“But I’m bettin’ on him,” Ralph said, as if there had been no pause. “He’s just foolin’ around, sampling. He’s sampling” He seemed to like that word: “Sampling life and all of its riches. —But when he buckles down, look out!”
“What’s he going to do then?” Clinton wanted to know.
“Just watch. And I’m bettin’ on him to win. I didn’t say I was bettin’ on him to show or to place. I’m bettin’ on him to win!”
When Ralph Williams laughed, he did not as a rule use his vocal chords at all. He blew out air that passed first through pockets of spittle in his cheeks. So the sound was more than anything else like an escape of steam. This is how he laughed now; and it signified his complete confidence in Berry-berry’s prospects.
Now Clinton, during this ride downtown, was experiencing something that he did not at the time think about by name: for the minute a happy person names his condition there is at that moment a chink in it: he has turned the coin over and studied it too closely. But on this trip downtown, every part of Clinton Williams had got inside of the moment that was then taking place: his eyes saw the Christmas Eve movements of people and automobiles through the frosted windshield and his own white breath; he smelled the cold, and the car, and his father, and the tobacco they burned between them; his ears were filled with Ralph’s theories and reconstructions; and his own imagination was alive, enriching each word the old man spoke.
And as the car rolled across Cleveland toward the Western Union office, Clinton knew, again without naming what he knew, that he himself was moving across some stretch of time and ignorance, covering, so to speak, some of the ground that lay between him and his brother.
part 2
CLINTON stood at the cash register paying for his coffee. As the woman made change, Clinton asked her to tell him the name of the town they were now in. Every hour or two the bus would stop to give the passengers a chance to stretch their legs and attend to personal comforts. And at each of these stops Clinton made it a point to find out where he was. Then when he got back on the bus he would make a note of it: “Malted milk in Leesburg, Tennessee. Jukebox playing The Wheel of Fortune. Waitress with pretty eyes and bad teeth tried to sing along with it. I’ll bet she’d like to get on the bus and go someplace. Maybe not, though, because she had on a wedding ring. But even so, who knows?” Just a brief note was all he would need, later on, to remind him of the places he had been. However, Leesburg had been last night. Since then, while he slept, they’d passed another state line into Georgia. Now it was high noon on the fifth day of June, and another long blue-sky afternoon of sitting on the bus lay before him, an afternoon of a dozen more new places drifting past the window.
“This is Micah, G.A., sonny boy,” she said, and her eyes seemed to add, “Don’t you forget it.” Clinton had noticed that all the waitresses in southern places were either hostile or friendly; none of them seemed to want to be caught without an attitude. He made a mental note of this lady’s category, hostile, and the name of the town, Micah, and then walked to the screen door of the place. Before going through it, however, he counted his belongings: duffel bag, notebook, money belt, and a pocketful of assorted small possessions. Other passengers left their bags on the bus when they made a stop, but Clinton did not want his trip spoiled by the loss or theft of any of these articles.
Aside from the clothes he had on his back—blue jeans and a T-shirt, shoes and socks—his duffel bag contained a pair of sneakers, a sweater, two shirts, extra socks, a supply of pencils, and various toilet articles. These toilet articles did not include a razor because even now, at sixteen, he did not have use for one. In his determination to travel light, free, ready for a quick move, he wore no underwear, nor did he carry any. It was summer anyway: if later on he and Berry-berry went off to some cold-weather place, Clinton figured it would be a simple matter to purchase such objects on the spot. Meanwhile, there would be no heaviness of belongings to weigh down the vagabond whims that would stir them.
The notebook he carried was large and thick, but after long habit it encumbered him little more than his own arms and legs. And because it had been nearly as vital to him as these other members, he now handled it and made use of it with an unconscious ease similar to that of walking or feeding oneself.
