’ve done already leased it. Now it ain’t furnished, you understand. Hand me one of them beers there, Dewey,” he said.
“Well, let’s go have a look,” ’Bama said.
Over the front door, which was set off to one side, was an old-fashioned transom of stained glass. “I like that window light,” ’Bama said as they approached it. Inside, the empty house echoed to their footsteps. “They left it cleaned up pretty good,” Dewey admitted. From the front door, the hallway with the stairs on the outside wall extended back and beyond it was a narrow kitchen. To the right of the hall was the living room separated from it by an open arch of varnished oak spool turnings, and behind it was another room and behind this still another, which opened into the kitchen and was evidently the dining room. Upstairs were four bedrooms and a large bath.
“Christ, we’re sure gonna have to buy a lot of furniture to furnish this place!” Dave said.
“Never you mind,” ’Bama said. “We’ll fix it. Now,” he said when they were back down in the hall, and pointed to the oak spool turnings. “Can we yank all that junk out of there, Judge?”
“I don’t know about that,” the judge said. “I’ll have to write the Albersons about that.”
“But we got the right to paper and repaint the insides, ain’t we?” ’Bama said.
“That was the agreement.”
“Okay. Now you two halfwits think you can paint and paper this place in the next week?” he asked Dewey.
“Well, I don’t know,” Dewey said. “We’re awful busy right now.”
“At least five houses waitin on us right now,” Hubie nodded.
“Hell with them,” ’Bama snarled. “Let them wait.”
“Will you furnish the beer?” Hubie said.
“All the beer you can drink”—’Bama held up one finger—“as long as it don’t ruin the paint job.”
“We’ll do it!” Hubie cried.
“You’ll have to pick out your paints and papers first, you know,” Dewey said.
“Do that this afternoon,” ’Bama said. “We’ll all go down to Merritt’s Paint Store.”
“Well, we trade at Wolff’s, me and Hubie,” Dewey said.
“Okay. Then we’ll go there.”
“We might be able to get it done in a week,” Dewey said.
“No mights!” ’Bama said. “Me and Dave’ll come out and help on the crude work that don’t take no master’s touch like you guys got.”
“Hell, anybody can hang paper,” Dewey said.
“Not me,” Dave protested. “I’ve never even tried it.”
“Hell, we’ll show you,” Dewey said.
They all stood in the hall and looked around at the place holding their beer cans. The fat judge ambled off toward the kitchen.
“Here’s a good writin room for Dave,” he called. They walked back to where he stood at the end of the hall, and looked at a small room that jutted out from under the stairs and back into a corner of the kitchen. “Even got a window there,” the judge said.
’Bama looked at Dave. “Sure,” Dave said. “Make me a hell of a fine writin room.”
“Good!” ’Bama said, and they all walked back down the hall. “Who’s gonna go out and get some more beer?” ’Bama said.
“Me!” Hubie said. “I volunteer!” He set down his empty and went to the door.
“You won’t want to do all them upstairs rooms and furnish them, will you?” Dewey said.
“Every room gets done,” ’Bama said. “Done and furnished. If there’s goin to be any parties around here, I want to be damn sure everybody has a room to take his woman to. There’ll be no damn sleepin with in the living room. We’re gonna be respectable around here.”
“Well, we might be able to get it done anyway.”
“Get it done!” Hubie cried, bursting in the door with the box of beer. “Hell, this won’t be no job! This is a vacation!”
“All right,” ’Bama said. “Now let’s drink up this beer and get down to Wolff’s and pick out that paper and stuff.”
In a week, it was done. Dewey was able to borrow a medium-sized Army surplus truck for the furniture. And Dave and ’Bama, dressed in old-fashioned bib-type overalls and railroade
rs’ caps, made run after run to Terre Haute to bring back the furniture, which ’Bama bought from a gambling buddy he knew from around the Terre Haute clubs. At ’Bama’s instance, they did all the upstairs rooms first, and as soon as the paint was dry, the two of them made the hauls to Terre Haute for the furniture that would go in the bedrooms.
Long before it was even finished that week, it was all over town that they had taken the Albersons’ house, and Wally Dennis came down to help, too, in the afternoons after he got through writing for the day.
