Some Came Running

by James Jones

  “You can?” Dave said. “Where? No you can’t,” he said, “look at the length.”

  “There’s a new publishing firm called New Living Literature. They’ve gone into the field of reprinting all the old classics in paperbacks. But in addition, they’re going to bring out a semiannual anthology of new writing. I know the publisher and several of the editors. The length of ‘The Confederate’ won’t matter to them, and neither will the controversial subject; in fact, that will help it. I’m sure I can get them to publish it.”

  “Well, Jesus!” Dave said. “I never thought of anything like that when I brought it over. I just wanted you to get your opinion.”

  “Well, I think it might be done,” Gwen said. Excitedly, then, she sort of passed her hand across her face, and then looked up at him with that same almost-but-not-quite-embarrassed smile of earlier. “You know, I was so worried about you! I thought you’d just quit, and given it up. But then I found out at the hotel that you’d taken your typewriter with you. But even so, it’s so easy to lie to yourself about working, you know?” Again, she passed her hand across her face embarrassedly.

  Dave wished suddenly he could just step around the table and get down on his knees and put his arms around her.

  “Tell me,” Gwen said, “those two men. Is one of them drawn from your friend the gambler?”

  “’Bama? No, no. Those are just two guys we happened to run into on the way to Miami. At Dering, Florida. But just the same, a lot of that story is due to ’Bama,” Dave said. “It was him who showed me what Southerners are really like. I always belonged to the ‘Sadistic School’ of the literati, like you were talking about. Until I got to know ’Bama.”

  “He sounds like a pretty remarkable person,” Gwen smiled. “You ought to bring him over some time.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact I’d like to,” he said. “You’ll want to watch out for him, though. He’s a great seducer of women.”

  Gwen laughed. “Then I’m sure he won’t be interested in me.” She reached out for the manuscript and pulled it to her and sat looking down at it, smiling.

  “I’m glad you changed your name,” she said, reading the title label on the cover, and then looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. “A thing like that can be very important to you, as a symbol.”

  “It didn’t change anything,” Dave said. “I’m still the same bum I’ve always been.”

  “No, it can be very important—to you,” she smiled. “It can give you a different—part to play. A different role to act, in life. That ‘D Hirsh’ you used to use was such a sort of literary affectation.”

  “But so is ‘David Herschmidt’ an affectation,” Dave said. “Isn’t it?”

  “Of course! But the point is, is it not a better affectation? for you, and what you want to accomplish?”

  “I suppose it is,” Dave said, thinking about what he hoped to accomplish—still hoped to accomplish. “Yes, I guess it is,” he grinned. “If you like it.”

  Excitedly, and still holding the manuscript, she stood. Then she folded it in against her breast, like a schoolchild carrying books, and yet still lovingly, too, and looked down at him. “Oh, you don’t know how I’ve worried about you the last six months! Afraid you’d just throw it all away! Or else start writing that same old trash again. You don’t know how I’ve worried!” she exclaimed, and smiled. “But this!” she said, bringing it forth again and looking at it, “This is great! This is the kind of writing you ought to have been doing long ago!” she said, and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek.

  Dave, who had been watching her hold his manuscript and looking at the part of that small right breast that swelled out around its edge, suddenly turned his head, and her lips came against his mouth.

  It seemed to him to last a very long time. But actually, of course, it didn’t. Nevertheless, he made a number of observations. There was that peculiar distinctive fragrance of hers, a sort of sweet-bittersweet aura, that he remembered well from the time he had been drunk and she had helped him on with his coat before he slept in the cornfield. It was delicious. Then there was the warmth of her body, radiating out from her. And her lips, light and cool, sealed against his mouth, her nose lightly touching his cheek. There was the light drift of that no-color hair against his face, and that lovely Gwen-French-fragrance coming from it. He partook of all of these hungrily, and filed them away. He had been wanting to kiss her for such a long time.

