When the old man told these stories, he did not always know the details of them until he heard them from his own lips. Like many good talkers and taletellers, he relied on inspiration. His tongue was like a pump hooked up to some deep well of secrets, and when he got it primed the tales he spewed up were as astonishing to him as to any man in the room. He sometimes wondered at the source of them.
Now, on this November night in the basement, Ralph gave some thought to his second son for whom no Galbralian name had ever been invented. Clinton was good company, not talkative himself, but a perfect listener, and though he was not wild he had a lot to him in a quiet way.
Ralph’s head was inclined over the puzzle. He stole a glance at this tame son and felt a sudden flush of guilt that he had never given him a nickname. He drank his liquor and busied himself with the puzzle. A moment later, he mumbled, “It’s a tribe of Galbralians.” Clinton laughed in a quiet, agreeable way, and Ralph said: “Don’t you snicker. You’re just as bad as that other one. You’re both Galbralians. You want a drink of liquor?” Clinton said, “Yes, please,” and took a small swallow from the bottle. The two of them laughed together over nothing in particular, and pretty soon the old man felt better about the whole matter.
Clinton did not place the letter in the first mailbox he passed. He went first to a White Tower hamburger place and ordered a cup of coffee. He often stopped at this place during his late evening walks. You could not always count on interesting talk here, but on occasions it had been lively enough. There was a public telephone on the wall, not encased by a booth, and you could often get half of a conversation.
The counter man was a thin person of indeterminate age and faded eyes. He spoke with a machine-gun hillbilly speed and, though usually laconic, Clinton found his little scraps of talk worth listening to: for instance, when he spoke his name, Melvin, you could not hear the “I”; and he talked of Tennessee as if it were Paradise. Clinton always thought of him as Mevvin from Heaven. He also admired Mevvin’s efficiency behind the counter. The man could take care of eight stools, work the grill, serve, and ring up cash without ever getting confused or flustered. Clinton had long ago entered all of these facts, along with samples of Mevvin’s talk, in his notebook.
Now Clinton sat at the counter and removed various articles of equipment from his pocket and placed them before him: his notebook, a ball-point pen with his name on it in gold (received through the mail from a crippled war veteran along with a letter inviting him to become a ball-point pen salesman in his neighborhood; he gave it some thought, but never followed through on it), a package of king-sized cigarettes in a plastic container, book matches, a roll of transparent tape, a key ring with a metal tag on it that read: I HAVE BEEN TELEVISED AT THE NEW YORK WORLD’S FAIR; from this key ring depended a large number of useless keys and a single-bladed knife given him by a Red Cross Shoes salesman.
Then he took from his shirt the envelope addressed to Mrs. W. B. O’Brien in Toledo, Ohio. Though his mother wrote with great speed and you had to study certain words to know what they were, she had a graceful hand and wrote in even, well-spaced lines. At the bottom of the page the writing would get smaller and smaller and creep up the sides, as if she limited herself to a certain number of sheets.
This correspondent, Bernice O’Brien, was his mother’s special confidante. Perhaps because they so seldom met face to face, Annabel felt she could write the truth to Bernice. The woman had been her closest friend in high school, and later married a tire salesman. When Annabel attended a class reunion in Toledo, some years ago, she found that Bernice had become fat and arthritic and was confined to a wheel chair. Her misery was constant, and even though she had taken up metaphysical studies to help her cope with it, the pain was at times so intense she needed drugs to subdue it. Because of this sad condition, Bernice’s only child, a daughter named Echo O’Brien, now almost thirty years old, had never married and still lived at home. Annabel had met this daughter at the time of the class reunion, and always spoke of her as a “beautiful thing, but very silent, the poor creature.”
Because Annabel wrote the truth in these letters, Clinton always counted himself lucky to get hold of one of them, and took great pleasure in copying them into his notebooks. He knew that this theft of her privacy was a kind of crime. But he could commit it without any feeling of guilt. If his fingers shook as he slit the envelope, it was from an excess of eagerness to enjoy the secrets it might contain.
He smoked a cigarette as he read:
1129 SEMINARY ST.
CLEVELAND, O.—WED. EVE.
DEAREST FRIEND, DEAREST BERNICE,
I’m afraid you find me at a low ebb as I have been fighting the blues something awful. Isnt it interesting in the sense of ironical that I have no one to turn to but you for consolation my dearest friend whose burdens are so much heavier than anybody elses? But thats life and it is such a comfort to me. I dont know why you dont write back and say Dear Annabel! I have troubles of my own. Ha. God bless you and I do pray for you every single day. And how is lovely Echo doing?