Clinton often touched his middle section to assure himself that his money belt still rode there, safe on his belly. The money belt contained almost three hundred dollars, which was about half of what he had saved in a year of waiting on customers at the White Tower in Cleveland. One of the small economies which enabled him to accumulate this money was in the matter of clothing: he was able to make do with old ones because he had not grown any, not one inch in all that time. Annabel attributed this to the early use of cigarettes. But Clinton’s own belief was this: that the power of normal adolescent growth in him had distributed itself in all the parts of his body, with nothing left over for height. Indeed, through no special efforts of his own, his slight body had developed a fine young network of muscle. The surprise appearance of biceps caused him no little pride: every now and then he would flex them, glance down at himself, and look up reassured. In fact, he wore all these new qualities of body—hard stomach, sturdy legs, breadth of shoulder and strength of neck—with all the self-conscious pleasure of a dandy who has just purchased himself a shimmering new silk suit. Though Clinton was no athlete and did not exercise himself, the movements of his body had begun to offer him this new pleasure: a sense of its own normal powers.
Now, if you were a passenger on the back seat of this bus, and you happened to look at Clinton Williams, happened to watch him move down the aisle toward his seat, small, strong, clear of skin, determination in his aspect, you would not know for certain if he were fourteen or twenty. His skin was of an ivory color made incandescent by youth, and over all was that vague wash of blue one finds on the faces of habitual dreamers. In this fair setting, surrounded by their dark brown lashes, his quick eyes took on a quality of deep wonder, of perpetual surprise. But in spite of this innocence of feature, it was a disturbing face: for intense seriousness, in one so young, can be an awesome thing to look upon.
Clinton had wished, ever since he got on board yesterday in Cleveland, that some fellow passenger would ask him where he was bound for. Then he would hear himself say it out loud: Key Bonita. To his ear it sounded like the most faraway place in this country: Key Bonita. He wondered what reaction this name would get from a person who was on his way to some ordinary place like Pensacola or Tampa. They would look at him for a moment, impressed, and then ask him where such a place was located. “Oh, it’s just an island off the coast of Florida,” he would explain it in an offhand way—“an old pirate hangout. My brother got in a jam down there, and he sent for me to help him out.”
Clinton at certain moments found himself believing that Berry-berry had actually sent for him. Whereas, what he had sent for was two hundred dollars; and the request had come not to him, Clinton, but to Ralph. On this occasion the old man had said he wanted Berry-berry to deal with his predicament without any assistance from him. Since the Covington, Kentucky, episode, there had been half a dozen of these urgent requests in eighteen months: twice he had asked for money to get out of jail, and the other pleas had been for relief from an assortment of crises: in Norfolk, Virginia, he had demolished someone’s car and was being held for damages; in San Pedro, California, he wanted to ship out with the Merchant Marine and needed money for seaman’s papers; apparently he had not shipped out after all, because the next S.O.S. had come from Biloxi, Mississippi, where he had smashed the window of a department store and caused considerable damage to its Christmas display. There had been no other communications from Berry-berry, only these messages of distress, and they never came twice from the same town. Clinton had kept a map, following in this way Berry-berry’s zigzag progress to Key Bonita.
Clinton had been working the late shift at the White Tower, taking over the job from Mevvin who had gone back to his heave
n in Tennessee. Ralph Williams often walked over to the place in the evenings and sat with his son during the slack hour between eleven and midnight. Just three nights ago, as Ralph sidled up to the counter, he handed Clinton the telegram that had just been delivered to him from Key Bonita:
DEAR RALPH HAVE FINE OPPORTUNITY TO BUY INTO SHRIMPING BUSINESS. OWNER OF BOAT DESPERATE FOR CASH, WILL GIVE ME GENEROUS SHARE EXCHANGE FOR FUEL MONEY. WE MAKE FIVE-DAY TRIPS. PROFIT AVERAGES THOUSAND DOLLARS A TRIP. PLEASE RUSH TWO HUNDRED, WILL RETURN SAME IN TEN DAYS. LOVE.