  Then Gwen straightened up—almost, actually, in the same instant she had discovered her lips were touching him on the mouth instead of on the cheek—and stood looking at him helplessly, as if she wouldn’t have done it for the world, and with a look of wide-eyed embarrassment at how it could have happened. Then her face changed slightly and knowledge came into it, seeing in him something which in her excitement over the story she had entirely forgotten about and which changed everything. Namely, love—or at least what he thought was love.

  She started to put her hand up to the side of her face and then stopped it midway and just left it.

  Dave said nothing. But his face displayed that he felt guilty and that he’d pulled a cheap trick on her. But he hadn’t even meant to do it, really.

  “Dave, I’ve got to tell you something about myself,” she said half desperately. Then abruptly she turned and looked down at the far end of the kitchen as if someone had just called to her.

  “Yeah?” he said. “What?”

  But instead of answering, she just continued to stare down the length of the kitchen.

  He did not understand. All right, so she had apparently completely forgotten he wanted to sleep with her, was in love with her. It was probably more his fault than hers. But even if it wasn’t, there wasn’t anything to be so terribly embarrassed about. Standing there, she looked totally helpless, and he thought she had never looked so lovely. He got up and went to put his arms around her.

  But before he could, she turned back toward him and moved away. “Don’t, Dave,” she said. “Please. Dave, I have to tell you.”

  “Okay,” he said, feeling awkward. “Tell me what? That you forgot? Hell, I don’t care. I—”

  “Forgot?” Gwen said. “Forgot what?”

  “About you and me. Okay, so what? Hell, it’s a compliment to the story. Hell, I love you.”

  For a moment, Gwen looked as if she were going to laugh. But she didn’t. “Dave, Dave,” she said. “Don’t say any more. You’ve been embarrassed enough already. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. My God, you’ll hate me!”

  “I could never hate you,” he said. “I love you.”

  “You really do? Do you really want me so much?”

  “Jesus Christ!” Dave said. “What do you think I did everything for? Why do you think I stayed in this town? and put all my money in that damned taxi service of Frank’s? What do you think I did all this writing for? Why do you think I’m staying here now? What do you think I went to Florida for?”

  “I know why you went to Florida,” Gwen said.

  “I thought you didn’t want me,” he said anyway. “What do you think I’ve done all this for?”

  “And you really did all of this for me?” she said. “Just because you wanted me?”

  “Why do you think? What else?”

  “But you don’t really love me. Not really. You just want to sleep with me. Isn’t that so? You don’t need me. Your writing is all you need, Dave. I have the feeling you never even see me when you look at me. You see a—a character in a book, maybe. A character in your life.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “I never tried to make you fall in love with me,” she said.

  Looking at her where she had backed up and leaned now against the countertop, Dave could only nod dumbly. “No, I guess you didn’t,” he said. He still could not understand what was going on.

  “You just want to sleep with me, but . . .” She stopped.

  “Hell, yes!” he said, into the gap. “Isn’t that a part of love?” />
  “It may be all of it,” Gwen said. “My God, how you’ll hate me!”

  “Hate you for what? I couldn’t hate you!”

  “For embarrassing you so. I never tried to make you fall in love with me,” she said again.

  “You never had to. Gwen, all I know is, I love you, and I need you.”

  “You do. All right,” she said. “Dave, go over and sit down in the chair. There’s something about myself I have to tell you. No, don’t look at me. If you look at me, I’ll never be able to tell you. Look away.”

  He sat down at the table and, finally, at her insistence, pulled his eyes away and turned around and sat staring at the coals in the fireplace.

  Behind him, there was silence.

  “Oh, I can’t!” Gwen said finally, and began to weep. “It’s too much to ask! I can’t!”

  He turned back around then, to see her slumped against the countertop, her face buried in her hands and her shoulders shaking as she cried.

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like!” she said from between her hands. “You don’t know what it’s like to be a woman! Oh, I can’t, I can’t,” she sobbed.

  “What is it, Gwen?” he said, alarmed. “You can tell me. Nothing can be that terrible.”

