The Collected Stories of William Humphrey

by William Humphrey

  After that she left him alone. Maybe she was thinking that alone he would come to enjoy a nice warm room, a day in bed with meals brought up, realize how much he did owe her to be sure. But even if it were pleasant would she let a man enjoy it? And on that sour thought his pipe drained in his mouth and started a coughing fit that very nearly choked him in trying to keep her from hearing. Ah, Grogan, he chided himself, wouldn’t it have been better now to have built a fire back in November and worn the muffler like she said? A stubborn, wheezing “no!” shot through him. But wouldn’t it now? Didn’t he regret the false front of good health and didn’t he wish he had confessed to sniffles three days ago and staved off what was sure to develop into pneumonia?

  Come now. Were things that black, truly? Well, he was not exactly what you would call hale, but nobody but himself would ever know it, and better by far than she gave him the credit for. He still cut a pretty sturdy figure and nobody ever heard him complain. In fact, he had been maybe a little too uncomplaining. Well, if so he could point out where to lay the blame. What else could a man do only swallow down his aches and pains, never mention them nor so much as let them be guessed, when he knew that if they were her face would light up at every hole like a new candle had been put in it. Many the time he had felt so bad that younger men than he by years would have spent the week in bed and he had got right up—first, too, more like than not—made his own breakfast, it went without saying, and gone to work with a smile and a tipped hat for everybody on the street.

  Meanwhile she had been giving him a standing with the neighbors that she never dreamed was noble. “Oh, I’m very well, Mrs. Harriman, very well indeed. It’s Mr. Grogan, you know.” This she would sadly volunteer over the back fence. She had to volunteer it, for no one ever thought to ask after such a chipper man. In those days Mr. Grogan got no end of delight in knowing that to Mrs. Harriman and to the rest of the neighbors, his wife was making of herself either a liar or a lunatic. For whenever he caught sight of her on the back fence speaking with Mrs. Harriman and looking sadly up at his window, then he would rush out and start weeding his garden in a flaming fury. Or he would trot down the street and catch flies as the kids played baseball, wind up and burn the ball home. He just wished she could have seen the neighbors’ faces then!

  But people are always anxious to believe the worst about someone else’s health. The neighbors then respected him, stood aside on the walks, offered little services and some of them went so far as to consult him about their own illnesses, he being such a fine example of how to bear so many. Then he may have peacocked it a bit; he supposed he did. Not that he wanted their attention. If he played up to all this ever so little it was because it was pleasant to see her program turning out so different from the way she had planned it.

  Soon, though, it got to looking like they were saying among themselves, “Well, here comes that poor half-dead fool Grogan, with no idea of all that’s going on inside hisself.” There did seem to be such a conspiracy against him, he had thought more than once of taking a loss on his equity in the house and finding a new neighborhood. Hereabouts just to walk down the block of an afternoon made him feel the morgue had given him a day off his slab.

  Now another situation held among Mr. Grogan’s friends and it was only this that kept him going. Mr. Grogan was a great one for broadening himself with new friends and he was attracted naturally and by principle to young men. The few friends his wife had managed to keep were as old and mostly older than herself. Her claim was that he palled around with his young friends in a vain and unbecoming attempt to imagine himself their age again. But this, he knew, was to cover her own guilt for avoiding all younger women that she might not appear any older by contrast, and comparing her own fine fat state daily to the failing energies of her old crones.

  Mr. Grogan prided himself on the job he had done of keeping his friends away from his wife. They, then, had no reason for not taking his word that he enjoyed excellent health. Not one of them but would have had trouble believing otherwise of anybody, and when he was with them Mr. Grogan never felt an ache or a pain. So, it was shocking to slip like a ghost down the three blocks nearest his house, turn the corner and enter McLeary’s tavern like the playboy of Western Long Island.

  Just the kind of a shock Mr. Grogan would have welcomed when toward eleven o’clock there came up to him the sound of substantial steps on the back stoop and he heard his wife greet her friend Mr. Rauschning, the baker. Into the kitchen they would go, where she would stuff him with the marzipan she bought from him at cutthroat prices, so Mr. Grogan expected, but instead he heard them on the steps up to his room and the two of them rumbled in like a Panzer division.

