Bagombo Snuff Box

by Kurt Vonnegut

  Natalie ignored the warning. “Don’t you wonder who it was?”

  “No,” said Louis.

  “Maybe it was a guest who left something. You didn’t see anything around, did you, that somebody left?”

  “No,” said Louis.

  “An earring or something, I suppose,” said Natalie. She wore a pale-blue cloudlike negligee that Louis had given her. But she made the negligee meaningless by dragging a heavy iron chair across the lawn, to set it next to Louis’s. The arms of the chairs clicked together, and Louis jerked his fingers from between them just in time.

  Natalie sat down. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi,” said Louis.

  “See the moon?” said Natalie.

  “Yup,” said Louis.

  “Think people had a nice time tonight?” said Natalie.

  “I don’t know,” said Louis, “and I’m sure they don’t, either.” He meant by this that he was always the only artist and philosopher at his parties. Everybody else was a businessman.

  Natalie was used to this. She let it pass. “What time did Charlie get in?” she said. Charlie was their only son—actually Louis Charles Reinbeck, Junior.

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Louis. “He didn’t report in to me. Never does.”

  Natalie, who had been enjoying the moon, now sat forward uneasily. “He is home, isn’t he?” she said.

  “I haven’t the remotest idea,” said Louis.

  Natalie bounded out of her chair.

  She strained her eyes in the night, trying to see if Charlie’s car was in the shadows of the garage. “Who did he go out with?” she asked.

  “He doesn’t talk with me,” said Louis.

  “Who is he with?” said Natalie.

  “If he isn’t by himself, then he’s with somebody you don’t approve of,” said Louis.

  But Natalie didn’t hear him. She was running into the house. Then the telephone rang again, and went on ringing until Natalie answered.

  She held the telephone out to Louis. “It’s a man named Turley Whitman,” she said. “He says he’s one of your policemen.”

  “Something wrong at the plant?” said Louis, taking the phone. “Fire, I hope?”

  “No,” said Natalie, “nothing as serious as that.” From her expression, Louis gathered that something a lot worse had happened. “It seems that our son is out with Mr. Turley’s daughter somewhere, that they should have been back hours ago. Mr. Turley is naturally very deeply concerned about his daughter.”

  “Mr. Turley?” said Louis into the telephone.

  “Turley’s my first name, sir,” said Turley. “Turley Whitman’s my whole name.”

  “I’m going to listen on the upstairs phone,” whispered Natalie. She gathered the folds of her negligee, ran manlike up the stairs.

  “You probably don’t know me except by sight,” said Turley. “I’m the guard at the main-plant parking lot.”

  “Of course I know you—by sight and by name,” said Louis. It was a lie. “Now what’s this about my son and your daughter?”

  Turley wasn’t ready to get to the nut of the problem yet. He was still introducing himself and his family. “You probably know my wife a good deal better’n you know me, sir,” he said.

  There was a woman’s small cry of surprise.

  For an instant, Louis didn’t know if it was the cry of his own wife or of Turley’s. But when he heard sounds of somebody trying to hang up, he knew it had to be on Turley’s end. Turley’s wife obviously didn’t want her name dragged in.

  Turley was determined to drag it in, though, and he won out. “You knew her by her maiden name, of course,” he said, “Milly—Mildred O’Shea.”

  All sounds of protest at Turley’s end died. The death of protests came to Louis as a shocking thing. His shock was compounded as he remembered young, affectionate and pretty, mystifying Milly O’Shea. He hadn’t thought of her for years, hadn’t known what had become of her.

  And yet at the mention of her name, it was as though Louis had thought of her constantly since she’d kissed him good-bye in the moonlight so long before.

  “Yes—yes,” said Louis. “Yes, I—I remember her well.” He wanted to cry about growing old, about the shabby ends brave young lovers came to.

  From the mention of Milly’s name, Turley had his conversation with the great Louis C. Reinbeck all his own way. The miracle of equality had been achieved. Turley and Louis spoke man to man, father to father, with Louis apologizing, murmuring against his own son.

