William Saroyan - The Laughing Matter

“It would be heaven to live here,” the woman said.

“This is the best time of the year,” the man said. “Everything’s ripe now. The air’s full of the smell of it. I’ll tell you what I want to do. I want to use this fine rock for a pillow, stretch out and breathe the good air.” He set the boulder down, just beyond the edge of the blanket, stretched out, and rested his head on it.

“Look at Papa,” the girl said. “He’s made a pillow out of a rock.”

“I want to get in the water,” Red said.

“So do I,” Eva said.

“All right,” the man said. “Take off your clothes and get in. The rocks are slippery, so try not to fall.”

“They’re wearing suits across the river,” Red said. “Have we got suits?”

“Wear your shorts,” the man said.

They got out of their clothes and waded into the water, where for ten or fifteen feet it was only a foot or two deep, with clean water moving swiftly over boulders, most of them big ones, some of them as big as the one his head rested on. He listened to them gasping because the water was cold, shouting and laughing, and he saw Red slip, get up, and say, “God damn that rock!”

After they had been in the water five minutes they waded out and sat on the hot white sand just beyond the shade of the trees, burying their feet in the sand, working it into piles with their hands. Every now and then they looked over at their father and mother under the shade of the trees. The woman was sitting close to the man with her legs crossed under her, the way she always sat when there wasn’t a chair.

“Evan?” the woman said softly.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Swan. I don’t even want to think about it. One good day can make a lot of difference for them. This is their day. I want it to be altogether their day.”

“I do too, Evan. Can I say just one thing?”

“Let it be altogether their day, Swan.”

“I just want to say——”

“Don’t say it, Swan.”

“You don’t know what I want to say.”

“Whatever it is, don’t say it. Not for a while. I just want to breathe the good air my kids are breathing.”

“I love you,” she said. “That’s all I want to say.”

“I know, Swan,” he said. “Don’t say anything more. Let it be their day. We’ll eat the sandwiches when they’re hungry.”

“I brought a bottle of wine for you,” she said.

She fished around in the basket, brought out the bottle. He sat up to get the cork out, then drank from the bottle.

“Thanks for remembering,” he said. He handed her the bottle.

The woman drank from the bottle, too, then pressed the cork back into it. She stretched out, not close to him, but close enough, so that no matter how softly he spoke or she spoke they could hear one another.

“God, what fools we are,” she said.

“Yes, Swan.”

“I think everybody must be crazy, and I can’t understand why.”

“I’m not going to try to understand just now. I want to listen to Red and Eva, that’s all.”

The woman listened with him. They didn’t hear the words, they heard the voices. They listened to the voices of their children a long time, their own voices stilled by the sound of the voices of their children. The man lifted his head to notice their bodies. After a moment he let his head return to the rock, then closed his eyes, hearing their voices, the summer voices of his son and his daughter. He didn’t open his eyes a long time, not sleeping, but not being altogether awake, either.

“What are you doing, Red?” Eva said.

“Looking at this sand,” Red said.

“Let me see.”

“Look at it. One piece.”

“Where is it?”

“In my hand. Can’t you see it?”

“Where?”

“Here,” he said, putting a finger near it.

“I see it,” the girl said. “What are you looking at it for?”

“It’s a piece of sand.”

“Let me see.” She looked again. “It’s very small.”

“You can see it, though, can’t you?”

“I see it,” Eva said. “I see it right there.” She looked at her own hands and saw that they were covered with sand. She brushed the sand off her hands, but saw that quite a few pieces hadn’t gone. She looked at these carefully. “Look at mine,” she said. “How many have I got?”

“Let me see,” Red said. He looked at the sand stuck to the palm of her hand. “Well,” he said, “you’ve got a lot of them.”

“How many?”

“One, two, three,” Red said. “Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, and many more.”

Eva brushed more sand from her hand, then said, “How many now?”

He looked again, counted to himself, and said, “Nine.”

She brushed still more sand from her hand, then said, “Now how many?”

“Three.”

“How many are there?”

“Where?”

“In the whole world.”

“Well,” Red said, “there are hundreds of places like this, I suppose, with millions of pieces of sand in each place.”

“What are they doing there?”

“Nothing.”

“How many pieces of sky are there?”

“Sky isn’t sand, Eva.”

“What is it?”

“Something else.”

“How many pieces of water are there?”

“Water isn’t sand, either.”

“Water’s rain,” Eva said. She looked at her hand again and noticed that it was again covered with sand. “How many pieces of people are there?”

“You think everything is sand,” Red said.

“No, I don’t,” Eva said. “Look at the sand on my hand now . Every piece is a people. This one’s a man, this one’s a woman, this one’s a boy, this one’s a girl. And this one—— What’s this one, Red?”

“Another man?”

“No, a dog,” Eva said. “And this one——What’s this one?” She pointed to a large black grain of sand. “This one’s my father,” she said.

“Let me see,” Red said. He looked at the grain of sand in her hand, then looked at his father lying on the blanket, his head resting on the rock. The girl looked at him, too. “Yes,” Red said. He pointed to a very bright grain of sand in her hand. “Who’s that?”

“My mother,” Eva said. “This one’s my father. This one’s my mother. Right here in my hand. And there they are over there, under the trees. My father told me to sit in front beside him in the car, didn’t he, Red?”

“Yes,” Red said.

“My father’s a good man,” Eva said. “My father’s a sad man.”

“Sad?” Red said.

“Oh, yes,” Eva said. “I know. When he carries me I look at his face. It’s a sad face.” She got an idea suddenly, and Red saw her face darken. “What is sad , Red? What is that?”

“Well,” Red said. “You know what glad is. Well, sad is not glad.”

“Why is my father sad?”

“He’s not always sad.”

“He’s sad now,” Eva said. “Look at him.”

They both looked and Red said, “No. He’s just resting, that’s all.”

“I’m tired of sitting,” the girl said. “Let’s go back into the water.”

They got up and went back into the water.

When the man sat up for another drink of wine he saw the woman with her dress tied above her knees holding their hands and wading with them about thirty yards down the river.

She was trying . She was beautiful when she tried. He had never seen her flesh so luminous. He took a long drink of the cold wine and watched her with her children, her own son and her own daughter, out of her own flesh. They were beautiful, the three of them were as beautiful as any mother and son and daughter had ever been, or could ever be. Their bodies were beautiful. He had never seen bodies so sweetly alive and so delightfully, so painfully beautiful. It’s not them alone I love, he thought. I love her, too. I still love her.