Palm Sunday, Welcome to the Monkey House

by Kurt Jr. Vonnegut

  "To hell with her! Let's throw in our lot with the Jenkinses."

  Anne laughed. Grace's spell was wearing off. "Are you mad? Be friends with those two-chair people, those quitters?"

  "Well, we'd make our friendship contingent on their getting a new couch to go with the chairs."

  "And not any couch, but the right couch."

  "If they want to be friends of ours, they mustn't be afraid of color, and they'd better build from the carpet."

  "That goes without saying," said Anne crisply.

  But it was a long time before we found leisure for more than a nod at the Jenkinses. Grace McClellan spent most of her waking hours at our house. Almost every morning, as I was leaving for work, she would stagger into our house under a load of home magazines and insist that Anne pore over them with her in search of just the right solutions for our particular problem house.

  "They must be awfully rich," Anne said at dinner one night.

  "I don't think so," I said. "George has a little leather-goods store that you hardly ever see anybody in."

  "Well, then every cent must go into the house."

  "That I can believe. But what makes you think they're rich?"

  "To hear that woman talk, you'd think money was nothing! Without batting an eyelash, she talks about ten-dollar-a-yard floor-to-ceiling draperies, says fixing up the kitchen shouldn't cost more than a lousy fifteen hundred dollars—without the field-stone fireplace, of course."

  "What's a kitchen without a fieldstone fireplace?"

  "And a circular couch."

  "Isn't there some way you can keep her away, Anne? She's wearing you out. Can't you just tell her you're too busy to see her?"

  "I haven't the heart, she's so kind and friendly and lonely," said Anne helplessly. "Besides, there's no getting through to her. She doesn't hear what I say. Her head is just crammed full of blueprints, cloth, furniture, wallpaper, and paint."

  "Change the subject."

  "Change the course of the Mississippi! Talk about politics, and she talks about remodeling the White House; talk about dogs, and she talks about doghouses."

  The telephone rang, and I answered it. It was Grace Mc-Clellan. "Yes, Grace?"

  "You're in the office-furniture business, aren't you?"

  "That's right."

  "Do you ever get old filing cabinets in trade?"

  "Yes. I don't like to, but sometimes I have to take them."

  "Could you let me have one?"

  I thought a minute. I had an old wooden wreck I was about to haul to the dump. I told her about it.

  "Oh, that'll be divine! There's an article in last month's Better House about what to do with old filing cabinets. You can make them just darling by wallpapering them, then putting a coat of clear shellac over the paper. Can't you just see it?"

  "Yep. Darling, all right. I'll bring it out tomorrow night."

  "That's awfully nice of you. I wonder if you and Anne couldn't drop in for a drink then."

  I accepted and hung up. "Well, the time has come," I said. "Marie Antoinette has finally invited us to have a look at Versailles."

  "I'm afraid," Anne said. "It's going to make our home look so sad."

  "There's more to life than decorating."

  "I know, I know. I just wish you'd stay home in the daytime and keep telling me that while she's here."

  The next evening, I drove the pickup truck home instead of my car, so I could deliver the old filing cabinet to Grace. Anne was already inside the McClellan house, and George came out to give me a hand.

  The cabinet was an old-fashioned oak monster, and, with all the sweating and grunting, I didn't really pay much attention to the house until we'd put down our burden in the front hall.

  The first thing I noticed was that there were already two dilapidated filing cabinets in the hall, ungraced by wallpaper or clear shellac. I looked into the living room. Anne was sitting on the couch with a queer smile on her face. The couch springs had burst through the bottom and were resting nakedly on the floor. The chief illumination came from a single light bulb in a cob-webbed chandelier with sockets for six. An electric extension cord, patched with friction tape, hung from another of the sockets and led to an iron on an ironing board in the middle of the living room.

  A small throw rug, the type generally seen in bathrooms, was the only floor covering, and the planks of the floor were scarred and dull from long neglect. Dust and cobwebs were everywhere, and the windows were dirty. The only sign of order or opulence was on the coffee table, where dozens of fat, slick decoration magazines were spread out like a fan.