  Louis thanked Turley for having called the police. Louis would call them, too. If he found out anything, he would call Turley at once. Louis addressed Turley as “sir.”

  Turley was exhilarated when he hung up. “He sends his regards,” he said to Milly. He turned to find himself talking to air. Milly had left the room silently, on bare feet.

  Turley found her heating coffee in the kitchen on the new electric stove. The stove was named the Globemaster. It had a ridiculously complicated control panel. The Globemaster was a wistful dream of Milly’s come true. Not many of her dreams of nice things had come true.

  The coffee was boiling, making the pot crackle and spit. Milly didn’t notice that it was boiling, even though she was staring at the pot with terrible concentration. The pot spit, stung her hand. She burst into tears, put the stung hand to her mouth. And then she saw Turley.

  She tried to duck past him and out of the kitchen, but he caught her arm.

  “Honey,” he said in a daze. He turned off the Globemaster’s burner with his free hand. “Milly,” he said.

  Milly wanted desperately to get away. Big Turley had such an easy time holding her that he hardly realized he was doing it. Milly subsided at last, her sweet face red and twisted. “Won’t—won’t you tell me what’s wrong, honey?” said Turley.

  “Don’t worry about me,” said Milly. “Go worry about people dying in ditches.”

  Turley let her go. “I said something wrong?” He was sincerely bewildered.

  “Oh, Turley, Turley,” said Milly, “I never thought you’d hurt me this way—this much.” She cupped her hands as though she were holding something precious. Then she let it fall from her hands, whatever her imagination thought it was.

  Turley watched it fall. “Just because I told him your name?” he said.

  “When—when you told him my name, there was so much else you told him.” She was trying to forgive Turley, but it was hard for her. “I don’t suppose you knew what else you were telling him. You couldn’t have.”

  “All I told him was your name,” said Turley.

  “And all it meant to Louis C. Reinbeck,” said Milly, “was that a woman down in the town had two silly little dates with him twenty years ago, and she’s talked about nothing else since. And her husband knows about those two silly little dates, too—and he’s just as proud of them as she is. Prouder!”

  Milly put her head down and to one side, and she pointed out the kitchen window, pointed to a splash of white light in an upper corner of the window. “There,” she said, “the great Louis C. Reinbeck is up in all that light somewhere, thinking I’ve loved him all these years.” The floodlights on the Reinbeck house went out. “Now he’s up there in the moonlight somewhere—thinking about the poor little woman and the poor little man and their poor little daughter down here.” Milly shuddered. “Well, we’re not poor! Or we weren’t until tonight.”

  The great Louis C. Reinbeck returned to his drink and his white iron lawn chair. He had called the police, who had told him what they told Turley—that there were no wrecks they knew of.

  Natalie sat down beside Louis again. She tried to catch his eye, tried to get him to see her maternal, teasing smile. But Louis wouldn’t look.

  “You—you know this girl’s mother, do you?” she said.

  “Knew,” said Louis.

  “You took her out on nights like this? Full moon and all that?”

  “We could dig out a twenty-year-old calendar and see wh
at the phases of the moon were,” said Louis tartly. “You can’t exactly avoid full moons, you know. You’re bound to have one once a month.”

  “What was the moon on our wedding night?” said Natalie.

  “Full?” said Louis.

  “New,” said Natalie. “Brand-new.”

  “Women are more sensitive to things like that,” said Louis. “They notice things.”

  He surprised himself by sounding peevish. His conscience was doing funny things to his voice because he couldn’t remember much of anything about his honeymoon with Natalie.

  He could remember almost everything about the night he and Milly O’Shea had wandered out on the golf course. That night with Milly, the moon had been full.

  Now Natalie was saying something. And when she was done, Louis had to ask her to say it all over again. He hadn’t heard a word.

  “I said,’ What’s it like?’” said Natalie.

  “What’s what like?” said Louis.

