by James Jones
“I don’t think it will,” Bob said. “Goodby, dear Dave.”
And so that was that. All the way home in the car, Dave studied it over and over again. The book’s love affair, and his marriage to Ginnie. Bob French was a wise man, perhaps the wisest he had ever known; and his disagreements were not to be taken lightly. But as Bob himself was so prone to say: He could be wrong; he didn’t know. And this was one time Dave felt he must be. Never in his life before, Dave was sure, had he ever approached anything with such complete objectivity—with such absolute dispassion. Always before his important decisions had been made on the spur of the moment, when he was in the throes of some screwy emotion or other. Just like the time he had decided suddenly to stay in Parkman because of Gwen; and look what that had got him into. But this time it was not like that.
There remained nothing else to do but inform Ginnie and ’Bama, and the first of these he did next day. She was asleep when he got home, and did not even wake up when he crawled into bed beside her. So he waited till next day to tell her he was going to marry her.
He told her that morning, before he went to work. ’Bama was still gone. Ginnie was obviously delighted, if not a little awed.
“You mean you’ll marry me?” she said, almost disbelievingly. “You mean your really willin to marry me? Oh, Dave! I jus don’t know what to say.”
They agreed that she would keep her job at the brassiere factory, and Dave would continue to work on his book. That way she could support them here with ’Bama, at least until the book was done and sold. Then they would show them! Frank and Agnes and everybody else: when the book was done. It would be still another three weeks or so before the judge could get the annulment through the courts; and they would just continue to live here like they were till then—and after they were married, too, as far as that went. And that night, Ginnie gave him one of the best parties he had ever had.
But it all did not, however, turn out quite exactly as they had planned: ’Bama came home two days later from the farm, and Dave told him. He came in in the morning—luckily, Dave thought later—when Ginnie was gone to her job at the brassiere factory, and Dave sat down with him in the kitchen to tell him over coffee. It was, Dave thought afterwards, a damn good thing Ginnie wasn’t there. Because he did not get at all the type of reaction he had expected from ’Bama.
What he had expected was that ’Bama would be happy for him, and would immediately see the really important similarity between Dave and Ginnie’s marriage and his own with Ruth. ’Bama was not, and did not. At all.
“Jesus Christ!” the gambler sneered and slammed his cup down on the table and tugged at his hat brim. “Jesus H Christ! Of all the hairbrained ideas I eveh heard! Of all the hairbrained ways to commit suicide!”
“Hey! Hey!” Dave said, completely caught up short. “Wait a minute!”
“Wait for what?” ’Bama said. “Jesus Christ!” “Well, don’t you want to hear my reasons even?”
’Bama opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut and stared at Dave disbelievingly. “Okay,” he said with patient disgust. “Okay. Let’s hear yore reasons.” But then, before Dave could begin, the tall man raised his hand and slapped it down on his leg. “Damn! I admit I never have understood you. A screwball artist, and all that. But Jesus Christ!” he said disgustedly. “All right. Let’s hear yore reasons.”
Dave went through them for him, just like he had done with Bob: how he was too old to get a chance at another woman, and too fat and ugly and too broke; how there was a really valuable kindliness between him and Ginnie; how her working could help support him and his work; and then he added on the extra point, which he had not bothered to tell Bob, about how he wanted a wife who would do for him and take care of him like ’Bama’s own wife, Ruth, did for him.
’Bama sat and listened, only shaking his head disgustedly, and now and then snorting through his nose.
“All right,” he said when Dave had finished and sat looking at him expectantly, “all right. Them are all good reasons. Now for Christ sake, forget all about it and let’s get drunk, what do you say?”
“But no!” Dave said. “I’m serious,’Bama. I really mean it.”
“You do?” ’Bama said.
Dave nodded. “Hell, yes.”
“Well— You haven’t asked her to marry you yet, have you now?” ’Bama said hopefully.
“Hell, yes, I’ve asked her!” Dave said. “And she’s all for it.”
“Christ, yes! why wouldn’t she be?” ’Bama snorted. “Well, you can still get out of it. I’ll help you.”
