by James Jones
That was when he found out it was Dave he was looking for. Cursing savagely, the young man explained that Dave Hirsh had stolen his girl—and not just his girl, his wife, his Ginnie. And when he found him, by God, he was going to kill him. He had killed a lot of other men in his life. He might as well kill one more.
“He was, I noted,” Bob said to Dave, “strangely proud of his killing abilities. He talked a lot about that later on.” He hesitated a moment. “You see, I’m not used to young men like that. Oh, I know they exist; I mean, I know intellectually that they exist. But I have almost no personal contact with them. Meeting and talking with one is an entirely different thing. It was very interesting. Well,” he said, “to proceed.”
To make a long story short, the upshot of it was that once the young man got to talking about himself, he wanted to go on talking about himself.
“Naturally, I encouraged him,” Bob smiled wanly. “I offered once again to take him all through the house; but after a moment’s laborious thought he said no, he would take my word for it that I was alone. So then I offered him a drink. This he accepted. And we sat down to talk about him.”
This the young man had enjoyed highly. And naturally, Bob smiled, he had plied him with drink, as the saying was; all he could get down him in fact. He himself had rather nursed his own drink, feeling that perhaps it was better if he kept his wits as keen as possible; but the young man noticed this after a while and insisted that Bob finish his drink and get another, and drink with him drink for drink; and he got his knife out again and laid it on the table. Bob was able to circumvent the drink-for-drink compact to some extent, but not entirely. Probably, he judged, the young man had two or possibly three to his one. “Amazing capacity!” Bob said in a somewhat awed voice. And the more the young man drank, the more eager he became to talk about himself, and—and this was noteworthy—to ask advice about his problems and what did Bob think he ought to do? Consequently, during the next three hours, Bob heard the entire story of his life, plus a very worshipful history of the United States Marine Corps, not to mention a great many astonishing combat episodes and killings that took place during the war.
“He was really quite proud of his killing abilities,” Bob said, “and of all the Japanese men he had killed. He was at Tarawa. Have you ever read about Tarawa, dear Dave? You have? Amazing thing! Well, by the end, he was on a regular crying jag. Especially about not being able to stay in his beloved Marine Corps. It was really rather amazing. Several times he offered to fight me, there and then—with fists, with knives, with rocks, with guns. One of which he had tucked in his belt. But he seemed to prefer his—ahh—switchblade. Anyway, he offered to fight me, and was, he said, willing to spot me his missing arm. And in between times of offering to fight me, all of which I modestly declined, he would tell me that I was in reality the best—if not the only—friend he had in the world.” He smiled, tiredly. “So when he left I helped him back on with his coat and tucked his sleeve in his pocket for him and called a cab over from Parkman and when it came we put our arms around each other and swore our undying friendship and he promised to write me a letter as soon as he got home to Kansas.” Bob shook his head. “Amazing!” he said, and smiled again. “It was really a most interesting experience. Not one, however,” he added, “that I would look forward to having every day.
“And, well, that’s the story,” he finished. “But how the hell did you get him to go back to Kansas?” Dave asked.
“Well—I must admit—that was on a rather flimsy moral pretext,” Bob said. “I told him that if he really loved his wife, he would want her to be happy. Therefore, if she were happier with another man, then, if he really loved her, he would want her to do whatever would make her most happy. And he agreed to this.
“Of course, as you know, dear Dave, all that was quite untrue. When a person is really in love with another, that person is not concerned with the beloved’s happiness at all; he is concerned, solely, with his own happiness. Of course, very few like to admit this, and I sized this young man up as being one of those who would not admit it. So you can see how I tricked him. It was a rather unfair advantage to take of the young man, in a way. But still I felt it was justified if it would get him to return to Kansas without—ahh—blooding his knife.
“Of course, once he admitted the initial premise that one who loves wants most of all the happiness of the beloved, he had to admit he should return home. His own sentimentality and his desire to be a fine, admirable person forced him to it.”
