William Saroyan - The Laughing Matter

After that it had been as if nothing was wrong in the world, nothing had ever been wrong, nothing ever would be.

Evan and Swan had had showers and had put on fresh clothing, and so had Warren and May. They had soaped their bodies. The warm water had washed away the soap, the perspiration, the dirt, and for a moment the doubt, the anger, the rage, the shame, the despair.

It was late afternoon of a hot day. It would soon be evening, the best time of all. Everything would cool down, quiet down and darken, and there would be an hour or more of twilight, the sky red where the sun had been.

They would meet with these people—these strangers—each husband and wife would meet with these strangers and they would be kind to one another. They would be glad to see one another. Their voices would become alive for one another. They would remember, each of them alone, good things, and, remembering, be glad for having known them. They would be amusing, sympathetic, thoughtful, witty. They would drink, and then drink again. They might even laugh. One of them might hit upon something to say to make all the others laugh. They might laugh so hard as to become a little embarrassed. The twilight itself might be the thing to start them laughing. The red of the sky, the quietude of the vineyard, the sudden memory of their children playing in the back yard, the memory of the enormous charity and kindness and concern of their children for them, even the memory of the flarings into meanness and ugliness of their children, as if they’d already left childhood behind.

Each of the four would know the worst about himself, but it would be put aside, it would be hidden the whole time they were together, and almost forgotten. Almost, but not quite. A hint of it would come into the eyes of each of them from time to time.

Still, for a moment they would know well-being. They would know well-being is a lie. They would know it is desperate and sorrowful, but they would not bother about this. They would hold glasses and drink, speaking swiftly and easily and meaninglessly.

“I wonder if you’d tell me about Dade,” Evan said.

“He’s your brother,” Walz said.

“I mean, as a farmer.”

“Well, I thought I was the world’s worst,” Walz said, “but I suppose Dade’s champ now. Still, we’ve got no kick coming. Dade’s doing all right, and so am I. We’ve had three rotten years in a row, but if we haven’t gotten rich, we haven’t gotten poor or gone broke, either. If your place is paid for—and Dade’s is, and so is mine—well, no matter how rotten things get, you can’t lose. Getting a place paid for is the tough thing. Once that’s done, though, it’s a pretty good life. We get bored, but who doesn’t?”

“What’s Dade do?”

“How do you mean?”

“Does he get out in the vineyard and work?”

“He helps prune the vines,” Walz said. “There’s about six weeks of pruning for four men on sixty acres of vineyard. Dade hires three men, and works with them. I mean, he doesn’t stop in the middle of the day to take a nap or anything like that just because he owns the place. He starts when they start, stops for lunch when they do, eats with them, and stops when they stop. I know he likes to prune the vines. Pruning time can be anywhere from early December to late February. He starts on January first every year. He works alone that day. The next day the three workers join him.”

“He does work on the vineyard, then?” Evan said.

“Oh, yes,” Walz said. “When I said he was the world’s worst, I meant he doesn’t do any of the things the boys just out of agricultural college do. I once asked him why he didn’t get the weeds out of his irrigation ditches and he said he liked them. Did you have the idea Dade never worked?”

“He never cared much for work,” Evan said. “He had a few jobs as a kid, but that’s all.”

“On a vineyard it’s different,” Walz said. “He’s his own boss. Isn’t that about as good as it can get for any of us?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Evan said. “What about wine?”

“That market’s shot,” Walz said. “It’s been shot for years. We don’t have wine makers. We have chemists. They make wine the way shampoo’s made.”

“No, I meant does Dade make wine? Do you?”

“I make a few gallons every year, just for the fun of it,” Walz said. “I don’t know whether Dade does or not.” After a moment he said, “What do you think? Is it a good life?”

“I don’t know,” Evan said quickly. “I suppose it could be. I suppose it could somehow be. I don’t know. It always depends on something or other, and the pity of it is that either you don’t know what this thing is, or if you do know, you know it involves someone else, who must help but won’t, or can’t.”

“Has Dade read any of your books?” Walz said. “The reason I ask is that I started to speak to him about them a couple of times, but I didn’t get anywhere. Is it because he hasn’t read them?”

“There are only three,” Evan said. “I don’t think it’s because he hasn’t read them. I think it’s because he has.”

“I thought they were very good,” Walz said, “especially the first one. Not that I don’t like the other two.”

“They’re bad,” Evan said, “but they’re the best I knew how to do at the time. The great books are never written. The people who could write them don’t know how to write, which is a trick. Any fool who gets the knack of writing can make himself a reputation if he’s willing to work. Dade’s forgotten more than I’ll ever know. He’s a loner. Nobody will ever know what Dade knows. What he knows about everything. About each of us. About our lies, our good ones and our bad ones. I know how to write, but so what? I gave up writing because it is a trick.”

“I had no idea,” Walz said. “Is it actually a trick? I mean, a technical matter rather than something else?”

“It’s a trick,” Evan said.

He took Warren’s glass and went up onto the porch to get each of them a new drink. He tossed the ice and dregs out of each glass onto the lawn, fixed the drinks quickly, saying only a few words to May Walz, not looking at Swan, not even looking at May, and then went back to Walz, who took his glass and said, “What is a loner, anyway? I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Evan Nazarenus laughed, laughing at himself and not at the man’s question.

“Everybody’s a loner,” he said. “It has no special meaning. I’m glad Dade likes to prune the vines. I think I’d like to do that myself. I get a pretty good Christmas and New Year holiday. It might be a good idea to come down and go to work with Dade this winter.”

“I wonder if you’d like the work,” Walz said. “It’s the same thing over and over. I make a stab at it every year. After I’ve done a dozen vines or so, an hour’s work, I’ve had all I can take.”

The women came down to the lawn, not insisting on joining them, but lingering near by. The four of them were soon talking, and drawing closer.

“I thought we might eat on the lawn,” Swan said, almost speaking to Walz. “I mean, we could bring the picnic table from the back yard.”

“It’s O.K. with me,” Evan said to May Walz. “O.K. with you?”

“I think it would be fine,” May said.

“Shall we get the table, then?” Walz said to Evan.

They went off together and soon returned with the long table. Swan and May went into the house for a tablecloth and other stuff. When they came out and went to work, Swan said, “It’s steaks and a salad. Do your daughters like steaks?”

“Sure,” Walz said. “Wonderful.”