BERRY-BERRY WILLIAMS
TIN POT ARMS HOTEL
KEY BONITA FLORIDA
Clinton read it four times. As his eye lingered on the address, he knew with a sudden and overwhelming certainty that he himself, within a very short time, would be standing in the lobby of the Tin Pot Arms Hotel. He had never before heard of the place, but its name was inexplicably familiar; it was as if it existed in his past rather than in his future. But he did not question it. His excitement was sharp and pleasurable and, in an effort to hide it from his father, he busied himself with wiping all the catsup dispensers.
“You gonna send the two hundred?” he asked.
“Listen, are you kiddin’?” Ralph rested his hands on the counter, entwined his fingers, twiddled his thumbs. “Give me a—what you got there, root beer? Give me a root beer. Listen, are you kiddin’?”
“I just wondered. Large or small?”
“Large.”
“‘Cause I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t,” Clinton said. “I just wondered. Where is Key Bonita anyway?” He placed a large glass of root beer on the counter.
“You know where Key West is? Well, this Key Bonita is nowheres near there, not even in the same chain of islands. I looked it up in the atlas. —Say, this stuff is awful sweet.”
“I thought you’d like it that way. I pulled the handle down twice; that way you get two loads of syrup.”
“Oh,” Ralph said. “Well, it’s got a real nice flavor of root beer to it.” He took another sip.
“It’s too sweet, I can give you another one.”
But Ralph would not let go of the glass. “Now, Key West is one thing, but this Key Bonita is another kettle of fish. It hangs down off the Florida west coast, and it’s not a coral key. See, they got coral keys like Key West and then they got this other kind. I never went down there myself. I was never crazy about the water.”
“Berry-berry is,” said Clinton. “He’s nuts about the water. Everyplace he goes, it’s got water.”
Ralph agreed to this: “San Pedro, Biloxi, Norfolk; you’re right, goddamit, he’s just a nut on the subject of water. I never thought about that before.”
“I wonder,” Clinton said, “if he ever actually went out on the ocean.”
“Listen, are you kiddin’?” Ralph said. “Why the hell should I send that bozo two hundred dollars? Does he think I’m made of money, just go out in the yard and pluck it off a tree?”
“I don’t know.”
“I b’lieve the worst thing I could do would be send him two hundred dollars. Shrimp! I’d like to see all that shrimp, a thousand dollars in five days. Listen, my mother didn’t raise any foolish children! —And it’s not the money either, I care about. Do him good to get off his buns, raise two hundred himself. He’s got it in his head the only way to raise money is at the Western Union. He’s got it in his head the Western Union is some kind of a bank. He just goes in there, scribbles out some cock-‘n’-bull story, and out comes two hundred dollars. Listen, are you kiddin’?”
“Well, I just wondered.”
“Hey.” Ralph caught Clinton’s eye and held it. Then he said, quietly: “What d’you think I ought to do? I’ll leave it up to you.”
“Gee, Ralph, I just don’t know.”
“Well, I do. Listen, my old man knew the value of a buck. He was a blacksmith, strong as an ox. You want me tell you what a blacksmith would do, he got a wire like this?”
“What would he do?”
“Wouldn’t even answer it.”
“W-What’re you gonna do?” Clinton said.
“Not even gonna answer it.”
“Well, can I have it then?”
“What, this telegram? What do you want with it?”
“I thought I’d just keep it.”
“What for?”
“Oh, it doesn’t make any difference,” Clinton said, “I don’t care. —You keep it.”
“Naw,” Ralph said, “that’s all right, you can have it. Hell, I don’t want the thing.” He pushed the telegram across the counter. Clinton picked it up and started to fold it.
“What’re you gonna do with it?” Ralph said.
“Just keep it.”
“Tell you the truth,” Ralph said, “I guess I’d better hang on to it m’self. Yeah. Second thought, you better let me keep it.”
Clinton handed it back to him, and Ralph put it in his pocket. Then he put a dime on the counter for his root beer, which he had only tasted, and got up from the stool.
“Well,” Clinton said, “you gonna send Berry-berry the two hundred?”
Ralph put his hat on and said: “Listen, I’ve washed my hands. I wouldn’t send that jailbird two hundred jellybeans.”
“I just wondered.”