  “Being a young male Reinbeck—all hot-blooded and full of dreams, swooping down off the hill, grabbing a pretty little town girl and spiriting her into the moonlight.” She laughed, teasing. “It must be kind of godlike.”

  “It isn’t,” said Louis.

  “It isn’t godlike?”

  “Godlike? I never felt more human in all my life!” Louis threw his empty glass in the direction of the golf course. He wished he’d been strong enough to throw the glass straight to the spot where Milly had kissed him good-bye.

  “Then let’s hope Charlie marries this hot little girl from town,” said Natalie. “Let’s have no more cold, inhuman Reinbeck wives like me.” She stood. “Face it, you would have been a thousand times happier if you’d married your Milly O’Shea.”

  She went to bed.

  “Who’s kidding anybody?” Turley Whitman asked his wife. “You would have been a million times happier if you’d married Louis Reinbeck.” He was back at his post by the bedroom window, back with his big foot on the radiator.

  Milly was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Not a million times, not two times, not the-smallest-number-there-is times happier,” said Milly. She was wretched. “Turley—please don’t say anything more like that. I can’t stand it, it’s so crazy.”

  “Well, you were kind of calling a spade a spade down there in the kitchen,” said Turley, “giving me hell for telling the great Louis Reinbeck your name. Let me just call a spade a spade here, and say neither one of us wants our daughter to make the same mistake you did.”

  Milly went to him, put her arms around him. “Turley, please, that’s the worst thing you could say to me.”

  He turned a stubborn red, was as unyielding as a statue. “I remember all the big promises I made you, all the big talk,” he said. “Neither of us thinks company cop is one of the biggest jobs a man can hold.”

  Milly tried to shake him, with no luck. “I don’t care what your job is,” she said.

  “I was gonna have more money than the great L. C. Rein-beck,” said Turley, “and I was gonna make it all myself. Remember, Milly? That’s what really sold you, wasn’t it?”

  Her arms dropped away from him. “No,” she said.

  “My famous good looks?” said Turley.

  “They had a lot to do with it,” said Milly. His looks had gone very well with the looks of the prettiest girl in town. “Most of all,” she said, “it was the great Louis C. Reinbeck and the moon.”

  The great Louis C. Reinbeck was in his bedroom. His wife was in bed with the covers pulled up over her head. The room was cunningly contrived to give the illusion of romance and undying true love, no matter what really went on there.

  Up to now, almost everything that had gone on in the room had been reasonably pleasant. Now it appeared that the marriage of Louis and Natalie was at an end. When Louis made her pull the covers away from her face, when Natalie showed him how swollen her face was with tears, this was plainly the case. This was the end.

  Louis was miserable—he couldn’t understand how things had fallen to pieces so fast. “I—I haven’t thought of Milly O’Shea for twenty years,” he said.

  “Please—no. Don’t lie. Don’t explain,” said Natalie. “I understand.”

  “I swear,” said Louis. “I haven’t seen her for twenty years.”

  “I believe you,” said Natalie. “That’s what makes it so much worse. I wish you had seen her—just as often as you liked. That would have been better, somehow, than all this—this—” She sat up, ransacked her mind for the right word. “All this horrible, empty, aching, nagging regret.” She lay back down.

  “About Milly?” said Louis.

  “About Milly, about me, about the abrasives company, about all the things you wanted and didn’t get, about all the things you got that you didn’t want. Milly and me—that’s as good a way of saying it as anything. That pretty well says it all.”

  “I—I don’t love her. I never did,” said Louis.

  “You must have liked the one and only time in your life you felt human,” said Natalie. “Whatever happened in the moonlight must have been nice—much nicer than anything you and I ever had.”

  Louis’s nightmare got worse, because he knew Natalie had spoken the truth. There never had been anything as nice as that time in the moonlight with Milly.

  “There was absolutely nothing there, no basis for love,” said Louis. “We were perfect strangers then. I knew her as little as I know her now.”