  Mr. Rauschning took one look at him. Then he removed the cigar from his mouth and turned it over and over, squinting at it as though he could read his temperature on it and was satisfied that it could never be as alarming as Grogan’s. “Ja,” he said, and to this Mrs. Grogan nodded gravely.

  Neighborhood kids said that Rauschning soured his dough by scowling at it. But to Mr. Grogan he was no surlier than the rest of his compatriots. To Mr. Grogan it seemed his wife’s friends wore a look of petty insolence, to which he contrasted the noble defiance of generations of Irishmen oppressed by the same grievance.

  “Since yesterday morning,” his wife commented on his condition, and Rauschning nodded; he could have predicted it to the hour.

  “And the Herr Doktor, what does he say?”

  “Hah! What doctor?”

  Mr. Rauschning said ah-hah. Between them his fate was sealed.

  “Well, how’s the bakery business?” Mr. Grogan inquired amiably, and wished he hadn’t as Rauschning nodded faintly to a man who would soon have little concern over the staff of life.

  “Well, Grogan, I hope you get better,” he said, and turned back at the door to add, “soon.” He turned then to Mrs. Grogan to indicate that his anxiety was for her, as well as his condolences—for hopes, before such evidence, were vain, ending with a smile of agreement that she would be better off afterwards, of course, for a good strong German woman would always get by.

  Now they were gone and Mr. Grogan thought he would just forget they were ever there, doze off wishing the two of them off on one another. But that would suit her too well. Ah, how often had she wished aloud for the likes of him herself, him or her first husband back again, whose speckled portrait sat on her bureau fading a little more each year as though still fleeing the vigor of her tongue.

  The two dearest friends Mrs. Grogan owned came around noon to have the invalid exhibited to them. His wife must have phoned everybody she knew the night before when she had him drugged asleep, urged them all over for a laugh. But there stirred in him suddenly a fear that something unmistakably desperate in his appearance that was plain to all but him, something that they figured would this morning come to an inevitable crisis, something that had escaped him while draining away his very life, something horrible had summoned them all this morning with no help from her necessary. Was it possible? Had she been right all along, sincere, and the neighbors, had they honestly seen it coming?

  They came up while he was feeling himself frantically for ailments he might have overlooked. They were Miss Hinkle and Mrs. Schlegelin and it was easy to see how even Mrs. Grogan could feel secure in their company. Miss Hinkle came in with a twitter at being in a man’s bedroom and Mrs. Grogan was astonished that she could feel that way in the bedroom of a man with so little of his manhood left him. The sight of Mrs. Schlegelin could make Mr. Grogan feel there was hope for even him, for who ever saw such a thing so skinny from head to toe?

  “Like the flu looks maybe,” she diagnosed. “Just like mein Helmut exactly when he came down mit flu.”

  Mr. Grogan snorted, thinking how much more than flu he would have to have to look at all like her Helmut.

  Miss Hinkle, terrified that she might catch sight of a bedpan, squealed, “Elsa, smells here like in Germany in the epidemic, ain’t it?”

  �
�Hush, Hedvig, no,” shooshed Mrs. Schlegelin, her nose climbing up her face, and Miss Hinkle sniggered.

  And they said other things, even after Mr. Grogan slowly flourished from the drawer of his nightstand two abandoned wads of chewing gum—really two waxen cotton plugs—and screwed them into his ears.

  A tactic he had developed some time back. Mr. Grogan disliked using it, it made for all sorts of trouble, but was surely called for now. Wax-treated cotton they were, soft, easily got in, and they set like cement. Twenty-five cents a month bought a private little world all his own. Herself resented the price. With a display of thrift and resourcefulness, she bought a roll of cotton big enough for quilting, a tin of tallow, and made her own. She looked to be troubled with his voice for even longer than he ever hoped. For a while it piqued him. Now he simply had to laugh. One of many examples it became of her racial penny-wiseness—because he could make himself heard to her with but the tiniest elevation of his ordinary tone, while she had to shout herself hoarse.