  She looked up at him then, her face contorted, her shoulders shaking as she drew great sobs of breath, tears streaming from the eyes that watched him; and he sat awkwardly, not knowing what to do, wanting desperately to go over to her, and just as desperately afraid to, afraid he would be rebuffed again.

  Then she took her hands away from her mouth and wiped them underneath her eyes. “I’ll tell you,” she said weakly. “I’m a cripple, that’s what!”

  “A what!” Dave shouted, terrible images fleeing through his mind. “You mean you’re a—a morphodite, or something?”

  Gwen did not even hear him. “A cripple, just like you,” she went on. “I’ve been in love with the same man all my life, just like you have been in love with that same girl out in Los Angeles. I’ve been in love with the same boy ever since high school.”

  Dave had not understood what was happening all this time. Now for the first time, it penetrated his thick German skull that after all the histrionics were over she might not be going to sleep with him after all, and he wanted to pound his knuckles on it for being so thick. God, what an ass! “Well,” he said lamely. “Well— I don’t believe it.”

  “I don’t care whether you believe it or not.” Gwen had stopped crying now, and was looking at him with bright, frightened eyes. “It’s the truth.”

  “Who was it? Was it anyone I knew?”

  “You probably knew him,” Gwen said. “His name was Milton Evans.”

  “Milton Evans?” Dave remembered the name. If he was right, Milton Evans had been a sort of a Milquetoast type. “Well, damn it, I still don’t believe it,” he said. “What happened to him?”

  Gwen shrugged. “He grew up. He went away to school. He got married.”

  “And he was the first one that ever—” he paused, “ever made love to you?”

  “Yes,” Gwen said.

  “You don’t mind if I mix myself a drink, do you?” Dave said.

  “No, of course not.” She went back to the table, where the manuscript of “The Confederate” lay. She sat down and picked it up.

  In silence, Dave got the things out of the cupboard. He walked down and got some ice cubes out of the refrigerator, looking at the copper skillets against the old brick as he passed. “Damn it, every time I come over here I always seem to wind up having to get drunk,” he said. He mixed himself a stiff martini.

  Gwen continued to look down at the manuscript cover.

  “What about all the other men?” he said finally. He took a big gulp of the drink.

  “The other men,” Gwen said. For a moment she did not say anything, and looked bright-eyed and guilty-faced.

  “If it upsets you to talk about them,” Dave said, “it’s all right.”

  “No. It doesn’t upset me. Anyway,” Gwen said, “I think you have the right to know. I suppose you could say the other men were all just ‘escapades.’ Not any of them were ever real love affairs. I was—trying to find someone who would take his place. But it never worked. And I hurt them all. But I never meant to hurt them.”

  Dave looked down at the glass in his hand, which was empty, and stepped quickly to the counter and the mixer. He poured out another double.

  “And that’s why I didn’t want it to happen to you,” Gwen said. “I don’t think I could bear that.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Dave said as he stirred the drink. “If I’m willing to risk it? Why should you worry?”

  “I can’t,” Gwen said. “I know what would happen.”

  “Goddam it, I still don’t believe it!” Dave shouted. “It’s not the truth!”

  Gwen did not say anything.

  “Is it?” he said, swinging around.

  “There’s one thing I can offer you,” Gwen said. “I can offer you love. I do love you, Dave. But not the kind of love that has sex in it. I love your work, and the talent you have, and what you might be able to do with it. And I love you, too. Just because of all of these things. I can give you encouragement with your work and perhaps even a little help, sometimes, and we can have a love relationship, of a sort. If you want that.”

  “Yeah,” Dave said, “sure.”

  “That’s all I have to give, Dave. And one other thing,” she said gently, “Don’t worry about me going out and having sex with other men. I gave that up as a bad job a long time ago. That was what I really meant when I told you once that sex bored me.”

  “Yeah,” Dave said, “sure. Well, that’s one consolation. Anyway.” He swung around on her, his face contorted, his eyes bright. “Will you just tell me one thing?” he said. “And really tell the truth?”

