Some Came Running (161 page)

“Yes,” Dave said. “I’ve made up my mind. I’ve thought it all over very carefully.”

“I’m sure you have,” Bob said.

“I’ll tell you something else I’m going to do,” Dave said. He didn’t want to tell him this, because he didn’t want an argument; but at the same time he felt honor-bound to tell him, since Bob—as well as Gwen—had worked with him on the book so much. “I’m going to write that love affair into the novel like I once talked to you about. Remember?”

“Dear Dave,” Bob said gently. “I may be unable to advise you on things of the spirit; but this is one thing I can advise you on. If you do, you’ll ruin it.”

“I don’t think so,” Dave said stubbornly. “Let me explain it to you. It’s not the kind of wildly passionate love affair we talked about before. This is a different love affair: a sad, pathetic, little love affair between a commonplace little private and a commonplace little peasant girl.” And he went ahead to explain in full detail the theory of the love affair that he had worked out. He talked at some length, because he wanted to convince him. But Bob only listened silently. “So you see,” Dave wound up, “not only will it be a true, sad little love affair of two people caught in the mills of war—for which read also: life—but it will also provide a heightening contrast with the combat stuff. “Well,” he said confidently, “what do you think?”

“You really want to know?” Bob said.

‘Yes,” Dave said.

“It’s terrible,” Bob said. “It’s ghastly. It makes me shudder all over. Even the other love affair you talked of would have been better than this. But this—this mawkish, sentimental, tear-jerking trash—well, it’s just simply horrible. It will ruin your novel. In the first place, no one is ever ‘caught in the mills’ of anything that he himself doesn’t bring upon himself; there are no onerous blows struck that are not invited.”

“But that’s just the point!” Dave said. “They
do
invite it. And that’s their very heroism!”

“Not at all,” Bob said. “What you have outlined to me will make them
victims.
And that makes it philosophically wrong right there. And in the second place, it is diametrically opposite to the theme of the book you started out to write.”

“But I think that’s its virtue,” Dave said. “Don’t you?”

“Certainly not,” Bob said. “That kind of contrast will only destroy the very effect you started out to achieve.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Bob,” he said; “I just don’t agree with you.”

“Dear Dave,” Bob said and smiled. “It’s your book. You must do what you have to do. So must we all. But don’t expect to receive moral support from me by getting me to agree to something that I feel is totally wrong.”

“Well,” Dave said lamely, “I didn’t mean to be. I
thought
I was telling you out of a sense of honor—because you, and Gwen too, have helped me so much on this book. But—maybe I was seeking moral support?”

Bob did not answer. Instead, he got up went back over to the counter to fix himself another drink. “I’m afraid I’m going to get rather tight tonight,” he said after a moment, with a smile. “It’s too bad there is no poker game on at the Club.

“Would you like another drink?” he said.

“No, I guess not,” Dave said, and looked at his watch. He could not help feeling a little hurt that Bob refused to understand and see what he was driving at. “It’s after two. I better be getting back home. Have you heard anything from Gwen?”

“I had one letter,” Bob said carefully. “After I wrote her what you said about your sister.”

“What’s she going to do?”

“Well, she’s nearly finished with the book,” Bob said. “So she’s going ahead and finish it, but she’s not going to submit it until after she’s come home and we’ve gone into the whole thing thoroughly.”

“Then she’s coming home?”

“Eventually, I expect,” Bob said. “But not at all soon, I don’t think. And if she does come, it may only to discuss the book.”

“Well—” Dave said. He got up. “You know, I have no hard feelings, Bob, about Gwen. I want to wish her the best of everything.”

“That’s very fine of you,” Bob said, staring over the edge of his highball glass. “I’m sure she feels the same about you.”

“Gwen wouldn’t want me to include this love affair in the book, either, I expect,” Dave said.

“No, Dave; I’m sure she wouldn’t. But then, as I said, it’s your book.” Bob got up himself.

“Well, I believe in it,” Dave said. “I have to do it.” He walked down to the end of the kitchen, and Bob followed. “I guess you don’t think I ought to marry this girl, either, do you?” he said, after he had gone down to the landing.

Bob stared down at him for a moment, then he shrugged and smiled. “Dear Dave,” he said. “Who am I to say what you should do? I don’t even know what I myself should do, most of the time. As I’ve so often said, we all do as we must. Most of the time, I don’t know if I’ve done right,” he said somberly, almost to himself. “Even right now, I don’t know.”

