by John Irving
At the entrance to the Arbuthnot, the woman turned to my father and said, with a controlled accent: 'He vill need stitches, ja? Of course you haf a doctor.'
The desk manager whispered to Father, 'Get Freud.'
'Stitches?' Freud said. 'The doctor lives all the way in Bath, and he's a drunk. But I know how to stitch anybody.'
The desk manager ran out to the dorm and shouted for Freud.
'Get on your Indian and bring old Doc Todd here! We'll sober him up when he arrives,' the manager said. 'But for God's sake, get going!'
'It will take an hour, if I can find him,' Freud said. 'You know I can handle stitching. Just get me the proper clothes.'
This is different,' the desk manager said. 'I think it's different, Freud -- I mean, the guy. He's a German, Freud. And it's his face that's cut.'
Freud stripped his work clothes off his pitted, olive body; he began to comb his damp hair. The clothes,' he said. 'Just bring them. It's too complicated to get old Doc Todd.'
The wound is on his face, Freud,' Father said.
'So what's a face?' said Freud. 'Just skin, ja? Like on the hands or foots. I've sewn up lots of foots before. Axel and saw cuts -- them stupid loggers.'
Outside, the other Germans from the ship were bringing trunks and heavy luggage the shortest distance from the pier to the entranceway -- across the eighteenth green. 'Look at those swine,' Freud said. 'Putting dents where the little white ball will get caught.'
The headwaiter came into Freud's room. It was the best room in the men's dorm -- no one knew how Freud ended up with it. The headwaiter began to undress.
'Everything but your jacket, dummy,' Freud said to him. 'Doctors don't wear waiters' jackets.'
Father had a black tuxedo jacket that more or less agreed with the waiter's black pants, and he brought it to Freud.
'I've told them, a million times,' the headwaiter said -- although he looked strange saying this with any authority, while he was naked. There should be a doctor who actually lives at the hotel.'
When Freud was all dressed, he said, There is.' The desk manager ran back to the main hotel ahead of him. Father watched the headwaiter looking helplessly at Freud's abandoned clothes; they were not very clean and they smelled strongly of State o' Maine; the waiter, clearly, did not want to put them on. Father ran to catch up with Freud.
The Germans, now in the driveway outside the entrance, were grinding a large trunk across the gravel; someone would have to rake the stones in the morning. 'Is der not enough help at dis hotel to help us?' one of the Germans yelled.
On the spotless counter, in the serving room between the main dining hall and the kitchen, the big German with the gashed cheek lay like a corpse, his pale head resting on his folded-up dinner jacket, which would never be white again; his propeller of a dark tie sagged limply at his throat, his cummerbund heaved.
'It'z a goot doctor?' he asked the desk manager. The young giantess in the gown with the yellow ruching held the German's hand.
'An excellent doctor,' the desk manager said.
'Especially at stitching,' my father said. My mother held his hand.
'It'z not too civilized a hotel, I tink,' the German said.
'It'z in der vilderness,' the tawny, athletic woman said, but she dismissed herself with a laugh. 'But it'z nicht so bad a cut, I tink,' she told Father and Mother, and the desk manager. 'We don't need too goot a doctor to fix it up, I tink.'
'Just so it'z no Jew,' the German said. He coughed. Freud was in the small room, though none of them had seen him; he was having trouble threading a needle.
'It'z no Jew, I'm sure.' The tawny princess laughed. They haf no Jews in Maine!' When she saw Freud, she didn't look so sure.
'Guten Abend, meine Dame und Herr,' Freud said. 'Was ist los?'
My father said that Freud, in the black tuxedo, was a figure so runted and distorted by his boil scars that he immediately looked as if he had stolen his clothes; the clothes appeared to have been stolen from at least two different people. Even his most visible instrument was black -- a black spool of thread, which Freud grasped in the grey-rubber kitchen gloves the dishwashers wore. The best needle to be found in the laundry room of the Arbuthnot looked too large in Freud's small hand, as if he'd grabbed the needle used to sew the sails for the racing boats. Perhaps he had.
'Herr Doktor?' the German asked, his face whitening. His wound appeared to stop bleeding, instantly.