  “Oh, Dave!” she said.

  “Is the truth, the reason you won’t go out with me, is it because I’m so fat?”

  “Oh, Dave!” Gwen breathed again, her own eyes as bright with pain as his were. “That I should ever hurt you so much! I never ever meant to do that! Oh no. No, no. A woman doesn’t love a man because he’s fat or slim or curly or bald or short or tall. She loves him because of what he is.”

  “And that’s really the truth?” he urged. “You’re not just lying to save my feelings?”

  “Oh no, Dave!” Gwen said.

  “Well, okay,” he said. “But I had to know. Damn it, I can’t believe it!” he bellowed. “Milton Evans!”

  “It’s no more unreasonable than your own girl out in Hollywood, Dave,” Gwen said.

  “But I don’t love her anymore.”

  “Maybe you still do,” Gwen said.

  “Well, I don’t,” he said, and fell to mixing his third drink and it was then that the cellar-landing door opened and Bob came in.

  Robert Ball French marched into the center of the kitchen, his rakish old black slouch hat still on his head and smiling cheerily under his heavy thick mustache, and looked at both Dave and Gwen.

  “Well, I see I have missed another dramatic installment,” he said cheerfully. “I wish I had stayed home now. But if I had, it would not have happened probably.

  “Hello, Dave, my boy,” he said. “How have you been?” He was completely sober.

  “Just fine, Bob.”

  “Dad,” Gwen said, “Dave has brought over a long story he’s done. It’s simply magnificent! Here, come look at it. I want us to send it to the New Literature people. You come look at it, and I’ll make us all some coffee.”

  “Good!” Bob said. “Fine! But I’m afraid I cannot read it tonight, dear Gwen. Tomorrow! I’m late for my old bed, and I must get up and work in the morning. Good night, my dears,” he said, and disappeared through the pantry door to the back stairs before anything else could be said.

  “I must go, too, anyway,” Dave said, hoisting his third drink. “I have to work tomorrow, too.”

  �
�But aren’t you going to stay?” Gwen said anxiously. “Don’t you want to stay the night?”

  “No. I must go,” he said.

  “But— You’re not too drunk to drive, are you?” she said.

  “I’m not drunk at all,” Dave said, and truthfully. He could hardly feel anything he had drunk. He also could hardly stand to stay in this house another minute. He took a long look at Gwen, where she sat at the table leaning forward on both elbows.

  “But I wish you would stay,” Gwen said, her eyes screwed up with anxiety and guilt. “You’re perfectly welcome.”

  “No,” he said. “I can’t. Don’t ask me to, Gwen.”

  “All right,” she said. “I understand.”

  And with that, he turned to leave, quickly. At the door down to the landing, where she had come with him, but did not get close or offer to shake hands, he said,

  “I’ll just leave that stuff on the novel here. Maybe you’ll get a chance to read it.”

  “I’ll read it tomorrow,” she smiled, “if I don’t read it tonight. Then you want to go ahead with—with a kind of relationship like we talked about?”

  “Yeah,” he said, “sure. Why not? Only you mustn’t be mad at me if I break out once in a while. I’m liable to try and break the rules,” he said.

  “It’ll be perfectly all right,” Gwen smiled. “I’ll understand.”

  “Yeah?” Dave said. “Well, that’s good.” At the bottom of the landing, Gwen stopped him.

  “You’re sure you won’t change your mind and stay?” she said.

  “No,” he said. “I’ve got to work tomorrow.”

  “Dave,” she said, her eyes bright with pain. “Dave, we all of us do what we must,” she said almost beseechingly. “Not what we wished we could do. And not even what we’d like to do sometimes.”

  “I know,” he said. “Yeah, I guess that’s right.”

  “And, Dave,” she said. “I don’t think you’re fat.”

  Not trusting himself to say anything, he winked at her, and left. From outside the door, before he closed it, he said, “You call me up when you get that read, and I’ll come over.”