Still no word from Berry-berry. I would appreciate it if you would meditate about this as he is the type to get into trouble. If anything comes to you, no matter how awful it is, I know you would pass it on to me, as some word of any kind is better than just worrying myself sick. I have still not yet gotten over how it all came to you about Gladys Huntsinger’s pregnancy at 38 long after she’d given up hope—not to mention the death of poor Carole Lombard 12 hours prior to the radio—and the downfall of Japan was nothing to sneeze at!! I still urge you to get some of these things notarized showing the dates, and then just watch the doubting Thomases. Do pray for Berry-berry. I’m afraid he is a chip off the old block but he gets his height and broad shoulders and good eyesight from my side of the family. Remember how tall and straight my father stood, and stood out in a crowd? Taking nothing away from Ralph, a good-looking man B.P. (Before Prohibition. Ha.) but was never tall and his hair is gone as well. Even so, if you could see him, dear Bernice, a small man but strong with the constitution of a horse, and you wouldn’t believe he was sixty-one these days but the calendar doesnt lie. I’m afraid Berry-berry is a chip off the old block, but thank heaven he does not preach C-ism. Ralph was never an out-and-out C either. He just likes being different. For instance if everybody went atheist, I am certain he would become a priest. Ha. Because lately he says he is an agnostic and just loves sitting in the basement doing jigsaw puzzles. But I knew when I married a man dogs years older I would have to pay the piper so this is no complaint. However Bernice dont laugh at me but do you ever have dreams? Bernice there is not a living soul I would breathe this to, but I dream quite a bit lately about Arch Roper. Very romantic dreams. Arch Roper is not in the Yearbook as he was taken out of school by his father but you remember him well I’m sure. So you see I am an old middle-aged woman who still has dreams of taking walks and dating and everything. I feel silly telling all this, and dont know how you can read it without getting mad at me. Oh, Bernice, I just love you to pieces.
Our new trouble is Clinton who it now comes out has quit school fifty-seven days ago in a row and would not go back on pain of death. If he had some kind of job to occupy him I wouldn’t mind so much, but he is doing conversations again and am now considering your advice of two years ago about getting professional counsel because I cant get through to him and Ralph will not. Would you advise us to move out of this house? I shiver every time I go past Berry-berry’s room, which he never once slept in. It’s as if he was dead even though going around the country is a common thing in young men. Ralph put it very well, he has a turn of phrase, he said the clock ticks louder here, which is very fitting because sometimes I think I’m going crazy. Ha. Bernice, it’s like we have got all our things arranged but none of us is moved in yet, can you understand that and we’ve been here almost a year? However we will all get settled soon and I dont want you to worry about us. Because I feel better already, dearest friend, so write soon and i
f there is anything I can do please let me know and I will drop everything! Give my love to Echo, she is pretty as a picture.
Lovingly,
ANNABEL
Clinton read the letter a second time. Then he lit another cigarette and, sipping his coffee, copied the letter into his notebook. When he had finished, he repaired the envelope with transparent tape, hoping that Bernice would not notice its condition or make any comment on it in her answer. He placed his belongings in his pockets—except for the notebook which always rode on his belly, tucked under his shirt and secured by the belt of his trousers.
Apart from his pleasure in partaking of its secrets, Annabel’s letter had touched him in some other way that was also in itself a secret. It was this extra mystery that he pondered on the way home. Out of her presence, if he ever tried to conjure up a picture of Annabel, her fragments always seemed to float in air and never would stand still for him. There seemed to be no part of her or her life that was whole, without gaps. Her conversations had this quality, too. Whenever she took hold of a subject, it sprang a leak and all the facts dribbled away from her. Or a person: if she reached out to a person, it seemed that the part she got hold of ceased to exist, and she was left holding the ghost of an arm, the ghost of a hand or a chin or a cheek, the ghost of someone’s heart. These letters that went to Toledo, Ohio, were the most solid communications of her life; and they went to a crippled lady, half-drugged and in pain, who seldom sent back answers of any length except on rare occasions when her fingers could manipulate the fountain pen. Annabel was like some unhappy Midas whose touch was liquid; whatever she reached out for dissolved, floated away from her. Clinton’s thinking about these matters was of a similar character. The sadness of it would not stand still for him either, but floated away. He could not even gather up one strong firm thought to put down in his notebook.
After he had placed the letter in the slot, he tipped back the iron pan once again to make certain the envelope had slid down into the box. He never took this kind of thing for granted, and if he failed to double-check, the matter would worry him. For a moment, Clinton was aware of this New Neighborhood he was walking through. The houses were plain and undistinguished, most of them frame, well cared for, with neat lawns and modest splotches of shrubbery outlining the porches and some of the driveways and paths. He knew the street only as any passer-by would know it at first glance; it was not familiar to him in any personal sense at all, and he knew it never would be. It seemed impossible to him that any neighborhood could have any flavor to it unless Berry-berry lived in it.
Now this thought captured him. Berry-berry had always this power over him, to move in, even in the form of a thought, and take over his imagination, no matter what else might be pressing in on it for attention. The reason was this: his brother was the center of Clinton’s most important dream: that one day when he was considered old enough, perhaps at seventeen, Berry-berry would send for him to go traveling with him. What made the dream important was not only that he wanted it to come true—but that he was certain it never would. It was therefore impossible to get rid of, and had tormented him for a long time.