'Herr Doktor Professor Freud,' Freud said, moving in close and leering at the wound.
'Freud?' the woman said.
'Ja,' Freud said.
When he poured the first shot glass of whiskey into the German's cut, the whiskey washed into the German's eyes.
'Ooops!' said Freud.
'I'm blind! I'm blind!' the German sang.
'Nein, you're nicht so blind,' Freud said. 'But you should have shut your eyes.' He splashed another glass in the wound; then he went to work.
In the morning the manager asked Freud not to perform with State o' Maine until after the Germans left -- they were leaving as soon as ample provisions could be loaded aboard their large vessel. Freud refused to remain attired as a doctor; he insisted on tinkering with the '37 Indian in his mechanic's costume, so it was in such attire that the German found him, seaward of the tennis courts, not exactly hidden from the main hotel grounds and the lawns of play, but discreetly off to himself. The huge, bandaged face of the German was badly swollen and he approached Freud warily, as if the little motorcycle mechanic might be the alarming twin brother of the 'Herr Doktor Professor' of the night before.
'Nein, it'z him,' said the tanned woman, trailing on the German's arm.
'What's the Jew doctor fixing this morning?' the German asked Freud.
'My hobby,' Freud said, not looking up. My father, who was handing Freud his motorcycle tools -- like an assistant to a surgeon -- took a firmer grip on the three-quarters-inch wrench.
The German couple did not see the bear. State o' Maine was scratching himself against the fence of the tennis court -- making deep, thrusting scratches with his back against the metal mesh, groaning to himself and rocking to a rhythm akin to masturbation. My mother, to make him more comfortable, had removed his muzzle.
'I never heard of such a motorcycle as dis,' the German told Freud, critically. 'It'z junk, I tink, ja? What's an Indian? I never heard of it.'
'You should try riding it yourself,' Freud said. 'Want to?'
The German woman seemed unsure of the idea -- and quite sure that she didn't want to -- but the idea clearly appealed to the German. He stood close to the motorcycle and touched its gas tank and ran his fingers over its clutch cable and fondled the knob to the gearshift. He seized the throttle at the handlebars and gave it a sharp twist. He felt the soft rubber tube -- like an exposed vital organ among so much metal -- where the gas ran from the tank into the carburetor. He opened the valve to the carburetor, without asking Freud's permission; he tickled the valve and wet his fingers with gasoline, then wiped his fingers on the seat.
'You don't mind, Herr Doktor?' the German asked Freud.
'No, go on,' Freud said. Take it for a spin.'
And that was the summer of '39: my father saw how it would end, but he could not move to interfere. 'I couldn't have stopped it,' Father always said. 'It was coming, like the war.'
Mother, at the tennis court fence, saw the German mount the motorcycle; she thought she'd better put State o' Maine's muzzle back on. But the bear was impatient with her; he shook his head and scratched himself harder.
'Just a standard kick starter, ja?' the German asked.
'Just kick it over and she'll start right up,' Freud said. Something about the way he and Father stepped away from the motorcycle made the young German woman join them; she stepped back, too.
'Here goes!' the German said, and kicked the starter down.
With the first catch of the engine, before the first rev, the bear called State o' Maine stood erect against the tennis court
fence, the coarse fur on his dense chest stiffening; he stared across centre court at the 1937 Indian that was trying to go somewhere without him. When the German chunked the machine into gear and began, rather timidly, to advance across the grass to a nearby gravel path, State o' Maine dropped to all fours and charged. He was in full stride when he crossed centre court and broke up the doubles game -- racquets falling, balls rolling loose. The player who was playing net chose to hug the net instead; he shut his eyes as the bear tore by him.
'Earl!' cried State o' Maine, but the German on the throaty '37 Indian couldn't hear anything.
The German woman heard, however, and turned -- with Father and Freud -- to see the bear. 'Gott! Vut vilderness!' she cried, and fainted sideways against my father, who wrestled her gently to the lawn.
When the German saw that a bear was after him, he had not yet got his bearings; he was unsure which way the main road was. If he'd found the main road, of course, he could have outdistanced the bear, but confined to the narrow paths and walkways, of the hotel grounds, and the soft fields for sports, he lacked the necessary speed.