“Yes,” Dave said. “Well—” He opened the door, then turned back one last time. “You see, I’m not getting any younger. And I’m certainly not getting any more palatable. And I need somebody to take care of me, somebody to—somebody to sleep with,” he said bluntly. It was the first time he had ever spoken of sex outright with Bob; but he had to make it plain.

“Yes,” Bob said from above him. “Well, we all need something or other, I guess. I wish you the best of luck, Dave.”

“Thanks,” Dave said sourly. But all of the way back home to Parkman, he knew he was right. He had studied it all over, and he knew that rationally he was right, in both the marriage and the putting of the love affair in the book; and Bob’s disagreements did not touch him.

But before he left, he turned back one more time. “Well, anyway, I’m glad you were all right, Bob, after your visit with the US Marines.”

“Oh, him,” Bob said. “I had forgotten all about him.”

“I’m sorry it happened,” Dave said; “and—I’ll try to see it doesn’t happen again.”

“I don’t think it will,” Bob said. “Goodby, dear Dave.”

And so that was that. All the way home in the car, Dave studied it over and over again. The book’s love affair, and his marriage to Ginnie. Bob French was a wise man, perhaps the wisest he had ever known; and his disagreements were not to be taken lightly. But as Bob himself was so prone to say: He
could
be wrong; he
didn’t
know. And this was one time Dave felt he must be. Never in his life before, Dave was sure, had he ever approached anything with such complete objectivity—with such absolute dispassion. Always before his important decisions had been made on the spur of the moment, when he was in the throes of some screwy emotion or other. Just like the time he had decided suddenly to stay in Parkman because of Gwen; and look what that had got him into. But this time it was not like that.

There remained nothing else to do but inform Ginnie and ’Bama, and the first of these he did next day. She was asleep when he got home, and did not even wake up when he crawled into bed beside her. So he waited till next day to tell her he was going to marry her.

He told her that morning, before he went to work. ’Bama was still gone. Ginnie was obviously delighted, if not a little awed.

“You mean you’ll
marry
me?” she said, almost disbelievingly. “You mean your really willin to marry me? Oh, Dave! I jus don’t know what to say.”

They agreed that she would keep her job at the brassiere factory, and Dave would continue to work on his book. That way she could support them here with ’Bama, at least until the book was done and sold. Then they would show them! Frank and Agnes and everybody else: when the book was done. It would be still another three weeks or so before the judge could get the annulment through the courts; and they would just continue to live here like they were till then—and after they were married, too, as far as that went. And that night, Ginnie gave him one of the best parties he had ever had.

But it all did not, however, turn out quite exactly as they had planned: ’Bama came home two days later from the farm, and Dave told him. He came in in the morning—luckily, Dave thought later—when Ginnie was gone to her job at the brassiere factory, and Dave sat down with him in the kitchen to tell him over coffee. It was, Dave thought afterwards, a damn good thing Ginnie wasn’t there. Because he did not get at all the type of reaction he had expected from ’Bama.

What he had expected was that ’Bama would be happy for him, and would immediately see the really important similarity between Dave and Ginnie’s marriage and his own with Ruth. ’Bama was not, and did not. At all.

“Jesus Christ!” the gambler sneered and slammed his cup down on the table and tugged at his hat brim. “Jesus H Christ! Of all the hairbrained ideas I eveh heard! Of all the hairbrained ways to commit suicide!”

“Hey! Hey!” Dave said, completely caught up short. “Wait a minute!”

“Wait for what?” ’Bama said. “Jesus Christ!” “Well, don’t you want to hear my reasons even?”

’Bama opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut and stared at Dave disbelievingly. “Okay,” he said with patient disgust. “Okay. Let’s hear yore reasons.” But then, before Dave could begin, the tall man raised his hand and slapped it down on his leg. “Damn! I admit I never have understood you. A screwball artist, and all that. But Jesus
Christ
!” he said disgustedly. “All right. Let’s hear yore reasons.”

Dave went through them for him, just like he had done with Bob: how he was too old to get a chance at another woman, and too fat and ugly and too broke; how there was a really valuable kindliness between him and Ginnie; how her working could help support him and his work; and then he added on the extra point, which he had not bothered to tell Bob, about how he wanted a wife who would do for him and take care of him like ’Bama’s own wife, Ruth, did for him.