  You could not insult them. They left, but not before they were ready. But they might have spent the night for all of Emmett Grogan. He was sealed in, with smiles rising up like bubbles in new wine. But try as he might there was no convincing himself that this solitude was at all what he wanted. He was lonely in there. And he feared that these last two were not the last by any means. A long list of Mrs. Grogan’s acquaintances rolled across his mind, the two down in the kitchen being welcome compared to some. He uncorked one ear and a dull whistle of Plattdeutsch rushed in.

  Mr. Grogan gave himself a shake to unstick a joint or two, threw the covers back and carefully watched himself get up, afraid of leaving something behind. Sadly he wrenched himself out of his nightgown. Once in his pants he knew how much he had shrunk. Breaking up, he could see it in the mirror. But it was never a clear glass, and the light poorly, and moreover it was a man had spent a day in bed. Lying there that way the flesh slid of its own weight off the bones in front and would take time to get properly rearranged. He would know in McLeary’s tavern. Someone would be sure to remark, “Grogan, you’re not looking yourself”—which he was bound to admit, that is, not looking himself, meaning that a slight change in a ruddy face was enough for decent well-meant concern that never for a minute overstated the case.

  Down the steps stealthily went Mr. Grogan that his wife would not hear the labor it cost him, his eyes steady on the landing where he planned a rest, but as he reached it his wife brought her guests from the kitchen to see them out the front door. From somewhere he dug up the energy to trot briskly by.

  “Don’t wait supper on me,” he flung at her without so much as a glance over his shoulder. And his little spurt of exertion turned out to be the very thing he had been needing. He knew all along it was.

  Housewives were indoors, children in school, dogs in kennels, Ireland still in the Atlantic and Germany in ruins and Emmett Grogan was in the street. Natural phenomena all. There was a list to his step that passed for a swagger as he crashed the door at McLeary’s. The place was deserted. McLeary hung over a scratch sheet at the far end of the bar and he tucked it grudgingly away while Mr. Grogan ascended a stool. Somebody had surely pickled McLeary as a foetus, but he had kept growing, had been lately discovered, spilled out and set going. Little half-opened eyes were getting a start in his squashed face, he was adenoidal, potbellied, but to Mr. Grogan he looked good.

  “Leave the bottle?” he asked after pouring a shot, to which Mr. Grogan nodded carelessly. McLeary went back immediately to his scratch sheet. Mr. Grogan tamped another down, and felt his insides warm and expand. He got down from his stool, looked annoyed with the sunlight at his end of the counter, and moved with his bottle down nearer McLeary.

  “Something else, Mr. Grogan?”

  “No. No, nothing further, thank you, McLeary. This will do it if anything will, I suppose.”

  “Something amiss, Mr. Grogan?”

  “Ah, nothing serious, you understand. Nasty little bit of a cold.”

  “Ah, yes. Too bad. There’s an epidemic, so I understand.”

  That was conserving your sympathy, spreading it pretty thin. Starting on another tack, he asked, “Where could everybody be this fine day?”

  “Not here,” McLeary observed sourly.

  “What can it be, do you suppose?”

  McLeary shrugged; he was unable to imagine a counter-attraction so strong.

  Grogan pushed away his bottle. “And I’ll be having a beer to help that on its way, if you please, McLeary.” He was determined to stick it out until some friend came in. But he had had whiskey enough and more, and he always did get a guilty feeling sitting empty-handed in a bar.

  To go home again would have robbed the venture of all its worth. But he did not like to think of it as a venture. He would like to feel he could go home when he pleased, for after all he had done nothing unusual—got well, got up. No point to be proved to anybody. All too subtle for her, however. She would get the idea he hadn’t been able to stand on his feet any longer. She would have something there, too, but his unsteadiness came from good healthy rye whiskey.

  Grogan, a voice pulled him down by the ear, you’re not feeling well and you know it. Naturally, he replied, I’ve been sick, what do you expect. You’re sick and getting sicker. No, drunk and getting drunker. Mr. Grogan decided to take his stomach out for an airing. Would drop in later when some of his friends were sure to be there before going home to supper. McLeary would solemnly not let them out until Emmett Grogan had seen them.

