All Fall Down

by James Leo Herlihy

  The truck stopped in front of the Williams house.

  “Clint?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll be back,” Berry-berry said. “Soon, too. Maybe even tomorrow.”

  Clinton remembered the promise they had given Ralph the night before: to return in five minutes.

  “Yeah,” he said. And then: “Listen, Berry-berry, I had a really swell time. It was the greatest night I ever spent, honest to God.”

  “Me too, I had a wonderful time,” Berry-berry said. “Just talking, too. Which is wild because—anyway, we got a lot in common, haven’t we?”

  “Oh, Christ, we really have, it’s amazing. About ten million things in common. Um . . . !” Clinton hesitated for a moment; then he said: “Listen, Berry-berry, will you do something?”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Will you come in the house. For a minute. And have a cup of coffee and a piece of toast. With them.” He nodded in the direction of the house.

  “How come you want me to, buddy?” Berry-berry said.

  “I don’t know. You know.” Clinton looked at the house. Suddenly it was like a skull, empty, no eyes, no teeth. . . . Then, he mumbled, half to himself: “It’ll give ‘em something to talk about. For another couple of years.”

  [Clinton’s Notebook]

  It’s absolutely unbelievable how everything can just change, like snapping a switch. I woke up today feeling like the devil, and it turned out to be the most perfect day of my life. In spite of a couple of puky details which I may not even honor them by writing down.

  But the main point is, Berry-berry is in his room, in this house, at this exact second. Is putting on his PJ’s. Is going to go to sleep there in his bed. Berry-berry Williams is here in this house, is the point.

  Not that he’ll stay or anything.

  And my other main point is, Echo O’Brien is in the guest room, also about to go to sleep. Ralph and Annabel and Berry-berry and Echo O’Brien and me, Clinton Williams I. The place is loaded. We couldn’t sleep another person here tonight if we had to, unless we made beds on the floor or doubled up somehow. Ralph is peeing in the downstairs bathroom. Annabel’s in the upstairs one giving herself a cold-cream job. The rest of us are in our PJ’s. I may go around visiting various rooms before anybody turns out their lights. Christ, you’d think this was some kind of a regular goddam hotel. We’re jammed to the gills. Ralph flushed the toilet just now, and Annabel flew through the hall, so nobody’d get a squint at her without the paint. Which I don’t blame her. Because it helps. The point is, there is way too much going on around here for anybody to get it all down in a notebook or anything.

  How it all happened was this, Berry-berry just plain followed me the hell in here this morning and— (What I should be doing right this minute is write down every word we talked about last night, because it could easily just slip away and I’d be caught short, not able to remember it later. Well, I’ll just have to trust my memory to get it all down. For what? I still don’t know for what. But I’ve got to.) —Anyway, he just plain walked in with me. Said he’d give me a hand with the apples. So I just said, Okay, if you want to. As if I didn’t give a fiddler’s fee one way or the other. So we put them in the kitchen, on the floor. And then Berry-berry went to the sink and started filling up the steam kettle.

  I heard Ralph and Annabel moving around upstairs so I just glided up the stairs about a hundred miles an hour and told them for Christ sake to just come on down and have some coffee with us, but not make some big-ass fuss over Berry-berry, because everybody would only get nervous and pretty soon . . .

  Clint, stop. Slow down for Christ sake. You want this to be a notebook full of crap? Okay, that’s better. Discipline, goddamit.