Dave was forced to laugh, though he felt a little ashamed of doing so. Bob however did not laugh, and did not even look amused.
“Do you suppose he actually will write me a letter?” he said.
“God, I don’t know, Bob,” Dave said. “I’m inclined to think once he gets home he’ll forget the whole episode with you.”
“If he does write, I suppose I shall have to answer,” Bob said unhappily.
“Do you think he’ll ever come back?” Dave asked. “That I wouldn’t know,” Bob said. “I rather think not, not for some time anyway, because it will take him quite a while to free himself of the mental picture of himself which I forced upon him. He had a very highly developed moralism in him, I think; and he wants to be right, not wrong; good, not evil. And as long as he believes it immoral to interfere with his ‘wife’s’ happiness, he won’t. No, I should say it would be some time before he comes back. If he ever does come back at all. In general, I believe, persons of his type quickly fall in love with someone else while telling them of their unhappiness in their current love. Perhaps that is what our young man will do.
“It’s amazing!” he said once again. “I almost never meet young people of this type. Oh, of course, I did, when I was younger. But one tends to forget how very mentally backward the majority of people really are. He’s really a very brave young man, that one,” Bob said; “and he’s had a most interesting and painful life, too.” Then he shrugged, slowly. “But then, after all, what is bravery?”
Bob took a sad thoughtful swallow of his drink.
“Their lives,” he said, “are governed by such fantastic illusions about what is ‘good’ and what is ‘bad’ and what is ‘manly.’ Or ‘womanly.’ Utterly fantastic. Has nothing to do with what life really is.” He took another thoughtful swallow.
“You know, dear Dave,” he said, almost apologetically. “I have a sort of a theory about killing. Outside of wartime, of course. I believe there is not ever a murder committed that is not—ahh—requested, shall we say. In other words, for every murderer there must also be a murderee. Now that young man might very easily—considering the state he was in—have killed me, had I made one false move in handling him. Because, you see, he was scared, too. But even more than that it was that his pride was involved. He really didn’t want to kill anyone; but he felt he should want to kill someone, and that way he would prove he was a man. In other words, had I done anything that would have in his own eyes made him look bad or futile or ridiculous, I should have been forcing him to kill me. You see? Even when he didn’t want to, really.
“Of course, I admit,” he added, “that there are circumstances when the theory doesn’t apply. For instance, should he have struck me with the knife at the door before I got a chance to talk to him. Or, perhaps, say, if he were a hired killer, hired to kill me for some reason. I’ve never had any experience with—ahh—?” He looked at Dave questioningly.
“Hoods?” Dave said.
“Yes, that’s it. Hoods. I’ve never had any experience with that type. But this young man didn’t want to kill anybody, and was, in fact, really afraid that someone would call his braggadocio bluff. That was the key to the whole situation when I noted how he kept opening and closing his knife against his leg. I think if he were really bent on killing, he would not have done that. However, if you had been here, he might have felt impelled to go ahead with it, just to prove he wasn’t backing down.”
He stopped, and took another swallow of his dr
ink. “Amazing!” he said again.
“I’m going to marry that girl he came over here after me for,” Dave said suddenly.
“Oh?” Bob said slowly. Still sitting relaxedly in the ladder-back, his long legs sprawled out before him, he turned his thoughtful gaze onto Dave slowly with a look both of deep interest and surprise. “You are?”
“Yes,” Dave said. “She’s getting an annulment from the boy who was over here to see you. She just up and married him on the spur of the moment, and got herself into a trap.”
“I see,” Bob said.
“I—uh— I’ve done a great deal of thinking about it the past few weeks,” Dave said. “Everything between me and Gwen is over. And I need a wife. I— Her name is Ginnie Moorehead.”
Bob did not say anything for a moment. Then he nodded. “Ah, yes. I know of the young woman.”
“You probly do. She used to be the biggest whore—the biggest free romp in Parkman. She’s not very bright. And that in itself is one of the main reasons I think she’ll make me a perfect wife: dumb, preoccupied with her housework, et cetera; but good-natured; I think it’s the perfect kind of a wife for a writer to have.”