  George was nervous and more taciturn than usual, and I gathered that he was uneasy about having us in. After mixing us drinks, he sat down and maintained a fidgeting silence.

  Not so with Grace. She was at a high pitch of excitement, and, seemingly, full of irrepressible pride. Sitting, rising, and sitting again a dozen times a minute, she did a sort of ballet about the room, describing exactly the way she was going to do the room over. She rubbed imaginary fabrics between her fingers, stretched out luxuriously in a wicker chair that would one day be a plum-colored chaise longue, held her hands as far apart as she could reach to indicate the span of a limed-oak television-radio-phonograph console that was to stand against one wall.

  She clapped her hands and closed her eyes. "Can you see it? Can you see it?"

  "Simply lovely," said Anne.

  "And every night, just as George is coming up the walk. I’ll have Martinis ready in a frosty pewter pitcher, and I’ll have a record playing on the phonograph." Grace knelt before the thin air where the console would be, selected a record from nothingness, put it on the imaginary turntable, pressed a nonexistent button, and retired to the wicker chair. To my dismay, she began to rock her head back and forth in time to the phantom music.

  After a minute of this, George seemed disturbed, too. "Grace! You're going to sleep." He tried to make his tone light, but real concern showed through.

  Grace shook her head and opened her eyes lazily. "I wasn't sleeping; I was listening."

  "It will certainly be a charming room," Anne said, looking worriedly at me.

  Grace was suddenly on her feet again, charged with new energy. "And the dining room!" Impatiently, she picked up a magazine and thumbed through it. "Now, wait, where is it, where is it? No, not that one." She let the magazine drop. "Oh, of course, I clipped it last night and put it in the files. Remember, George? The dining-room table with the glass top and the place for potted flowers underneath?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "That's what goes in the dining room," Grace said happily. "See? You look right through the table, and there, underneath, are geraniums, African violets, or anything you want to put there. Fun?" She hurried to the filing cabinets. "You've got to see it in color, really."

  Anne and I followed her politely, and waited while she ran her finger along the dividers in the drawers. The drawers, I saw, were jammed with cloth and wallpaper samples, paint color cards, and pages taken from magazines. She had already filled two cabinets, and was ready to overflow into the third, the one I'd brought. The drawers were labeled, simply, "Living room."

  "Kitchen."

  "Dining room," and so on.

  "Quite a filing system," I said to George, who was just brushing by with a fresh drink in his hand.

  He looked at me closely, as though he was trying to make up his mind whether I was kidding him or not. "It is," he said at last. "There's even a section about the workshop she wants me to have in the basement." He sighed. "Someday."

  Grace held up a little square of transparent blue plastic. "And this is the material for the kitchen curtains, over the sink and automatic dishwasher. Waterproof, and it wipes clean."

  "It's darling," Anne said. "You have an automatic dishwasher?"

  "Mmmmm?" Grace said, smiling at some distant horizon. "Oh —dishwasher? No, but I know exactly the one we want. We've made up our minds on that, haven't we, George?"

  "Yes, dear.
"

  "And someday…" said Grace happily, running her fingers over the contents of a file drawer.

  "Someday…" said George.

  As I say, two years have passed since then, since we first met the McClellans. Anne, with compassion and tenderness, invented harmless ways of keeping Grace from spending all her time at our house with her magazines. But we formed a neighborly habit of having a drink with the McClellans once or twice a month.

  I liked George, and he grew friendly and talkative when he'd made sure we weren't going to bait his wife about interior decorating, something almost everyone else in the neighborhood was fond of doing. He adored Grace, and made light of her preoccupation, as he had done at our first meeting, only when he didn't know the people before whom she was performing. Among friends, he did nothing to discourage or disparage her dreaming.

  Anne bore the brunt of Grace's one-track conversations as sort of a Christian service, listening with tact and patience. George and I ignored them, and had a pleasant enough time talking about everything but interior decoration.

