Suddenly he got to his feet. “Well, old-kid-old-kid-old-sock,” he said, walking toward the door, “come on down to the cellar one of these days and we’ll holler dirty words up the clothes chute to Annabel.” He giggled and wheezed and leered at Clinton as he closed the door.
Clinton said, “G’night, Ralph. Thanks for comin’ up.” But he did not immediately take up his notebook. Instead, he looked for a long time at the closed door, as if it had written on it all the things he had not told his father.
Two weeks passed and Clinton remained in his pajamas.
Annabel continued to carry his meals to him, but now she took fewer pains to make them pleasant for him. At first she had placed early summer flowers on his tray, garnished his plate with parsley leaves and touched it up with colorful extras: spiced apples or red molds of Jell-o to sharpen his appetite. But as the days of his recuperation drew into weeks, and she began to suspect that Clinton might be malingering, the meals grew plainer. Annabel took her time about getting the newspapers to his room, and now and then she arranged to be just out of earshot when he called for ice water. She hoped that with this deterioration of service, the boy might find the sickroom less to his liking and declare himself recovered.
But soon it was July and still Clinton would not leave his bed. He would awaken at dawn and listen to all the morning sounds: the dry swoosh of Mrs. Cardoni’s broom on the back porch of the house next door, a variety of bird songs, the stopping and starting of the J. F. Smith milk truck on its rounds. Midmorning, he would close his eyes, trying to pretend to himself that he was asleep. But this kind of fake rest does no one any good, as it is full of wakeful dreams: ugly memories put you in a fog that is hard to throw off later. Annabel brought his first meal at noon, and the hours that followed were endless affairs to deal with. Much of the time he spent just lying there staring at various objects for long periods, or propped up on an extra pillow with the Sears, Roebuck catalogue or the dictionary opened on his lap. Or he would look out the window, not even seeing the roof of the garage or the trees in the yard across the alley. In general, Clinton was not having a good time.
But he could think of no good reason for getting out of bed. He did not want to look for work; he did not want to visit the Old Neighborhood or sit at the Aloha Sweet Shop; and he did not want to sit downstairs under Annabel’s eye. He began vaguely to realize that he was in a kind of trap; but there seemed to be no will power in him, and he could not concentrate on figuring a way out of it.
His favorite time of day was five o’clock, the hour of Annabel’s long afternoon bath. The minute he heard the first splash of water in the tub, he would bolt out of his bed and run silently, barefoot, all over the house performing small errands for himself. First, he went on a sniping tour of all the ash trays, gathering enough butts to last him through the evening. Then he checked Annabel’s writing desk for any fresh mail she might have received that morning. If these letters were insufficiently interesting to warrant copying down in the notebook, which he carried with him for this purpose, he spent the time going through her desk drawers and reading any mail received in June during his absence.
There had been an exchange of correspondence between Annabel and Bernice O’Brien which was of considerable interest to him. The first letter read as follows:
DEAREST ANNABEL,
Such beautiful weather here. Echo took me for drive in country Sun. aft., wildflowers everywhere. I thrive in summer, but Echo very restless. So pathetic, gets dolled up, takes drive, comes home. No place to go. Stands at front door, looking at her car in driveway, so proud of it. Odd hobby for girl, but loves motors, tools. I have full-time nurse now, so Echo free on weekends. Recent painful experience of very private nature took her out of swim of things, does not meet new people. Gets dolled up and rattles her car keys. Hard time sitting still. So lovable, and not a complainer. But God will find way.
Be glad your boys free to travel. Harder for girl to go place alone. Clinton can take care of self, and may be good influence on big brother. Good idea see world while young, don’t you be worry bird.
Your dreams not in least shocking. Shame on you thinking so. Woman of fifty not eighty after all. I read of French woman with lover at 72. America backward nation some respects. But put yourself in God’s hands. Who knows what He plans for you? Excuse awful paper, out of stationery. But write to your loving friend.
B—
Annabel’s answer was of course unavailable to Clinton, but he could almost read its contents between the lines of Bernice’s second letter:
DEAREST ANNABEL, in haste—
Believe me was not hinting. Rather die. But oh, what miracle. Please do not ask Echo if inconvenient, but honestly would be gesture from God if you sincerely want her visit. She’s so considerate, would never come if believed you didn’t want her. Impossible I accompany her, as trips are hard for me. Could you write her note? So it comes from you? Must not suspect me involved. Echo dying for trip, studies road maps, could find way to China. Bless you, drst. friend Annabel. Always hold fine thoughts for you. But do not inconvenience self too much!
Your loving friend.
B—
P.S. Was not suggesting you take lover! More about this in later letter.
Aside from using Annabel’s bath hour to catch up on the daily mail, he often had telephone calls to make. One day he called Western Union and persuaded a clerk to return his unclaimed money order in a plain envelope so that it would arouse no questions from Annabel. He also put in a call to the airport to ask about schedules and ticket prices for flights to Tibet. The woman said they could get him as far as Pakistan or India, but from there on he was on his own. Actually, Clinton was fed up with traveling and had no intention of taking a trip, but occasionally such questions enter a person’s head and it is best to get them cleared up.