“Be the worst thing I could do,” Ralph said, and as he went out the door he was shaking his head vigorously.
Clinton took a pencil from the cash register and wrote Berry-berry’s address on a scrap of paper.
The door opened. He put the address in his pocket and looked up. Ralph had returned. He walked over to the counter and leaned on it, but he did not sit down.
“Listen, I’m gonna tell you something else,” Ralph said. “It wouldn’t hurt that big sonofabitch to sit down and write a post card to Annabel either. Mean a lot to that woman to get a penny post card in the mail. I personally don’t give a damn and I’d never ask anybody to spend all their time hangin’ around post offices, don’t believe in it.” He tapped the counter several times to make his point: “But that woman Annabel has got a weak nervous system, is famous in this family for a weak nervous system. And you think he gives two farts in hell? Why, even a Chinaman would have better sense than go a thousand years without writin’ a penny post card to a woman like that. I’m off of him. I am. I’m off of him for good.”
He went to the door and opened it. Then he turned to Clinton once more, his head cocked to one side, fixing him with his eye. “I’ll tell you what that bird is good at, he’s an expert at sendin’ telegrams. Berry-berry Williams is a colossal expert at the Western Union, and for my money, he can . . .” A customer, entering the place, was trying to get past Ralph. Ralph stepped back, bowing and smiling: “I beg your pardon, gentle sir.” Then, as he went out the door, Ralph called over his shoulder, “See you at the house, boy.”
That night, when Clinton arrived home at a few minutes past midnight, he went to his room and closed the door. Two hours later, he had made his plans.
[Clinton’s Notebook]
Get up at eight A.M.
Go to downtown office and tell them Saturday’s your last day at the White Tower.
Go to bank and draw out all money. $601.07.
Go to Greyhound Station and get bus ticket.
Go to Western Union office, send $200, with this message:
URGENT GOT TO GET AWAY FROM HERE. ARRIVING TUESDAY WITH MORE MONEY. PLEASE INCLUDE ME ON THE SHRIMP BOAT. VERY IMPORTANT.
CLINT WILLIAMS
Go to Army-Navy Store and buy that duffel bag and money belt.
IMPORTANT. Do not say anything to Annabel until bus ticket has already been bought.
Do not let on about sending money to Berry-berry.
On Saturday, when he had carried out this plan, Clinton made another entry in his notebook:
[Clinton’s Notebook]
My last night at White Tower. It’s now 2 A.M. I got home at midnight and did a very smart thing. But I don’t actually feel so hot about it. I got
Annabel and Ralph together in her bedroom and told them both at once. My psychology was that Annabel would lose any argument that came up. Namely, Ralph would have to be on my side, because he always lectures about how families should be disbanded when the offspring get through puberty, say at about fourteen. So, with me being sixteen, my psychology was that if I announced a mere trip, he’d have to back me up. As far as Annabel goes, I figured she would raise a stink about it even if I was two hundred years old, because of her having the change of life, etc.
Well, actually everything’s okay now, but was it ever a weird thing to go through. To begin with, Ralph was the one that started making up all kinds of objections, and Annabel acts like she wants me to go. She acts like I’m going to spend a weekend with Aunt Imelda in Tecumseh or to Boy Scout camp or some damn place. Whereas, Ralph said it was a screwball idea and how did I know what kind of a mess I’d run into down there. So I had to bring up the families being disbanded business myself. He didn’t put his foot down of course, or pull any parents and children crap, because he knew I had the goods on him. Besides, it would kill him to do anything real cheap like pulling his rank, etc., so he just left the room and that was that.
Then I had this very peculiar talk with Annabel. She can’t wait for me to get on that bus! Which is completely out of character and I don’t know what to think. Is she having her goddam menopause or isn’t she?
This book by Doctor Wilhelm Levi explains all the weird things women get wrong with them, like frigidity and menstruation and jealousy about not having a penis, and so on. For a long time I’ve been positive Annabel fitted into the part about change of life. But she is not at all thrown about me going to Key Bonita, which is absolutely nuts.
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