  It was fast getting dark and the night air settling down. Five steps Mr. Grogan took and sobered so suddenly it was like bumping into himself around a corner. He had better get home, he decided quickly. If he could make it, he added soon. With one block he was apprehensive, two and he was scared, three had him terrified. Something had him by the throat, no air was getting in, he was turning hot and cold, his joints were rusting fast. Holy Mary, Mother of God. Holy Mary, I’m not ready. His mind cleared long enough to wish this on his wife—take her, Lord, she’s mean.

  Mr. Grogan lurched up the steps of his house and found the door locked. It wasn’t possible. Could she have gone out, thinking he might collapse? He fumbled in all his pockets at once, could not find his key, tried them systematically. No key. He wanted just to slump down on those stones and die crying. Maybe the back door was open, if only he could hold out that long. When finally he shoved it in she was sipping tea at the kitchen table and looked up as if she was seeing a ghost. That was when he really got scared. She was not shamming, probably never had been.

  “Well, Mr. Big,” she brogued, “I hope you enjoyed yourself.”

  “Oh,” he managed to groan, leaning on the table edge, “sick. Terrible sick.”

  Mrs. Grogan drained her tea, picked a leaf off her tongue.

  “Hah!” she snorted. “You? Grogan, the Iron Man? You’ve never been sick a day in your life. Told me so yourself many a time.”

  “Oh, I’m dying, woman. You were right. I admit it. I’m a sick man. A dying man. I admit it. Do you hear? What more do you want for your pleasure?”

  “Get on with you, Grogan. Sober up. I’ve no time to be bothered with you.”

  Mr. Grogan licked his lips. They were hot and crinkly. “Will you just help me up the stairs a bit?” he whispered.

  “Now don’t let me have to tell you again, get out of my kitchen and leave me to my business. You’re well enough to swill with the pigs at McLeary’s, you’re well enough to bring me up a scuttle of coal from the cellar.”

  Mr. Grogan turned and dragged himself out in an agony of terror and pain. He crawled up the steps, pulling himself with rubbery hands, and into his room. He struggled out of his overcoat and shoes, laid his cap on the table and crawled under the covers as the phone began ringing.

  “Hello,” she said. “Who? Oh, Mr. Duffy, is it? Young Mr. Duffy,” and she raised her voice to a shout. “Well, yes, he was a little under the weather earlier in the day, one of the same old
complaints. No, no we didn’t. I always just look after him myself. Serious? Well, you ought to know Grogan well enough for that. Bring yourself out on a night like this? For what? Why, he’s just come in from McLeary’s where he spent the whole afternoon. I’m surprised you didn’t see him.”

  The Last Husband

  I

  OUR HONEYMOON was over one bright warm Monday in late November when Janice drove me down to catch the 8:02 and I became a commuter.

  There was a fine invigorating pinch in the air and standing on the station platform with my new wife and new brief case and my unpunched commutation ticket, I was conscious of looking like a young man of whom a lot was expected and who expected a lot of himself, and I did not care who saw. I did not need to care, I soon began to feel, for no one noticed me.

  They did notice when Janice kissed me good-by. I was the only man whose wife kissed him, and I waited with Janice to be the last on the train. Then I saw why no other man got a kiss—nearly all their women got on the train with them; they were going to work, too. Janice was almost the only person left on the platform as the train pulled out.

  Needless to say, while honeymooning we had been content not to know anyone in Cressett. But now we were eager to meet people. It was not by chance that we had come to make our home among them, for while not everyone in Cressett was an advertising artist like me, enough of them did things similar to give the place a name. But though people in the streets had smiled and some had said hello, they smiled more as if they were afraid they knew you and said hello as if they feared perhaps they ought to know you. I’d had to admit to myself that I’d not seen a really friendly face, and after walking down the aisle of the train that morning, down that double row of grumpy, unrested faces—the few, that is, that were visible, for most of them were protected by newspapers—my hopes of seeing one were at their lowest.