One afternoon, on a similar impulse, he telephoned Mildred Murphy.
“Hi, Mildred. It’s Clinton.”
“Clinton? Clinton who?”
“Williams, for godsake!”
“Oh! Hello, Clinton.”
“How you been?”
“Oh, I’m fine. There hasn’t been any letters from Berry-berry, though.”
“Oh, I wasn’t callin’ about that. I get all my mail at home now.”
“You mean you’ve heard from him?”
“God, yes; didn’t I tell you about my trip? I been to South America and all over. He got in trouble down there on some island. So I helped him out. Then I got malaria and came home.”
“Malaria?” Mildred was impressed.
“Pretty near died from it.”
“Well, that’s just terrible.”
“I was delirious and everything. —Say, how many Clintons do you know, just roughly? About five or ten?”
“Oh, just you,” she said, “but my mind went blank for some reason.”
“So everything’s okay over there, eh?” Clinton said.
“Over where?”
“The Neighborhood!”
“Oh. Well, everything’s just the same.”
“Nobody’s house burnt down, huh?”
“Whose?”
“Nobody’s. I said, ‘Nobody’s house burnt down, huh?”
“Of course not! That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“I just meant, is there any news, for godsake.” Clinton was beginning to wish he had not telephoned Mildred Murphy at all.
“Oh. No, no news at all. But you’ll have to tell me about your trip. Some time.”
“Well, there’s not really anything I can discuss about it. Actually, everything that happened is pretty much secret. You know how it is.”
“I see. —Well, may I ask why you called up?”
“Just to say hello. And to see if there’s anything goin’ on over there I didn’t know about. But I should of known better. Because, let’s face it, there’s nothing over there to begin with but a bunch of scrags.”
“Oh, really?” Mildred said.
; “All right, when did anything ever happen over there? Name something, say in the last four hundred years, and not counting Fritz Burns getting shot by a cop in a gas station and losing his left lung. Which is ancient history. Can you?”
“No, I can’t,” Mildred said after a slight pause. “Nobody has robbed a gas station since Fritz Burns got shot. I’m awfully sorry, Clinton.”
“Oh, that’s perfectly all right, Mildred. But what do you do when you get so bored you can’t stand it?”
“Well,” Mildred said, “I’ll tell you the truth, I don’t get that bored. But if I did, I think I’d sit down and decide who was the most fascinating person I knew. And then I’d call them up on the telephone.”
“Oh, would you?”
“Yes. Isn’t that exactly what you’d do?”
“No. But it’s a swell idea. My trouble is, I don’t know a single fascinating person in the whole State of Ohio.”
“Isn’t that a shame?”
“Yes, it really is. Well, I got to hang up now, Mildred. But I hope nobody over there drowns or anything like that.”
“Thank you, Clinton. It was just sensational hearing your voice.”
“Yeah, I thought it’d be quite a treat for you. G’bye.”
There was a click on the other end of the wire.
Clinton heard the sound of Annabel’s bath water running down the drain. He hurried up the stairs and had climbed into bed long before Annabel left the bathroom.
When he had entered certain fragments of his telephone conversation, Clinton read all that he had written on the previous day. It began with the rough draft of a suicide note:
[Clinton’s Notebook]
DEAR RALPH AND ANNABEL,
I suppose this news will come as a shock, but I have just killed myself and am now lying in the upstairs bathtub. Believe me, I am filled with deep regret over whatever mess this causes, but I have taken certain precautions to make it easy on all of us.
I have locked the bathroom door from the inside so that you would not just walk in without any warning and scream because of the horrible sight. I suggest you get a doctor or a policeman to go up there. The key is ten inches inside of the door. Tell the policeman to bring a small magnet and pull it through in this way. Then he can unlock the door and pull out the plug, and all the blood will go down the drain. I have chosen wrist slitting in a warm tub as my method, as it is known to be fairly clean and painless. I am sure the policeman will rinse out the tub if you so request.
You will no doubt be curious why I have taken this measure, but it is my deepest regret that I cannot divulge the most important motives. It is certainly got nothing to do with your not being perfect parents, which you certainly are, and deeply beloved as well, as you well know. And I certainly did not like making a slave of Annabel during my recent sickness and long before.
As to my motives for this measure, they are largely secret. I can say this much, however, as my final thoughts, and I hope it will be a comfort to you.
( A) I have had all the experiences that life can offer, even certain experiences that may come as a surprise to you, which I regret I am unable to divulge.
(B) Ralph has always been of such great stature, never acting like a dominating parent who always butts in. On the contrary, I might say that as an excellent companion and friend, he knows no peer, and with highest principles which he lived unfailingly up to at all times. (Re-work this.)
(C) Annabel has been likewise ideal in different ways, such as big things like seeing to it we are all comfortable and well fed, including small things not usually noticed, such as sewing buttons which is nevertheless tedious and has to be done. Also, Annabel has always tried very hard to do what is right and see to it we all did likewise, which may have resulted in confusion at times, but this is very admirable.