“Yes, there is a lot to be said for that school of thought on writers’ wives,” Bob said. For a long moment, he stared at Dave, a little sadly. “Of course,” Bob said finally, after taking another pull at his glass, “one must be quite sure that they are dumb; and that they are good-natured.”
“Those are two things I am sure of,” Dave said.
“Well then,” Bob said, and suddenly he raised himself back up in his chair somewhat. “Then you have no worries, do you? I want to wish you the best of luck with it, dear Dave.”
“Thanks,” Dave said. “You know, it’s probably better that it all turned out as it did. With Gwen and me. I was completely thrown for a while; but maybe, in the end, this was how it was supposed to be.”
“Yes,” Bob said, his voice curiously veiled. “I expect, in the end, that just about everything happens as it was supposed to happen.”
“More of your Karma?” Dave said. “More Yog-ah?” He pronounced it very precisely.
Bob laughed, and Dave laughed with him. Then Bob’s face sobered again. “No,” he said, “not exactly. Karma doesn’t exactly work like that. There’s always the matter of free choice, you know? But then, if everyone free-chooses as they perforce must—” He shrugged. “Perhaps it is the same in the end, in a way. One must wear out one thing before he is capable of going on to some other. So perhaps it is somewhat the same in the end: It’s all for learning lessons.”
“Damn it! I wish I could be sure: the way you always sound,” Dave said. “I wish I knew something—the way you do. I wish I could believe like you seem to.”
“Dear Dave,” Bob said, and smiled sadly, “dear Dave. I don’t know anything. I just guess—and hope. I read, and I wonder. I’m really far less ahead of you than you seem to think.”
“Well, you always seem to know,” Dave said almost irritably. “You always sound so damned positive.”
“Theorizing,” Bob said. “Pure theorizing. I know nothing. And,” he added, “I expect I never shall know anything. I have a theory about that, too,” he smiled, pleasantly. “I believe that the way of the artist, such as you and I, is never to know. The Way, the Path,” he said, capitalizing the words with his voice, “of the artist is actually based upon that very point, I think: to not know. If he knew what God was, he would be too sure. And the very nature of an artist, a great artist, is that he must never know; must never be sure. That is why he works so hard, and so painfully. If he knew—” He smiled. “Well, I don’t suppose he would ever produce anything, would he? He wouldn’t need to.” He finished off the last of the drink. “So you’re going to marry Ginnie Moorehead?” he said.
“Yes,” Dave said. “I’ve made up my mind. I’ve thought it all over very carefully.”
“I’m sure you have,” Bob said.
“I’ll tell you something else I’m going to do,” Dave said. He didn’t want to tell him this, because he didn’t want an argument; but at the same time he felt honor-bound to tell him, since Bob—as well as Gwen—had worked with him on the book so much. “I’m going to write that love affair into the novel like I once talked to you about. Remember?”
“Dear Dave,” Bob said gently. “I may be unable to advise you on things of the spirit; but this is one thing I can advise you on. If you do, you’ll ruin it.”
“I don’t think so,” Dave said stubbornly. “Let me explain it to you. It’s not the kind of wildly passionate love affair we talked about before. This is a different love affair: a sad, pathetic, little love affair between a commonplace little private and a commonplace little peasant girl.” And he went ahead to explain in full detail the theory of the love affair that he had worked out. He talked at some length, because he wanted to convince him. But Bob only listened silently. “So you see,” Dave wound up, “not only will it be a true, sad little love affair of two people caught in the mills of war—for which read also: life—but it will also provide a heightening contrast with the combat stuff. “Well,” he said confidently, “what do you think?”
“You really want to know?” Bob said.
‘Yes,” Dave said.