  In these talks it came out bit by bit that George had been in a bad financial jam for years, and that things refused to get better. The "someday" that Grace had been planning for five years, George said, seemed to recede another month as each new home magazine appeared on the newsstands. It was this, I decided, not Grace, that kept him drinking more than his share.

  And the filing cabinets got fuller and fuller, and the McClellan house got dowdier and dowdier. But not once did Grace's excitement about what their house was going to be like flag. If anything, it increased, and time and again we would have to follow her about the house to hear just how it was all going to be.

  And then a fairly sad thing and an awfully nice thing happened to the McClellans. The sad thing was that Grace came down with a virus infection that kept her in the hospital two months. The nice thing was that George inherited a little money from a relative he'd never met.

  While Grace was in the hospital, George often had supper with us; and the day he received his legacy, his taciturnity dropped away completely. To our surprise, he now talked interior decoration with fervor and to the exclusion of everything else.

  "You've got the bug too, now," Anne said, laughing. "Bug, hell! I've got the money! I'm going to surprise Grace by having that house just the way she wants it, when she comes home."

  "Exactly, George?"

  "Eggs-zactly!"

  And Anne and I were willingly drafted to help him. We went through Grace's files and found detailed specifications for every room, right down to bookends and soap dishes. It was a tough job tracking down every item, but George was indefatigable, and so was Anne, and money was no object.

  Time was everything, money was nothing. Electricians, plasterers, masons, and carpenters worked around the clock for bonus wages; and Anne, for no pay at all, harassed department stores into hurrying with the houseful of furniture she'd ordered. Two days before Grace was to come home, the inheritance was gone, and the house was magnificent. George was unquestionably the happiest, proudest man on earth. The job was flawless, save for one tiny detail not worth mentioning. Anne had failed to match exactly the yellow square of cloth Grace had wanted for her living-room curtains and the cover for the couch. The shade Anne had had to settle for was just a little bit lighter. George and I couldn't see the difference at all.

  And then Grace came home, cheerful but weak, leaning on George's arm. It was late in the afternoon, and Anne and I were waiting in the living room, literally trembling with excitement. As George helped Grace up the walk, Anne fussed nervously with a bouquet of red roses she had brought and placed in a massive glass vase in the center of the coffee table.

  We heard George's hand on the latch, the door swung open, and the McClellans stood on the threshold of their dream house. "Oh, George," Grace murmured. She let go of his arm, and, as though miraculously drawing strength from her surroundings, she walked from room to room, looking all about her as we had seen her do a thousand times. But this time of times she was speechless.

  She returned at last to the living room, and sank onto the plum-colored chaise longue.

  George turned down the volume of the phonograph to a sweet whisper. "Well?"

  Grace sighed. "Don't rush me," she said. "I'm trying to find the words, the exact words."

  "You like it?" George asked.

  Grace looked at him and laughed incredulously. "Oh, George, George, of course I like it! You darling, it's wonderful! I'm home, home at last." Her lip trembled, and we all began to cloud up.

  "Nothing wrong?" George asked huskily.

  "You've taken wonderful care of it. Everything's so clean and beautiful."

  "Well, it'd sure be a surprise if things weren't clean," George said. He clapped his hands together. "Now then, you well enough for a drink?"

  "I'm not dead."

  "Leave us out, George," I said. "We're leaving. We just had to see her expression when she walked in, but now we'll clear out."

  "Oh, say now—" George said.

  "No. I mean it. We're going. You two ought to be alone—you three, including the house."

  "Stay right where you are," George said. He hurried into the dazzling white kitchen to mix the drinks.

  "All right, so we'll sneak out," Anne said. We started for the front door. "Don't get up, Grace."

  "Well, if you really won't stay, good-by," Grace said from the chaise longue. "I hardly know how to thank you."

  "It was the most fun I've had in years," said Anne. She looked proudly around the room, and went over to the coffee table to rearrange the roses slightly. "The only thing that worried me was the color of the slipcover and curtains. Are they all right?"