“I don’t want out of it!” Dave yelled. “Damn it!”
“Look, Dave,” ’Bama said patiently. “I don’t know if yore crazy or not. But listen to me.” But then he exploded again. “Look, you dumb bastard!” But then he pulled himself down again, at least partially. “Look, as far as getting women is concerned, all you got to do is finish yore book and sell the damned thing and move away out of this town, and you’ll have all the goddamned women you want! If you feel for some damned reason you got to get married, you can marry some rich woman, then! Some damn millionaire’s daughter or somebody! And live the high life!”
“’Bama,” Dave said; “you overestimate the influence this novel’s going to have. It won’t be a drop in the bucket, and it’ll make a noise just about as big.”
’Bama rubbed his hand over his face. “Okay, all right,” he said. “But, for Christ’s sake, why marry a bum!”
“Why not marry her?” Dave said, stubborn anger growing in him. “She’ll make me a good wife. Why not marry her?”
“Because she’s a pig!” ’Bama cried. “That’s why!”
“Well, I don’t agree with you,” Dave said stubbornly. “People can change. I can help her to change. But supposing she is a pig, so what? So am I.”
“No,” ’Bama said, shaking his head. “No, yore not, Dave. You may look like a pig, you may even act like one, sometimes, but you ain’t one. But she is. And she always will be.
“And another thing,” ’Bama cried; “you talkin about Ruth all the time. Why the hell shouldn’t Ruth be glad to ‘take care of me,’ as you put it? Ruth’s got what she wants. She can sit down there and run that place like a little queen; and that’s what she wants. But let me ask you something? What if I was to sell that farm and move her up here, to live the kind of life you and me live? And how long do you think she’d hang around then? Hunh? She’d take off and leave me so goddamned quick it’d make yore head swim, that’s what!” The tall man stopped and caught his breath.
“All right,” he said, “answer me this: What do you think Ginnie wants? What do you think Ginnie wants like Ruth wants that farm?”
“How the hell do I know?” Dave said angrily. “I don’t think she wants anything.”
“Probably not,” ’Bama snorted. “She’s probly too damned dumb to want anything.”
“I’ll tell you what she wants,” Dave said. “She wants to be loved, that’s what.”
“Oh, nuts!” ’Bama snorted. “No, that’s not what she wants. But Ah’ll tell you what she wants. More than anything else in the world, Ginnie Moorehead wants to be respectable.
“Oh,” he said, at the look on Dave’s face. “Don’t believe that, hunh?”
“I don’t know,” Dave said. “Maybe. So what? I want to be respectable, too. There’s no problem there.”
“There ain’t, hunh?” ’Bama said. “I don’t know how it’s goin to affect yore life after you marry her, but, by God, it’s goin to affect it some way.”
“You ain’t told me a damn thing,” Dave said. “You ain’t said a goddamned thing.”
“I—” ’Bama stopped and scratched his jaw. “Look: Are you really goin through with this heah?”
“Yes,” Dave said. “I am.”
“Okay,” ’Bama said angrily. “Then you and me are through. We’re quits.
“Well, if that’s the way you want it,” Dave said sullenly.
&nbs
p; Pausing for a moment, ’Bama ran his hand over his face again and got hold of himself. “Look, Dave,” he said, warmly. “We’ve washed this thing up already a long time ago, and we both know it. Why try to hang onto somethin that don’t exist anymore? The whole thing’s washed up, and it has been for six months now, damn near.”
“Ever since you found out you had diabetes,” Dave said.
“All right. Okay,” ’Bama said. “And that’s part of it, too. But why do we try to hang onto something that is changed, and don’t mean anything anymore. Let’s give her the old coup de grâce; and be done with it. Hunh? What do you say?”
Dave felt a sudden deep painful sadness stealing over him, replacing the stubborn sullenness that had been in him. ’Bama was right, of course, as he usually was—in everything but one or two like Ginnie. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “I guess that’s really what we ought to do.”
“Shore it is,” ’Bama said. “And you know it as well as I do. Okay. You want to marry Ginnie, go ahead. Go live someplace else with her, and we’ll turn this old house back over to the judge. We’ve wore it out—for us. I’ll git me back a room somewhere in town, and go back to livin like I use to. What do you say?