“It’s terrible,” Bob said. “It’s ghastly. It makes me shudder all over. Even the other love affair you talked of would have been better than this. But this—this mawkish, sentimental, tear-jerking trash—well, it’s just simply horrible. It will ruin your novel. In the first place, no one is ever ‘caught in the mills’ of anything that he himself doesn’t bring upon himself; there are no onerous blows struck that are not invited.”
“But that’s just the point!” Dave said. “They do invite it. And that’s their very heroism!”
“Not at all,” Bob said. “What you have outlined to me will make them victims. And that makes it philosophically wrong right there. And in the second place, it is diametrically opposite to the theme of the book you started out to write.”
“But I think that’s its virtue,” Dave said. “Don’t you?”
“Certainly not,” Bob said. “That kind of contrast will only destroy the very effect you started out to achieve.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Bob,” he said; “I just don’t agree with you.”
“Dear Dave,” Bob said and smiled. “It’s your book. You must do what you have to do. So must we all. But don’t expect to receive moral support from me by getting me to agree to something that I feel is totally wrong.”
“Well,” Dave said lamely, “I didn’t mean to be. I thought I was telling you out of a sense of honor—because you, and Gwen too, have helped me so much on this book. But—maybe I was seeking moral support?”
Bob did not answer. Instead, he got up went back over to the counter to fix himself another drink. “I’m afraid I’m going to get rather tight tonight,” he said after a moment, with a smile. “It’s too bad there is no poker game on at the Club.
“Would you like another drink?” he said.
“No, I guess not,” Dave said, and looked at his watch. He could not help feeling a little hurt that Bob refused to understand and see what he was driving at. “It’s after two. I better be getting back home. Have you heard anything from Gwen?”
“I had one letter,” Bob said carefully. “After I wrote her what you said about your sister.”
“What’s she going to do?”
“Well, she’s nearly finished with the book,” Bob said. “So she’s going ahead and finish it, but she’s not going to submit it until after she’s come home and we’ve gone into the whole thing thoroughly.”
“Then she’s coming home?”
“Eventually, I expect,” Bob said. “But not at all soon, I don’t think. And if she does come, it may only to discuss the book.”
“Well—” Dave said. He got up. “You know, I have no hard feelings, Bob, about Gwen. I want to wish her the best of everything.”
“That’s ve
ry fine of you,” Bob said, staring over the edge of his highball glass. “I’m sure she feels the same about you.”
“Gwen wouldn’t want me to include this love affair in the book, either, I expect,” Dave said.
“No, Dave; I’m sure she wouldn’t. But then, as I said, it’s your book.” Bob got up himself.
“Well, I believe in it,” Dave said. “I have to do it.” He walked down to the end of the kitchen, and Bob followed. “I guess you don’t think I ought to marry this girl, either, do you?” he said, after he had gone down to the landing.
Bob stared down at him for a moment, then he shrugged and smiled. “Dear Dave,” he said. “Who am I to say what you should do? I don’t even know what I myself should do, most of the time. As I’ve so often said, we all do as we must. Most of the time, I don’t know if I’ve done right,” he said somberly, almost to himself. “Even right now, I don’t know.”
“Yes,” Dave said. “Well—” He opened the door, then turned back one last time. “You see, I’m not getting any younger. And I’m certainly not getting any more palatable. And I need somebody to take care of me, somebody to—somebody to sleep with,” he said bluntly. It was the first time he had ever spoken of sex outright with Bob; but he had to make it plain.
“Yes,” Bob said from above him. “Well, we all need something or other, I guess. I wish you the best of luck, Dave.”
“Thanks,” Dave said sourly. But all of the way back home to Parkman, he knew he was right. He had studied it all over, and he knew that rationally he was right, in both the marriage and the putting of the love affair in the book; and Bob’s disagreements did not touch him.
But before he left, he turned back one more time. “Well, anyway, I’m glad you were all right, Bob, after your visit with the US Marines.”
“Oh, him,” Bob said. “I had forgotten all about him.”
“I’m sorry it happened,” Dave said; “and—I’ll try to see it doesn’t happen again.”