  At any rate, having controlled their emotions to the degree that I deemed proper in middle-aged personages, especially Annabel, whom, as it has been averred, is given to flights of fancy not un-akin to insanity, we descended the main stairway of the abode and strode casually into the kitchen, whereupon Annabel, behaving like a real dream, which shocked the shit out of me, gave Berry-berry a perfectly natural peck on the cheek and started to make toast, at which point Ralph, with likewise naturalness, reached into his bag of dirty jokes, withdrew the oldest and moldiest one he could find and, turning to Berry-berry, who had seated himself under the ivy pots on the windowsill, inquired, “Have you seen anything of Herby lately?” At which, Berry-berry, playing along dutifully and with considerable pleasure to himself, inquired, “Herby who?” Ralph answered, “Herby Hind.” This was followed by general laughter, and a reprimanding ogle from Annabel who, notwithstanding her self-appointment as guardian of the world’s moral fibers, was thrilled pink by the familial felicity of the gathering at large, and whipped out a jar of marmalade. In view of the great age of this delicacy, which she has been hoarding since B.C., I was pleasantly stunned to perceive that it had not turned moldy on the shelf, and helped myself to abundant portions, having developed an eager palate during my night of revelry in Berry-berry’s brothel.

  (Not that I think this is great or anything, but I know my style improves when I slow down. Also experience helps, plus misery, etc. But, to get back to the point . . .)

  Anyway, pretty soon it got around to just general talking. Ralph spiked his and Berry-berry’s coffee with Old Grandad. Me, of course, being only four and a half years old, I got passed up completely. Small point, to hell with it, I don’t even particularly like the stuff. But I might just add that I wouldn’t mind once in a while getting a chance to say no thanks. Small point, though.

  Then it got to be quite a bull session with Ralph and Berry-berry comparing notes on travel experiences, and both of them lying like hell, Berry-berry for obvious reasons and Ralph because he can’t help it any more. Annabel started peeling potatoes and acted like she was really interested in every word, but the wheels in her head were grinding about a mile a minute, because she knew she wasn’t getting the whole scoop from Berry-berry. But she controlled herself and did hardly any real prosecuting to speak of, except for a couple of minor nudges. Like when Berry-berry made some passing remark about Biloxi, she asked if he was employed as a window dresser by the department store where he smashed hell out of the Christmas display. I think she knew damn well he hadn’t been. Anyway, Berry-berry said, real cool, without even hardly looking at her, “No, as a matter of fact, I was drunk,” and then he went right on talking about something else. But anyway, the truth seemed to quiet her down. I didn’t even listen to everything they said. Oh, I listened, but now and then I sort of checked out and thought about Echo, and what I’d do when she pulled up in her Dodge at noon.

  I’d like to see her really open it up on the highway. She’s got superchargers on it that make it go as fast as a brand-new car, and she drives better than any man. Going sixty-five miles an hour on the open road, she told me she could give herself a complete change of make-up, including mascara, without even slowing down. Which is true, naturally. Whereas an ordinary man driver has trouble even lighting a cigarette at that speed, which proves that sex differences are just like age differences. Some people at sixteen are no more grown-up than a baby, for instance, and others have been all over hell and had millions of experiences, and they don’t even think anything of it. So what if I’ve been down to Key Bonita and went through a whole damn love affair, etc., plus been in and out of whorehouses, and passed up all kinds of opportunities to smoke marijuana. An ordinary person my age probably would have grabbed at the chance and got hooked, for godsake. But I just happen to have this maturity, that’s all there is to it. Even so, I’m going to take it very slow, I mean with Echo and all. Because there’s a matter of finances, and being under age. Technically, that is. And a person has to make certain concessions once in a while to the stupidity of people like Annabel who think they’re so goddam old. Which brings me to a very important point.

  I really like Annabel, I really honest to God like her. I tried to feel creepy about her this morning when we were hav
ing coffee, but I don’t. And it’s not like some Oedipus business either, I just happen to like the woman. I think Berry-berry does too, way down deep, only he gets nervous around her for some reason which I haven’t figured out yet. For instance, at dinner—

  Slow the hell down, will you? Back to the breakfast table.

  During this pleasant music of family chatter and tinkling coffee cups, I distinctly discerned the sound of a new but not entirely foreign instrument in the symphony that assailed my eardrums. Could it have been the approach of Miss O’Brien’s big, black and august chariot? Calling no attention at all to my nonchalant movements, I rose quietly and skillfully from my position at the family board, and with serpentine speed and feline quietude, slipped out the side door.