’Bama sat and listened, only shaking his head disgustedly, and now and then snorting through his nose.

“All right,” he said when Dave had finished and sat looking at him expectantly, “all right. Them are all good reasons. Now for Christ sake, forget all about it and let’s get drunk, what do you say?”

“But no!” Dave said. “I’m serious,’Bama. I really mean it.”

“You do?” ’Bama said.

Dave nodded. “Hell, yes.”

“Well— You haven’t asked her to marry you yet, have you now?” ’Bama said hopefully.

“Hell, yes, I’ve asked her!” Dave said. “And she’s all for it.”

“Christ, yes! why wouldn’t she be?” ’Bama snorted. “Well, you can still get out of it. I’ll help you.”

“I don’t
want
out of it!” Dave yelled. “Damn it!”

“Look, Dave,” ’Bama said patiently. “I don’t know if yore crazy or not. But listen to me.” But then he exploded again. “Look, you dumb bastard!” But then he pulled himself down again, at least partially. “Look, as far as getting women is concerned, all you got to do is finish yore book and sell the damned thing and move away out of this town, and you’ll have all the goddamned women you want! If you feel for some damned reason you
got
to get married, you can marry some
rich
woman, then! Some damn millionaire’s daughter or somebody! And live the high life!”

“’Bama,” Dave said; “you overestimate the influence this novel’s going to have. It won’t be a drop in the bucket, and it’ll make a noise just about as big.”

’Bama rubbed his hand over his face. “Okay, all right,” he said. “But, for Christ’s sake, why marry a
bum
!”

“Why
not
marry her?” Dave said, stubborn anger growing in him. “She’ll make me a good
wife.
Why
not
marry her?”

“Because she’s a pig!” ’Bama cried. “That’s why!”

“Well, I don’t agree with you,” Dave said stubbornly. “People can change. I can
help
her to change. But supposing she is a pig, so what? So am I.”

“No,” ’Bama said, shaking his head. “No, yore not, Dave. You may look like a pig, you may even act like one, sometimes, but you ain’t one. But she is. And she always will be.

“And another thing,” ’Bama cried; “you talkin about Ruth all the time. Why the hell shouldn’t Ruth be glad to ‘take care of me,’ as you put it? Ruth’s got what she wants. She can sit down there and run that place like a little queen; and that’s what she wants. But let me ask you something? What if I was to sell that farm and move her up here, to live the kind of life you and me live? And how long do you think she’d hang around then? Hunh? She’d take off and leave me so goddamned quick it’d make yore head swim, that’s what!” The tall man stopped and caught his breath.

“All right,” he said, “answer me this: What do you think Ginnie wants? What do you think
Ginnie
wants like Ruth wants that farm?”

“How the hell do I know?” Dave said angrily. “I don’t think she wants anything.”

“Probably not,” ’Bama snorted. “She’s probly too damned dumb to want anything.”

“I’ll tell you what she wants,” Dave said. “She wants to be
loved,
that’s what.”

“Oh, nuts!” ’Bama snorted. “No, that’s not what she wants. But Ah’ll tell you what she wants. More than anything else in the world, Ginnie Moorehead wants to be
respectable.

“Oh,” he said, at the look on Dave’s face. “Don’t believe that, hunh?”

“I don’t know,” Dave said. “Maybe. So what? I want to be respectable, too. There’s no problem there.”

“There ain’t, hunh?” ’Bama said. “I don’t know how it’s goin to affect yore life after you marry her, but, by God, it’s goin to affect it some way.”

“You ain’t told me a damn thing,” Dave said. “You ain’t said a goddamned thing.”

“I—” ’Bama stopped and scratched his jaw. “Look: Are you really goin through with this heah?”

“Yes,” Dave said. “I am.”

“Okay,” ’Bama said angrily. “Then you and me are through. We’re quits.

“Well, if that’s the way you want it,” Dave said sullenly.

Pausing for a moment, ’Bama ran his hand over his face again and got hold of himself. “Look, Dave,” he said, warmly. “We’ve washed this thing up already a long time ago, and we both know it. Why try to hang onto somethin that don’t exist anymore? The whole thing’s washed up, and it has been for six months now, damn near.”