“Hell,” he said, before Dave could answer, “I know how you feel about me bein sick. How do you think that makes me feel? knowin yore worryin about me half the time? You want to marry Ginnie: Okay. I want to keep on gettin drunk: Okay, too. Don’t you worry about me, and I won’t worry about you. Let’s just close up shop and call it a day. What do you say?”
“I guess you’re right,” Dave said. “Okay.”
“And we’ll bust up friends just like we always was,” ’Bama said. And he grinned, a sharp, bitter, grin—a grin which told Dave more about him, and about his diabetes, than any words that ’Bama himself could say.
“Sure,” Dave said. “That’s the way it ought to be, old buddy.”
“Fine!” ’Bama said, and stuck out his hand.
Dave took it. And for a moment, they looked square into each other’s eyes, and—Dave was sure—the same things rose up in both their minds: the old games of peapool and fourteen ball; General Nathan Bedford Forrest and the long wild ride to Florida; James Frye and his nephew Jim Custis; Miami; the gambling; the jai alai games; the drive home; the house; the gambling here; Dave’s book and the two stories; the garden they had all of them worked so hard on; all these things rose up in Dave’s mind, and he was sure they did in ’Bama’s. Then, embarrassedly, both of them let go of the other’s hand and looked away.
“But what about the annulment?” Dave said suddenly. “That won’t be through for three more weeks. Me and Ginnie can’t just go to settin up housekeeping somewhere, while that’s still in the works.”
’Bama moved his head back and forth emphatically. “Stay here,” he said. “Stay right here till it’s all worked out. He paused, and looked momentarily disbelieving again. “Jesus!” he said. “Stay here; and I’ll start lookin for me a place, too. And if you need any money, just let me know. I ain’t broke yet.”
“I don’t want to take any money off you,” Dave said. “Not when you feel like you feel. Not personal or anything, you know?”
“Sure,” ’Bama said. “Okay.”
And that was the way they left it. By the end of September, Judge Deacon took a frightened Ginnie into court for a brief session and the annulment was granted. Two days later, they got married, at the JP’s basement office, just like Mildred Pierce had done. They found a little apartment out in the East End not far from where Ginnie had once had her room—right out there where that dividing line was, that marked the first beginnings of Parkman’s “Hollywood.” It was a nice little two-room place, upstairs, with its own outside entrance. They moved in and set up housekeeping, mostly with stuff from the house on Lincoln Street, and Ginnie kept on with her job and Dave went back to work on his book. They were very happy. There was a small piece, very small, in the Oregonian about their marriage. Dave wondered, not without a certain satisfaction, whether Frank had seen it, and if so, what he thought.
Chapter 71
FRANK SAW IT, right enough. But after, he didn’t think anything about it one way or the other. Since the Old Man had died—and, he guessed, too, since he himself had become so successful with the shopping center—a great deal of the pressure about the family had gone off of Frank. With the Old Man safely dead, the old scandal could be allowed to die too, and be forgotten. And as far as Dave went, Frank had given him his chance; and he had refused it. Frank did not even feel that he was his brother anymore, his kid brother that he had used to take care of—and had received so little gratitude for in return. He understood, from the little bit he heard around, that Dave was still working on some kind of a book; but then, he had been supposed to be working on that same book for over two years now, ever since he first came back to Parkman. And so far, there had been no book. And nothing else, except that one story in that little pocketbook. Probably, there wouldn’t ever be. Frank was quite sure of that. He read the marriage license notice in the Oregonian and forgot it, and he put his former brother out of his mind and forgot him, too. He had his own business, and his own problems, to worry about.