Before Berry-berry went away, Clinton gave him a piece of paper with a certain address on it where he could always be reached without the letter becoming a matter of general knowledge to the family. It was the address of a girl named Mildred Murphy, who lived in the Old Neighborhood. She had agreed to act as a secret post office for any messages between the brothers. But after Berry-berry left the house, Clinton had found the piece of paper with the address on it in a pair of trousers that were left behind. This made it fairly certain that Berry-berry had no intention of sending for him.
Besides, he had to admit that his brother had never truly let him in on any important secrets. Even in the Amelia Street days, Berry-berry had kept the meanings of his comings and goings strictly to himself. The old man was careful never to question him on the nature of his absences, whether for an hour or a day or a group of days, and Berry-berry never volunteered anything. Annabel, on the other hand, made it a point to question him closely, and as a result gleaned even less information than anyone else.
Therefore, since Clinton did not have hold of any facts, he was careful not to commit himself to any hard and fast conclusions; but appearances were that Berry-berry Williams had engaged in every kind of debauch ever heard of or imagined. For instance, one night in the old house, the young man, returning from some escapade, had climbed in Clinton’s window at 4:00 A.M. (Because the front door of the place was kept locked, and Berry-berry had never been furnished with a key, he often used Clinton’s window as a means of entrance.) Clinton would wake up and sometimes they would have a conversation. On this particular night that Clinton was remembering, Berry-berry came in giggling from the wine he had drunk, and between his teeth he carried an inflated balloon of great size. He tossed an empty box on the bed, and Clinton saw that the balloon was in fact a blown-up contraceptive. Clinton was twelve then, and naturally had never made use of one of these devices himself; but he knew they came three in a box, and he was eager to know what had become of the other two. But on close questioning of this sort, Berry-berry would only laugh. He dropped his trousers, peed out the window, and sang some crazy song.
Clinton did not know what to believe; he knew there were two schools of thought on the subject of fornication: either it was a widespread custom that took place almost constantly in every parked car and hotel room in the world, or a rare event that almost never occurred—and if it did you were likely to end up in jail or with your name in the paper. In the Old Neighborhood, he had for some time hung around in the back room of a chain grocery store where a friend of his was employed putting potatoes in paper sacks. Conversations among the older male clerks seemed to indicate that the main purpose of life was fornication; whereas, the manager himself, a grown-up married man, had got into the discussion one day and maintained hotly that it was all talk, the only single people who ever engaged in such activities were underprivileged nincompoops and basically non compos mentis, and furthermore, people who handled groceries to be eaten by the general public had no business even thinking about such subjects. Clinton suspected even then that the truth might lie somewhere between these extremes, but he would have liked to get hold of some authoritative information that would settle the matter.
Whether or not Berry-berry had actually been out fornicating that night was a matter of small importance to him. Some, perhaps, but in itself it was not the mystery that tormented his imagination. Clinton felt that no matter what Berry-berry did, whether away from the house or in it, he was Living. It was something that took place even when he slept, hidden in his body and under his eyelids; it was always going on, and none of the ten thousand questions he asked ever brought an answer that touched in any way the source of this deep wonder. Therefore, when Clinton began to suspect that Berry-berry intended to leave home, he grew more and more anxious about these matters until, by the time his brother actually announced his plans, his panic was so great that the thought of being left behind made him vomit.
It was at this time that he conceived the Mildred Murphy plan, whereby his brother could secretly send for him. But when he found the address had been left behind, a belief took shape in him that he could not himself have put into words. It was this: that Life had conspired to avoid him altogether. For a while he halfheartedly hoped to find some sign of Life in the Old Neighborhood, but after snooping around over there for more than a month, he gave up that hope. Life was a thing that took place out of his presence: it went on in a room just before he entered it and took up again after he left; it was on the other end of a telephone wire, in envelopes he could not get hold of that were delivered to other houses, in all books except those he could lay hands on himself; and surely it moved along with Berry-berry, inside of him on that vague and dimly lighted, hard-to-imagine road he traveled.
This, then, was his private terror: that these mysteries would never unfold. He would no
t be sent for. It is a sad fact that the futility of a desire will not wipe it out; and so, this longing that had come to being in him, that had taken to parading around inside him, mostly in his chest, would have to be dealt with in some private way. He believed that the thing had begun to nibble at his heart, at his sanity. The symptoms alarmed him: at fourteen he had no nails left to bite and had set to work on the cuticles, he smoked regularly, did conversations, and the very thought of sitting in a schoolroom caused him physical anguish. It occurred to him that poor Annabel might have good grounds for her worries. If privately he believed there could be no letup in his bad behavior, he could not admit it to her. She would never understand that it all had to do with Berry-berry, and the thing that pranced around inside him.
Annabel had said to Ralph: “He misses his brother,” and the enormity of this understatement, spoken in those soft, cooing tones, had made him want to beat his head against the laundry chute until his brain was raw. But now, with the burden of all her talk and the letter resting in his notebook, he again felt sympathy for her. By the time he arrived home, he had made a decision.
He found Annabel in a highly agitated state: “Don’t speak! Keep still! Shut up!” she cried. “I’ve got to hear this.”
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