'Earl!' growled the bear. The German swerved across the croquet lawn and headed for the picnic tents where they were setting up for lunch. The bear was on the motorcycle in less than twenty-five yards, clumsily trying to mount behind the German -- as if State o' Maine had finally learned Freud's driving lesson, and was about to insist that the act be performed properly.
The German would not allow Freud to stitch him up this time and even Freud confessed that it was too big a job for him. 'What a mess,' Freud wondered aloud to my father. 'Such a lot of stitches -- not for me. I couldn't stand to hear him bawl all the time it would take.'
So the German was transported, by the Coast Guard, to the hospital at Bath. State o' Maine was concealed in the laundry room so that the bear's mythical status as 'a wild animal' could be confirmed.
'Out of the voods, it came,' said the revived German woman. 'It must haf been incensed by der noise from der motorcycle.'
'A she-bear with young cubs,' Freud explained. 'Sehr treacherous at this time of year.'
But the management of the Arbuthnot-by-the-Sea would not allow the matter to be dismissed so easily; Freud knew that.
'I'm leaving before I have to talk with him again,' Freud told Father and Mother. They knew that Freud meant the owner of the Arbuthnot, the man in the white dinner jacket who occasionally showed up for the last dance. 'I can just hear him, the big shot: "Now, Freud, you knew the risk -- we discussed it. When I agreed to have the animal here, we agreed he would be your responsiblity." And if he tells me I'm a lucky Jew -- to be in his fucking America in the first place -- I will let State o' Maine eat him!' Freud said. 'Him and his fancy cigarettes, I don't need. This isn't my kind of hotel, anyway.'
The bear, nervous at being confined in the laundry room and worried to see Freud packing his clothes as fast as they came out of the wash -- still wet -- began to growl to himself. 'Earl!' he whispered.
'Oh, shut up!' Freud yelled. 'You're not my kind of bear, either.'
'It was my fault,' my mother said. 'I shouldn't have taken his muzzle off.'
Those were just love bites,' Freud said. 'It was the brute's claws that really carved that fucker up!'
'If he hadn't tried to pull State o' Maine's fur,' Father said, 'I don't think it would have gotten so bad.'
'Of course it wouldn't have!' Freud said. 'Who likes to have hair pulled?'
'Earl!' complained State o' Maine.
'That should be your name: "Earl!" ' Freud told the bear. 'You're so stupid, that's all you ever say.'
'But what will you do?' Father asked Freud. 'Where can you go?'
'Back to Europe,' Freud said. 'They got smart bears there.'
'They have Nazis there,' Father said.
'Give me a smart bear and fuck the Nazis,' Freud said.
'I'll take care of State o' Maine,' Father said.
'You can do better than that,' Freud said. 'You can buy him. Two hundred dollars, and what you got for clothes. These are all wet!' he shouted, throwing his clothes.
'Earl!' said the bear, distressed.
'Watch your language, Earl,' Freud told him.
'Two hundred dollars?' Mother asked.
That's all they've paid me, so far,' Father said.
'I know what they pay you,' Freud said. That's why it's only two hundred dollars. Of course, it's for the motorcycle, too. You've seen why you need to keep the Indian, ja? State o' Maine don't get in cars; they make him throw up. And some woodsman chained him in a pickup once -- I saw that. The dumb bear tore the tailgate off and beat in the rear window and mauled the guy in the cab. So don't you be dumb. Buy the Indian.'
Two hundred dollars,' Father repeated.
'Now for your clothes,' Freud said. He left his own wet things on the laundry room floor. The bear tried to follow them to my father's room, but Freud told my mother to take State o' Maine outside and chain him to the motorcycle.
'He knows you're leaving and he's nervous, poor thing,' Mother said.
'He just misses the motorcycle,' Freud said, but he let the bear come upstairs -- although the Arbuthnot had asked him not to allow this.
'What do I care now what they allow?' Freud said, trying on my father's clothes. My mother watched up and down the hall, bears and women were not allowed in the men's dorm.
'My clothes are all too big for you,' my father told Freud when Freud had dressed himself.