“Men, you ought to hear my old mom go on about this here place to her club,” he grinned, paint specks on his face. “I sit up at the top of the stairs and listened. Accordin to the Diana Club ladies, it’s a regular den of iniquity and something ought to be done about it but don’t worry, none of them ladies will. They all get their kicks talkin.” He paused and painted a few strokes. “Christ! When I told her I was helpin, she like to threw a bigger fit than when I first made her let me keep beer in the icebox.”
The house was in fact only about three blocks from Wally’s. It stood on the south side of Lincoln among other ordinary houses, but directly across the street were the better-than-ordinary houses whose backyards abutted against the big backyards of the big houses on West Wernz, and the north side of Lincoln was not to be sneered at.
“It’s a damn good thing Parkman’s too backward to ever made any zoning laws,” Wally chuckled, “or you guys would be unzoned.” He was, quite clearly, jealous as hell of both of them. He would, he said, come live with them himself if he didn’t have to take care of his mom, whether he was invited or not. Wally had garnered a good bit of publicity himself, when both papers printed that he had been awarded the thousand-dollar fellowship; but when he peered in through the door at Dave’s writing room, he could not hide his envy.
When it was all done and all the furniture moved in, they gave a housewarming party. Everyone who was anyone in the lower echelons of Parkman was invited. Judge Deacon came. The pick of the brassiere factory’s bunch were invited, and a number of the more habitual denizens of Smitty’s like Gus Nernst and his girlfriend Lorelei Shaw from Terre Haute; and Raymond Cole was there, on his best behavior with his hair combed and actually dressed up in a suit. Dewey brought his girl, Lois, and Hubie brought his girl, Martha Garvey. Mildred Pierce and Rosalie Sansome the statuesque were both there with a couple of the boys from Smitty’s, and Ginnie Moorhead—who, of course, had no date—though she wound up with two, at different times of the evening, just long enough to make quick trips upstairs to the bedrooms. There were even several younger members (war veterans all) of the Elks (and Country Club), who nevertheless liked to hang out at Smitty’s after work with the boys, and who had prevailed upon their wives to come. Smitty himself was there, without his wife, of course, but with several cases of cold beer. There had been much discussion at the house, while the work was still going on, about not forgetting to invite Smitty who, while he did not hang around with the gang much outside of working hours, was nevertheless still goodhearted and would be sure to come and bring a lot of beer, and would certainly be hurt if he were not invited. One-armed Eddie the bartender was there with his young wife and a fistful of openers, which he used diligently.
Earlier in the afternoon when just the four of them—’Bama and Dave, and Dewey and Hubie—were there getting ready for the party, Hubie had come in the front room with a beer and stretched himself out full length on the ultramodern divan. ’Bama had immediately gone over and slapped his feet down off it. “When yore around here, keep yore crappy feet off the furniture,” he had said in a chilling voice. “Or I’ll personally throw yore ass out.” There had been no question that he meant it.
Now, with the several roomfuls of guests chattering and holding glasses or beer cans and standing around ’Bama slipped off his loafers and got up on a chair in the living room and made a speech.
“Before the party gets goin, Ah want to say that y’all of you are welcome and I hope y’all have a good time. But the first one I see to set drinks down on the furniture or lay lit cigarettes on anything, out he goes! There’s plenty of Budweiser and Schlitz coasters stacked around, thanks to Smitty, and there’s plenty of ashtrays. Use ’em. Because if you don’t, I’ll shore as hell throw yore ass out.”
There were several cries of “Hear, hear!”
“It ain’t a joke,” ’Bama said, holding up both arms for quiet. “Dewey and Hubie are appointed as bouncers. And if they can’t handle somebody easy enough, I guess we can always call on Smitty and Eddie. With their experience, there oughtn’t to be any question.” This last got a good laugh and turned everyone’s feeling into good nature, and he climbed down and slipped his loafers back on and picked up his drink.
It was remarkable what a well-mannered party it was. There was a buffet lunch that disappeared at an astounding rate, along with the beer and the whiskey. But everyone was careful. Nobody got thrown out. Even Raymond Cole was exemplary. And Smitty was heard to remark that the next time he had a bunch of Elks and Country Club people to his house, he thought he would make the same damned kind of speech. The house was oohed and ahed over by the guests, but the thing that created the most interest was Dave’s little writing room under the stairs.