  The way I figured it, if we had just one little moment alone, Echo would have a chance to slip me a note or speak her piece about any private matter that might happen to be on her mind!

  Nothing.

  Not a word.

  I’m such a fabulous genius about conducting love affairs that the note I wrote her either got stolen right out of her car by one of the million heartless criminals that live on this street, either that, or the damn thing blew away. Anyway, I figure the whole matter set me back about a week. Which may be the hand of God, because on such short notice the note might have knocked her right off her pins and sent her into shock. I am determined to take this thing slow. A person that looks as young as I happen to look, which is lousy luck considering the fact that Abe Griswold shaved and had hair all over his goddam body when he was fourteen and had to go to school on Saturdays for remedial reading classes—hair and all!! Anyway, my point is, I could easily make a big fat ass of myself by getting carried away.

  Echo had on orange slacks (tight) and a white kind of a knitted top made out of jersey or some insane material. I have had some second thoughts about whether or not they’re false. Not that I’ve absolutely made up my mind either. But the matter is now in abeyance. Besides, I don’t think it’s healthy to dwell on it too much.

  The important thing is the way her eyes lit up when she saw me. They sparkled like wine. (Better re-do this later.)

  She said, “There’s my guy!” and started to give me a little bitty kiss on the cheek, but I grabbed her and hugged hell out of her. She kept talking all the time so I didn’t kiss her right on the mouth, but I have no regrets. Except that she brought me a present, this very fountain pen, and I was too stupid to think of getting a present for her. Which is one of the puky details of this perfect day. Because now if I get her something—well, I’ll figure that out later. Anyway, I started to give her a thank-you kiss, when Annabel came running out at just the right psychological moment to make me wish I was an orphan, and then we all went in the house, the three of us, which was not the way I had the thing planned at all.

  What I’d planned was to walk in with Echo, arm in arm, so that Berry-berry would get the picture without having to be shown a sixteen-millimeter movie of the situation. As it turned out, everything’s okay in that department, because later, when he went to the bathroom, I took the opportunity to follow him in there and acquaint him with the fact that I had certain designs, etc. And he was wonderful about it, and did not even look funny about her being somewhat older than me. I’ll bet it did not even cross his mind. Which convinces me that Berry-berry is probably the finest person I have ever met, except Echo.

  I honestly do not understand just why it was he obliged all those whores by beating the hell out of them. You’d almost think he’d rather get some other job than pimping. I mean, when it gets to the point where you have to stab the pigs to keep them happy, it might be better to tell them to go to hell instead. Of course, I don’t yet know everything about the prostitution game. Meanwhile, I have to leave open at least the bare possibility that Berry-berry has got this terrific mean streak in him.

  Which is ridiculous because all day long today he treated Annabel and Echo like they were empresses, and if he was some kind of a son of a bitch, even way down deep, it would have showed through. I’m not that dumb.

  What I’ve got to learn is to write things down in order of occurrence. Back to the breakfast table.

  Echo took a paring knife and helped Annabel with the apple peeling. There were already two great big bowls full of apples all cut up, but they went right on peeling. When things are going her way, Annabel has this tendency to overdo in the kitchen.

  So there were five of us in there now, the biggest mob of people I’ve been around for some time. I sat between Echo and Berry-berry, which was okay, except that Ralph had the really best seat, because he could look at both of them all he wanted, without craning his neck back and forth. It was like having the place crowded with movie stars, only far more superior, because Echo and Berry-berry are far more fantastic and I know them personally. For instance, Berry-berry had his arm around my shoulder half the time, and Echo kept sticking pieces of apple in my mouth. So I definitely was not just somebody hanging around where he wasn’t wanted. Far from it. They’re both crazy about me. I may give Mildred Murphy a blast on Monday, just to ruffle her feathers. No I won’t. To hell with her. Who needs it?