'I'm still growing,' said Freud, who must have been at least forty then. 'If I'd had the right clothes, I'd be bigger now.' He wore three of my father's suit pants, one pair right over the other; he wore two suit jackets, the pockets stuffed with underwear and socks, and he carried a third jacket over his shoulder. 'Why trouble with suitcases?' he asked.
'But how will you get to Europe?' Mother whispered into the room.
'By crossing the Atlantic Ocean,' Freud said. 'Come in here,' he said to Mother; he took my mother's and father's hands and joined them together. 'You're only teen-agers,' he told them, 'so listen to me: you are in love. We start from this assumption, ja?' And although my mother and father had never admitted any such thing to each other, they both nodded while Freud held their hands. 'Okay,' Freud said. 'Now, three things from this follow. You promise me you will agree to these three things?'
'I promise,' said my father.
'So do I,' Mother said.
'Okay,' said Freud. 'Here's number one: you get married, right away, before some clods and whores change your minds. Got it? You get married, even though it will cost you.'
'Yes,' my parents agreed.
'Here's number two,' Freud said, looking only at my father. 'You go to Harvard -- you promise me -- even though it will cost you.'
'But I'll already be married,' my father said.
'I said it will cost you, didn't I?' Freud said. 'You promise me: you'll go to Harvard. You take every opportunity given you in this world, even if you have too many opportunities. One day the opportunities stop, you know?'
'I want you to go to Harvard, anyway,' Mother told Father.
'Even though it will cost me,' Father said, but he agreed to go.
'We're up to number three,' Freud said. 'You ready?' And he turned to my mother; he dropped my father's hand, he even shoved it away from his so that he was holding Mother's hand all alone. 'Forgive him,' Freud told her, 'even though it will cost you.'
'Forgive me for what?' Father said.
'Just forgive him,' Freud said, looking only at my mother. She shrugged.
'And you!' Freud said to the bear, who was sniffing around under Father's bed. Freud startled State o' Maine, who'd found a tennis ball under the bed and put it in his mouth.
'Urp!' the bear said. Out came the tennis ball.
' You,' Freud said to the bear. 'May you one day be grateful that you were rescued from the disgusting world of nature!'
That was all. It was a wedding and a benediction, my mother always said. It w
as a good old-fashioned Jewish service, my father always said; Jews were a mystery to him -- of the order of China, India, and Africa, and all the exotic places he'd never been.
Father chained the bear to the motorcycle. When he and Mother kissed Freud good-bye, the bear tried to butt his head between them.
'Watch out!' Freud cried, and they scattered apart. 'He thought we were eating something,' Freud told Mother and Father. 'Watch out how you kiss around him; he don't understand kissing. He thinks it's eating.'
'Earl!' the bear said.
'And please, for me,' Freud said, 'call him Earl -- that's all he ever says, and State o' Maine is such a dumb name.'
'Earl?' my mother said.
'Earl!' the bear said.
'Okay,' Father said. 'Earl it is.'
'Goodbye, Earl,' Freud said. 'Auf Wiedersehen!'
They watched Freud for a long time, waiting on the Bay Point dock for a boat going to Boothbay, and when a lobsterman finally took him -- although my parents knew that in Boothbay Freud would be boarding a larger ship -- they thought how it looked as if the lobster boat were taking Freud to Europe, all the way across the dark ocean. They watched the boat chug and bob until it seemed smaller than a tern or even a sandpiper on the sea; but then it was out of hearing.
'Did you do it for the first time that night?' Franny always asked.
'Franny!' Mother said.
'Well, you said you felt married,' Franny said.
'Never mind when we did it,' Father said.
'But you did, right?' Franny said.
'Never mind that,' Frank said.
'It doesn't matter when,' Lilly said, in her weird way.
And that was true -- it didn't really matter when. When they left the summer of 1939 and the Arbuthnot-by-the-Sea, my mother and father were in love -- and in their minds, married. After all, they had promised Freud. They had his 1937 Indian and his bear, now named Earl, and when they arrived home in Dairy, New Hampshire, they drove first to the Bates family house.
'Mary's home!' my mother's mother called.