  "Why, Anne, did you notice them too? I wasn't even going to mention them. It would certainly be silly to let a little thing like that spoil my homecoming." She frowned a little.

  Anne was crestfallen. "Oh dear, I hope they didn't spoil it."

  "No, no, of course they didn't," Grace said. "I don't quite understand it, but it doesn't matter a bit."

  "Well, I can explain," Anne said.

  "Something in the air, I suppose."

  "In the air?" Anne said.

  "Well, how else can you explain it? That material held its color just perfectly for years, and then, poof, it fades like this in a few weeks."

  George walked in with a frosty pewter pitcher. "Now, you'll stay for a quick one, won't you?"

  Anne and I took glasses hungrily, gratefully, wordlessly. "There's a new Home Beautiful that came today, sweetheart."

  George said.

  Grace shrugged. "Read one and you've read them all." She lifted her glass. "Happy days, and thanks, darlings, so much for the roses."

  (1951)

  THE HYANNIS PORT STORY

  THE FARTHEST AWAY from home I ever sold a storm window was in Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, practically in the front yard of President Kennedy's summer home. My field of operation is usually within about twenty-five miles of my home, which is in North Crawford, New Hampshire.

  The Hyannis Port thing happened because somebody misunderstood something I said, and thought I was an ardent Gold-water Republican. Actually, I hadn't made up my mind one way or the other about Goldwater.

  What happened was this: The program chairman of the North Crawford Lions Club was a Goldwater man, and he had this college boy named Robert Taft Rumfoord come talk to a meeting one day about the Democratic mess in Washington and Hyannis Port. The boy was national president of some kind of student organization that was trying to get the country back to what he called First Principles. One of the First Principles, I remember, was getting rid of the income tax. You should have heard the applause.

  I got a funny feeling that the boy didn't care much more about politics than I did. He had circles under his eyes, and he looked as though he'd just as soon be somewhere else. He would say strong things, but they came out sounding like music on a kazoo. The only time he got really interesting was w
hen he told about being in sailboat races and golf and tennis matches with different Kennedys and their friends. He said that there was a lot of propaganda around about what a fine golfer Bobby Kennedy was, whereas Bobby actually couldn't golf for sour apples. He said Pierre Salinger was one of the worst golfers in the world, and didn't care for sailing or tennis at all.

  Robert Taft Rumfoord's parents were there to hear him. They had come all the way from Hyannis Port. They were both very proud of him—or at least the father was. The father had on white flannel trousers and white shoes, even though there was snow on the ground, and a double-breasted blue coat with brass buttons. The boy introduced him as Commodore William Rumfoord. The Commodore was a short man with very shaggy eyebrows, and pale blue eyes. He looked like a gruff, friendly teddy-bear, and so did his son. I found out later, from a Secret Service man, that the Kennedys sometimes called the Rumfoords "the Pooh people," on account of they were so much like the bear in the children's book Winnie the Pooh.

  The Commodore's wife wasn't a Pooh person, though. She was thin and quick, and maybe two inches taller than the Commodore. Bears have a way of looking as though they're pretty much satisfied with everything. The Commodore's lady didn't have that look. I could tell she was jumpy about a lot of things.

  After the boy was through pouring fire and brimstone on the Kennedys, with his father applauding everything he said, Hay Boyden, the building mover, stood up. He was a Kennedy Democrat, and he said some terrible things to the boy. The only one I remember is the first thing he said: "Son, if you keep blowing off steam like this during your Boy Scout days, you aren't going to have an ounce of pressure left when you're old enough to vote." It got worse from there on.

  The boy didn't get mad. He just got embarrassed, and answered back with some more kazoo music. It was the Commodore who really cared. He turned the color of tomato juice. He stood up and he argued back, did it pretty well, even though his wife was pulling at the bottom of his brass-buttoned coat the whole time. She was trying to get him to stop raising such an uproar, but the Commodore loved the uproar.