J. Salinger - Three Stories

Ray was wiping his wet face with a comer of the pillow.

“She bought the blue job and two others. One gorgeous one.”

Ethel got up, walked to the window and stood with her back to him. There was that thhhtttt sound behind her. Finally it subsided, as if he had got control of his lip, and only the jerking of his throat was audible.

“Ethel—”

“What?”—not turning.

“C’mere.”

“I’m all right here.”

“No, c’mere.”

“I’m all right here. I’m counting bricks.”

“Ethel. Listen. Get me a drop. That’s all I want. Just a lousy drop. Ethel. For Chrissake.”

“I thought you weren’t going to do that.”

“But listen . All I want is a drop . I only wanna test myself. That’s all. Ethel. You know goddamn well a lousy drop won’t hurt me any. Ethel. Turn your lousy face around here! ”

She turned. “I can’t Ray. You know I can’t . Why do you ask me.”

“You can ! You know goddamn well you can. You can bring me a lousy drop. That’s all I want. On у word of honor. Don’t you want me to test myself? Don’t you want me to get better? Look at me!”

“Please. You’re going to be on the floor in a minute.” She went over to him, and he got her by the forearm.

“Ethel. Lover. Please. One stinking lousy drop. Listen. I’ve got an angle. Wait’ll you hear. You can put it in a toilet water bottle. And leave it in this goddamn table. Nobody’ll know the difference. I can test myself. Hear?”

“I hear.”

“But will you? Will you do it? Lover?”

“Noooo! Please.” She yanked her arm free from him. There was no grip in his hand.

He slammed his mussed head back into the pillow, thinned the mouth that wobbled at the kiss, narrowed his eyes. There was trouble breathing.

“All right,” he told her, breathy. “You bitch.”

Ethel was back at the window.

“You love me. Oh, you love me! You love me like hell , you love me. What a liar. What a lousy little liar you are. Listen. Go on. Beat it. Get the hell out of here. Come on. You heard me. Get the hell out of here.”

The both heard someone rap on the door. Dr. Stone came in looking small and sanitary.

“Well!” said Dr. Stone. “What’s this? Visitors?” A smile for Ethel.

“I was just leaving,” Ethel told the doctor. She crossed to pick up Phyllis’s book, smoothing her skirt as she moved.

“And how’s this big goldbrick today?” Asked Dr. Stone. “How do you feel son?”

For answer, Ray turned over on his side.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ray.” Ethel said.

Ray had most of his face in the pillow. “If you come back here I’ll kill you. Get out.”

“Whoa!” said Dr. Stone. “Whoa, there! Whoa, there, Bessie.”

Dr. Stone lent a hand at the double doors, and walked down the corridor at Ethel’s side.

“I think well flush his kidneys this afternoon.” Dr Stone told her.

“Yes,” Ethel said.

“The human body’s like any machine, you know. Must be kept clean.”

“Yes,” Ethel repeated.

Dr. Stone’s nose made a brief snorty sound, doing away with some sort of obstruction in his nasal passages.

“It’s his birthday,” Ethel said.

“Well!” said Dr. Stone. “I didn’t know that!”

“He’s 22.”

Then because the elevator was there, and people were standing in it, there was nothing for Ethel to do but get in.

“Goodbye,” Ethel said.

“Goodbye!” Said Dr. Stone, taking his pince-nez from his nose.

The elevator descended with a draft, chilling Ethel in all the damp spots.

On the fourth of May 1941 Hincher returned home from work at 6:30 to discover his wife sitting up in bed reading. Hincher inquired affectionately:

“What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?”

“Not too well,” said Mrs. Hincher, setting down her book.

“Oh.” Said Hincher “Getting up for dinner?”

“I don’t think so dear. Do you mind terribly?”

“No. No. Of course not. What are you doing? Reading?”

“Mmm,” admitted Mrs. Hincher.

At the same time the following evening, Mrs. Hincher was still in bed.

“Shall I send for Dr. Bohler?” Mr. Hincher asked solicitously.

Mrs. Hincher laughed her warm, delicious laugh. “I don’t think so dear.” She said. “I don’t think there’s anything he can do.”

“How so? What do you mean?” Hincher sat down on the edge of his wife’s bed.

“You big nut!” said Mrs. Hincher good humouredly. “I’m going to have a baby.”

Stupification set into Hincher’s face, followed by sheer ecstasy. Then quickly he bent to kiss his wife first excitedly, then tenderly, and he began to make great promises and predictions. But he interrupted himself.

“I knew the damn fool was wrong” He exclaimed happily.

What did he say?

“Who, darling?”

“Dr. Bohler.”

“Dr. Bohler!” said Mrs. Hincher contemptuously, but not unpleasantly. “Darling, a woman knows whether she’s going to have a baby or not. At least this woman.”

“But I thought—“

“—Darling, I know, I don’t have to see Dr. Bohler or Dr. Whoosis-Whatsis. I know . I always knew I’d know.”

“But I just thought—” said Hincher. I thought Dr. Bohler said you couldn’t have one.

I mean didn’t he say that?

Mrs. Hincher laughed gloriously. She reached up two hands and gently took her husband’s concerned face between them.

“Darling, don’t worry .” said Mrs. Hincher, laughing softly. “We’re going to have a baby.”

Finally, leaving the bedroom to wash up for dinner, Hincher called back:

“Getting up for dinner, sweetheart?”

“No, darling, I’d rather not.”

Weeks and then months passed and Mrs. Hincher stayed in bed, leaving it only to make certain small, obvious excursions to her bathroom, to her bureau drawers, to her dressing table, — and one afternoon when Sophie, the housemaid, begged off to see her dentist, Mrs. Hincher, in maroon wrapper and feathery mules, ventured downstairs to see if her Saturday Evening Post had been delivered. But all her little trips, side- and direct- considered, approximately 23 hours of the day, 165 hours of the week, 644 hours of the month, Mrs. Hincher resided under counterpane. She breakfasted, lunched and dined in bed. She read and knitted in bed, all current newspapers and magazines, bags of wool and graduated sizes of knitting needles, within her reach. There was a silver hand-bell on her night table. Two shakes of it, and Sophie, the maid, instantly dried her hands, or turned off the vacuum cleaner, or sniped her cigarette, and literally came running. Sophie received her instructions from Mr. Hincher at the same time he had raised her salary.

“—Darling. Will you come here a minute?”

Hincher re-entered his wife’s bedroom.

“Darling, I’m going to ask something strange of you. You’ll probably think I’m utterly mad.”

Hincher smiled, “What is it little girl?”

“I want to stay in bed, sweet. I mean I want to stay in bed all during my time.”

“Nine months?” said Hincher, incredulously.

“Mmm. I want to. Are you furious with me? You are. I can tell. I see that sever look coming on your face.” Mrs. Hincher smiled up at her husband, pursed her lips slightly, and nodded to herself.

“No,” her husband denied quickly. “Of course, I’m not furious. But why do you want to stay in bed? I mean why do you want to stay in bed?”

Mr. Hincher waited.

“You’ll laugh.” Accused Mrs. Hincher gently.