  Finally Annabel said, “Good lord! What’ll I do with all these apples?” And Echo said, “Applesauce!” So they got out the pots and the sugar, and while the stuff was simmering on the stove, we all went outside and stood around Echo’s car. She got out her camera and took pictures of us for her mother, and then we all went for a ride. I drove, which scared the hell out of Annabel. Puky detail number two. She kept spotting police cars, half of which turned out to be taxis, and said I’d have us all in prison for driving without a license. I figured, what the hell, let it pass, let it pass, but she kept hammering away at the fact that I’m a minor. So finally, I pulled over to the curb and said maybe Berry-berry would like to have a crack at the wheel.

  Which he did.

  Well, no use going into all the hair-raising details, but suffice it to say that maybe next time Annabel will let well enough alone. We all got hauled in. Speeding. No Ohio driver’s license. Running three red lights in a row. Berry-berry’s theory seems to be that traffic lights are only there to give these drab intersections a little splash of color. So we all went filing into the police station. Ralph was getting a big kick out of the whole thing, he kept making jokes and giggling and poking everybody in the ribs. I thought we looked like a pretty shady bunch. Except for Annabel. She walked in with her head up, looking real noble and resigned like Katherine Hepburn about to get her head chopped off.

  When we got up to the desk, Ralph sort of took over. He put his hand on Berry-berry’s shoulder and give this fantastic oration about how “this fine and gallant young son of his had just returned from a long, long tour of this great country,” and how he was just “carried away with emotion at seeing once again the landmarks of his boyhood in this fine metropolis.” I don’t think he actually came right out and said it, but you got the impression that Berry-berry was some kind of an unsung hero, and if it hadn’t been for him and that long long tour of his, the whole United States would have got flushed right down the toilet.

  So we came out of it scot-free, and Echo drove us back to the house. Ralph was the hero all the way home. We kept talking about what a wonderful public speaker he was. Berry-berry said if Ralph had gone into politics, he’d probably be President—which is not as farfetched as it sounds. Echo clinched it. She said Ralph had his heart right on his tongue, and that’s what kept us all out of the clink. Ralph loved this topic. He didn’t say much, but he ate it up. Now and then, when it looked like we might accidentally get off the subject, Ralph would slip in a comment to keep us on the right track. “You think I did all right, do you?” Then we all started in again and kept snowing him under with compliments. Except Annabel. She seemed to be just very very slightly miffed. I think she had her heart set on that guillotine.

  Go easy on the veries.

  Now I’m getting to a part I really like to put down. Bac
k at the house, the women went into the kitchen to look at the applesauce, and Ralph followed them in. (He’s got a slight crush on Echo. Nothing dangerous. But he can’t stand to have her out of his sight.) Berry-berry and I just kind of hung back, and sat in Echo’s car for a while, smoking. (I got to cut down.)

  For a while, not a word. And then he said, “You know, Clint, that’s not really a hell hole in there.”

  I said, “No. It’s not really a hell hole.”

  “I mean I’m enjoying myself,” he said.

  I had about forty things to say, like, “Why don’t you move in then?” Because, to tell the truth, if it was always like today around here, I’d rather stay home than go traveling to other places. But I kept my mouth shut. If you want something with all your heart, sometimes it’s a good policy to shut up about it.

  All I said was, “Me, too. I’m really having a good time.”

  Also, I wanted to ask him if he felt any different about Annabel. But I thought I better play that cool, too. Which was a good idea, because tonight at the dinner table a certain inconsequential incident took place of a very minor order, and I don’t know what to make of it. Maybe nothing.

  Ralph said something to Echo about how Berry-berry had his own plumbing business out in Apple Mountain. Naturally this is a subject that isn’t exactly expected to make Berry-berry feel perfectly relaxed! Ye gods, I’d have probably started shaking, if it had been me.