That winter of 1949 and ’50, after Frank had seen the notice of his brother’s marriage, and the following spring, up until the Korean War began, were in some ways both the happiest and the unhappiest period of Frank’s whole life. And it was easy to separate the two: Frank was happy, supremely happy, at three times, and three times only: one, when he was working—as he often was—so hard that he forgot himself completely; and two, when he was out at some game with little Walter; and three, when he was out “walking.” He was unhappy: one, whenever he was at home; two, whenever he was out at some social engagement that he had to make with Agnes; and three, when he was thinking—which was just about all the rest of the time. Even when he was drunk, he wasn’t happy. Because no matter how drunk he was—unless he drank himself unconscious, which he sometimes did—he could not stop thinking. Certainly, he could not stop thinking or forget himself when he was around Agnes. Even if he could have, Agnes certainly would never have allowed it. It was amazing what a happy, loving act they could put on out in public—and then to see it fall off of both of them the minute they got home and were alone.
Little Walter obviously could tell it, although he never said anything. And he and Agnes managed to pretty well control themselves around the boy. Not that that made any difference. He could sense it just the same. It was like an unspoken mutual pact between the three of them: that they would be polite and “loving” whenever Walter was present. But when Walter wasn’t there, and the two of them were alone together in the house, it was, Frank was sure, one of the most devastatingly miserable experiences that could happen to any human being. Even when they didn’t talk, the resentment, the hatred, the battle, hung heavy in the air. And, in the end, Agnes had defeated him, and driven his army from the field in rout, total rout. All except, that is, for his going “walking,” which she didn’t know about it—or even guess at. But other than that, she had won.
Agnes had, during the course of that winter and after considerable consultation, finally decided to have her gall bladder out. She had decided—more or less in conflict with Doc Cost’s advice; Doc said that it might help her—that that was the only thing that would do her any good. She was in constant pain, she said; and so she had it out. Doc Cost performed the operation. And Agnes had won a victory of the first magnitude over him, and over Walter, and over everybody else. It cost her a lot—her gall bladder—but she had won. The magnitude of just how conclusively she had won became apparent as soon as she came home from the hospital and took to her bed.
And so, for two weeks in November when she was out in Doc Cost’s hospital, and then for another six weeks that it took her to recover from the surgery, Mrs Davis—Old Jane’s successor—moved in and took care of Frank and of little Walter. It was a most miserable two months for Frank. Not on
ly could Mrs Davis not cook worth a damn, but as soon as Agnes was out of the house, Frank’s frightened unreasonable panic came back over him again, and the urge to go out “walking” got noticeably stronger. He had been holding himself down pretty well, only going out one or two nights a month. Now, with Agnes gone, he found himself going out twice a week. That, in itself, scared him. But the thought that Agnes might die during her operation drove him nearly frantic. It was winter, too, now. And several times Frank feared he was going to freeze off both his ears, when he was out “walking.” Finally, he was forced to buy himself a pair of earmuffs. And that distressed him even more so, because what if somebody should walk up behind him when he had his earmuffs on, and he wouldn’t be able to hear them in time? After a while, he took to wearing his earmuffs only when he was on the sidewalk, and took them off as soon as he stepped into somebody’s yard. As long as he was on that public sidewalk he was all right; only when he stepped off onto the private yard was he really in any danger. It got so it became a definite dividing line for him, every time he took that single step off the sidewalk onto the winter grass.
Actually, in those two weeks when Agnes was in Doc’s hospital, and then the first two weeks after she was home but still very sick, he had only one real delicious experience: only one anywhere near approaching that so wonderful memory of Edith. But that one successful one was a real beaut. He got to see Clark Hibbard’s wife, Betty Lee, completely naked. He didn’t really know what made him go over there; and afterwards it terrified him: He was risking his own business future, to go to Clark’s. But he had always hungered to see what Betty Lee looked like naked—as far back and before, in fact, the very beginning of the bypass deal. So this one night he had ambled over there. They had a modern one-story house, newly built since the war, in one of the best sections of town, and it was a house that he knew well from the inside. What he did not know, but discovered that night, was that Clark and Betty Lee had separate bedrooms. Just like him and Agnes. But, hell, they were lots younger! He knew that there were two bedrooms; but he had always guessed that one was simply a guest room. Such, however, he discovered was not the case. Lights were on in both bedrooms when he took that one frightening step off the sidewalk onto the yard, and the first one he approached had Clark in it. And nobody but Clark. And when he slipped across to the other window on the east end, there was Betty Lee!