  Louis’s muscles knotted and the words came hard, because he thought he was extracting something from himself of terrible importance. “I—I suppose she is a symbol of my own disappointment in myself, of all I might have been,” he said.

  He went to the bedroom window, looked morbidly at the setting moon. The moon’s rays were flat now, casting long shadows on the golf course, exaggerating the toy geography. Flags flew here and there, signifying less than nothing. This was where the great love scene had been played.

  Suddenly he understood. “Moonlight,” he murmured.

  “What?” said Natalie.

  “It had to be.” Louis laughed, because the explanation was so explosively simple. “We had to be in love, with a moon like that, in a world like that. We owed it to the moon.”

  Natalie sat up, her disposition much improved.

  “The richest boy in town and the prettiest girl in town,” said Louis, “we couldn’t let the moon down, could we?”

  He laughed again, made his wife get out of bed, made her look at the moon with him. “And here I’d been thinking it really had been something big between Milly and me way back then.” He shook his head. “When all it was was pure, beautiful, moonlit hokum.”

  He led his wife to bed. “You’re the only one I ever loved. An hour ago, I didn’t know that. I know that now.”

  So everything was fine.

  “I won’t lie to you,” Milly Whitman said to her husband. “I loved the great Louis C. Reinbeck for a while. Out there on the golf course in the moonlight, I just had to fall in love. Can you understand that—how I would have to fall in love with him, even if we didn’t like each other very well?”

  Turley allowed as how he could see how that would be. But he wasn’t happy about it.

  “We kissed only once,” said Milly. “And if he’d kissed me right, I think I might really be Mrs. Louis C. Reinbeck tonight.” She nodded. “Since we’re calling spades spades tonight, we might as well call that one a spade, too. And just before we kissed up there on the golf course, I was thinking what a poor little rich boy he was, and how much happier I could make him than any old cold, stuck-up country club girl. And then he kissed me, and I knew he wasn’t in love, couldn’t ever be in love. So I made that kiss good-bye.”

  “There’s where you made your mistake,” said Turley.

  “No,” said Milly, “because the next boy who kissed me kissed me right, showed me he knew what love was, even if there wasn’t a moon. And I lived happily ever after, until tonight.” She put her arms around Turle
y. “Now kiss me again the way you kissed me the first time, and I’ll be all right tonight, too.”

  Turley did, so everything was all right there, too.

  About twenty minutes after that, the telephones in both houses rang. The burden of the messages was that Charlie Reinbeck and Nancy Whitman were fine. They had, however, put their own interpretation on the moonlight. They’d decided that Cinderella and Prince Charming had as good a chance as anybody for really living happily ever after. So they’d married.

  So now there was a new household. Whether everything was all right there remained to be seen. The moon went down.

  Find Me

  a Dream

  If the Communists ever expect to overtake the democracies in sewer pipe production, they are certainly going to have to hump some—because just one factory in Creon, Pennsylvania, produces more pipe in six months than both Russia and China put together could produce in a year. That wonderful factory is the Creon Works of the General Forge and Foundry Company.

  As Works manager, Arvin Borders told every rookie engineer, “If you don’t like sewer pipe, you won’t like Creon.” Borders himself, a forty-six-year-old bachelor, was known throughout the industry as “Mr. Pipe.”

  Creon is the Pipe City. The high school football team is the Creon Pipers. The only country club is the Pipe City Golf and Country Club. There is a permanent exhibit of pipe in the club lobby, and the band that plays for the Friday-night dances at the club is Andy Middleton and His Creon Pipe-Dreamers.

  One Friday night in the summertime, Andy Middleton turned the band over to his piano player. He went out to the first tee for some peace and fresh air. He surprised a pretty young woman out there. She was crying. Andy had never seen her before. He was twenty-five at the time.

  Andy asked if he could help her.

  “I’m being very silly,” she said. “Everything is fine. I’m just being silly.”

  “I see,” said Andy.

  “I cry very easily—and even when there’s nothing at all to cry about, I cry,” she said.

  “That must be kind of confusing for people who are with you,” he said.