(D) In conclusion, it is certainly not that I did not have a wonderful life with such two parents. I am merely miserable for private reasons and have been meditating in my room on these matters. It is now clear that I must go on to invisible experiences such as one has in deep dreaming, so do not think of me as dead in any way in spite of the mess in the bathroom which may tempt you to believe otherwise. Which incidentally I have also heard of the Fire Department being called in in such cases as this.
Your ever loving son and offspring,
CLINTON WILLIAMS I
I’m really none too proud of this letter. In the first place the style of it sounds smart alecky, and there ought to be some synonym for blood. Now that I see it on paper, the whole idea is just too creepy and would probably bring on heart attacks or worse. You would think science would come up with a pill that would make a person just disappear to death, thereby doing away with embalming and all the expenses of burials. Which could also be fabulous for capital punishments and many other uses.
Besides I am getting curious about this Echo O’Brien who I get the very definite impression is a virgin, even though middle-aged, and is coming to visit from Toledo. She is apparently so car-crazy there is a good chance she will turn out to be a Lesbian or a morphadite, so why shouldn’t I wait and get a look at her first, as there is always time for suicide at a later date.
Also Annabel is getting plenty fed up with me being sick and is trying to starve me out of here. Maybe if I sweat it out long enough, she’ll be so fed up with me my suicide will be kind of a relief. I think it has already reached such a pass, but a few more weeks will only improve the situation.
Another thing is this, suicide is naturally quite a step to take and I may as well be good and damn sure of myself, even though there is little doubt that fate is ordaining the thing. Of course if I end up in some lousy place like Hell, for instance, it would be a miserable mistake.
The thing I am gambling on is that after death people become automatically ghosts, and possess thereby complete freedom of movement and are invisible. ADVANTAGES: I could follow Berry-berry around from place to place, invisible from cops, modern pirates, and jujitsu experts that throw people out of night clubs. The whole idea has a thousand other advantages too numerous to list as well. But a few of the most colossal are as follows: no need to work at White Tower to save money for bus fare. If I want to ride a bus, okay. When not in the mood to eat, okay. I can then hear any conversation I want to without recourse to laundry chutes, holding a glass to the wall, or taking all kinds of risks of getting caught. Minor advantages include sitting in the Aloha Sweet Shop without being expected to pour Coca-Cola down my gullet by the quart. The only major snag I have not yet worked out is, can a ghost keep a notebook????
( Go easy on the question marks.)
Annabel came up for my tray about ten o’clock tonight. She lets them sit there for two or three hours to punish me for not getting out of bed. If things get much worse around here, I may revise the suicide plan and the leave the bathroom door stark wide open.
Naturally she doesn’t ever sit down and visit, not as a rule, except to drop these very subtle hints about what the Army does with goldbrickers, and how miserable it is to get bedsores.
Anyway, tonight we did have a regular conversation, which really threw her for a loop even though she tried to hide it. She had my tray in her hands and was opening the door with her toe when I said the following:
“Annabel, has any of our family ever been psychic?”
“Why of course,” she said. “For generations! Why?”
“Oh. Well that explains it.”
“What?”
“Why it is I’m in contact with Mrs. O’Brien, that’s all.”
“What do you mean, in contact?” she said. I knew I had her. She almost dropped the tray.
“Oh, it’s nothing important. I mean if it runs in the family, there’s nothing unusual about it.”
“Nonsense. I insist you tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Look, I didn’t mean to start anything, for godsake. But let me ask you, does this daughter of hers work around, uh, garages, or places like that? You know, where the
y keep cars and tools?”
“No, she works at the automobile club up there.” Annabel put down the tray. “But why did you say that about cars?”
“Look. Just skip it, because obviously there’s nothing to it. It was probably some kind of a daydream.”
“But what did you daydream?”
“Well, I know it’s crazy, because no woman ever works around cars, but I keep seein’ this—Echo?” Annabel nodded her head; she loved every word of it. I went on. “I see her around a big car. She’s got tools in her hands and all, and keeps puttering with this car. So I figured she might be some kind of a mechanic! Isn’t that nuts?”
Annabel felt for the arms of the rocking chair and lowered herself into it. “Ooooh! Oh, my God!” She was really impressed. “Wait till I write Bernice. I may even call her up long distance! —Go on, what else?”
“Why?” I said. “You mean that fits in some way? Her and cars?”
“It certainly does!”
“Well, now this is a real shot in the dark, but did you happen to invite her down here for the Fourth of July?”
Annabel took in a deep breath and just held it for about a couple of hours. Then she said in a real faraway voice, “You couldn’t have known that any other way.”
“What? What did I say? Did I say something?” Maybe it was a pretty dirty trick to pull, but once you get started in a thing like this, you can’t just pull out all of a sudden. Anyway, it was clear as hell I’d gone up in Annabel’s book about a hundred points.
“What else?”
“I always see this very nice lady, kinda fat, sitting in a wheel chair. —Course I knew she was in a wheel chair, so that’s nothing. But she sits there watching TV and this Echo is pacing back and forth rattling something in her hand. Car keys, I think. Do you suppose there’s anything to all this?”
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