“I don’t see how anybody can jist sit there and write up things right out of their head,” Hubie said proudly as he showed it to a group of them. “I cain’t do it.” There was a chorus of agreement from the group of guests and everybody had another drink.
Earlier in the day, before the party, Wally Dennis who had come by to help had got Dave and ’Bama off privately and explained to them that he would like to bring Dave’s niece Dawn to the party. However, he was willing to forego this if they thought he should. On account of Frank and all.
“But I’ll tell you one thing, men,” Wally said. “You don’t have to worry about little old Dawn. She’s as close-mouthed as hell when she wants to be.”
“It’s up to Dave,” ’Bama said. “I don’t hardly know her. She’s a pretty little thing.”
“She’s a very sweet fine girl,” Wally said, looking uneasy, and staring at Dave.
“Sure, bring her along,” Dave had said. “What the hell.” And later, at the party, he had seen them come in, when he was too busy to even say hello. But the change in both was, even from that glimpse, immediately apparent. Again, he thought Well what the hell. It wasn’t any of his business. They’d have to work out their own damned sex life. Still later, when everything had quieted down, Wally had brought her, breasty and muscular-hipped, over to him.
“Hello, honey,” he said. “Havin a good time at our party?”
“Love it,” Dawn said, brilliant-eyed. She had a highball glass in her hand. “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. Where have all these people been all my life?”
“Most of them don’t exactly move in your circle,” Dave said. “Come on, I’ll show you my writin room.”
“I’d certainly one hell of a lot rather move in their circle than in mine,” Dawn said. “God! I’ve just been listening to Hubie tell how the Japanese officers carried their own faggots with them, and all the pornography he used to take off of them and sell to the Air Force.”
“You can get my tail even further in a sling with your old man than it is already,” Dave said. “If you’re not careful.”
Dawn grinned. “Don’t worry. Daddy doesn’t know anything Mother and I don’t want him to know.”
“Your mother would be just as bad,” Dave said. “If she ever found out you were here.”
“Mother never knows anything I don’t want her to know,” Dawn said, grinning wider. “Don’t worry, Dave.”
“Call me ‘Uncle,’” Dave said.
“Excuse me! Uncle,” Dawn said, making a little bow. “You shall be known as Uncle henceforth! Hear that, Wally?”
“Right,” Wally said. “Hello, Uncle.”
“That’s my boy,” Dawn said. “God! you’ve sure put on an awful lot of wei
ght, Uncle.”
“Uncle’s been living well,” Dave said. “Here we are.”
“Oh, it’s wonderful!” Dawn said, peering in through the door. “You ought to do really good work here. And you’d better, too. You know, you’re going to have an awful lot of competition, Uncle, from our boy here when I get him to New York.”
“Oh, are you two going to New York now?” Dave said.
“She is,” Wally said, looking uneasy. “And I think it’s a good idea for her. And I suppose I’ll wind up there, too, eventually.”
“Oh. You mean you’re not going together then?” Dave said.
“Oh no!” Wally said. “She’s going right after school’s out. I don’t know when I’ll get there.”
“I’ve got to get out of this damned town,” Dawn said. “And so does Wally. An artist can’t live and work in a crappy place like this. I don’t mean you. You’re not hemmed in and hampered by your parents like we are. You’re free,” she said.
“I hope so, Niece,” Dave said. “But sometimes Uncle doubts it.”
“God! You know who you sound like now, don’t you?” Dawn grinned, playing shamey-finger with the hand that held her glass. “That’s enough for me!” she said, and turned and started working her way back through the hall.
“You know, Gwen is wondering why you haven’t been over to see her, I think, Dave,” Wally said as he turned to follow Dawn.
“I’m going over,” Dave said. “As soon as we get settled in here.”
“You ought to,” Wally called back, and Dave watched him go—following Dawn—wondering at the changes that came in people—or at least what they liked to believe were changes.
Chapter 43
WALLACE FRENCH DENNIS, Holder of the Parkman College Fellowship for the Novel, was not unaware that there were changes. Furthermore, he was not totally foreign to the concept that what appeared to be changes might not be changes at all. In fact, he had been thinking about this a good bit lately. But so far he had not been able to isolate just what the hell these changes—or un-changes—actually were, either in himself or Dawnie. Or anybody else.