William Saroyan - The Laughing Matter

“Thank you,” Dade said.

At half-past one Dade was dressed. The children were in the back yard with Mary Koury, who was mixing dough for bread on the picnic table, showing them how it was done, letting them help, telling them about her four sons and two daughters.

Evan drove.

“How’s Red?” Dade said.

“He’s fine.”

“How’s Eva?”

“She’s fine, too.”

“How are you?”

“I’m sorry, Dade.”

“Are you teaching Red something new in the language every day?”

“Yes.”

“What does he know so far?”

“It is right,” Evan said. “I love you. My name is Rex Nazarenus. My mother’s name is Swan Nazarenus. My father’s name is Evan Nazarenus. My sister’s name is Eva Nazarenus. And, My father’s brother’s name is Dade Nazarenus.”

“When did you teach him all that?”

“Saturday you taught him, It is right,” Evan said. “Sunday I taught him, I love you. Monday I taught him, My mother’s name is Swan Nazarenus. Tuesday and yesterday I taught him all the others. He’s learning a lot from Mary. So is Eva.”

“Do the Walz children know about Swan?”

“No. May broke down and wept.”

“Have you talked to them again?”

“I took the kids over yesterday afternoon for a couple of hours. Red wanted to see Flora. May broke down and wept again. We were drinking in their parlor. I wanted to tell her the truth, Dade. I didn’t tell her, but I wanted to.”

“You’ve already told her the truth. Swan died of a heart attack.”

“They know there’s more to it than that, Dade.”

“There always is. There is always more to it than any of us ever knows.”

“What do you mean, Dade?”

He was about to tell his brother the truth, but remembered that he must not: must not for Swan, must not for Evan, must not for Red and Eva.

“What do you think I put you in my room for?” Dade said instead. “I wanted you to get the business of the guns out of the way before the kids got back.”

“I’m sorry about that, Dade.”

“Tomorrow go and talk to the man. Then go to Paterson.

“I’ll go and talk to the man,” Evan said, “but I can’t go to Paterson. I can’t leave the kids.”

“You may break again,” Dade said, “and I’m sick. Break in Paterson. Break until you’re sure you’re finished breaking. Do it for Red and Eva.”

“I can’t leave the kids, Dade.”

“Do it for me, boy. I’m sick.”

“All right, Dade.”

“Stay in Paterson until you’re sure,” Dade said. “Go back to the house that Petrus made for you and me, if it’s still there. Go back to where it was , anyway. Go back to the factory he worked in for so long to earn money to keep us and open his own little business. Go back to our streets. Break there. Walk along the dirty Passaic and break there. Stay until you’re sure. When you come back your kids will be fine, Swan’s kids will be fine, our family will be fine.”

“All right, Dade.”

“Come back and we’ll talk,” Dade said. “If you feel like working, we’ll prune the vines together. I won’t hire anybody this year. You and I will do the work. You get up in the dark, in the cold. You go out to the vines, and cut them back to their strength. In the spring and summer a good vine puts out a lot of wood. It’s got to, for the grapes. In the winter, in the cold and dark of the winter, the vine must be cut back to its strength. If it’s not, the following summer its grapes are inferior, and cannot ripen. The summer after that the vine is all wood and no grapes. You and I will prune every vine in the vineyard. Then you can decide what you want to do—go back to the university, go back to Paterson, or live on a vineyard of your own.”

“Yes, Dade.”

“When you’re in Paterson,” Dade said, “when you’re cutting the wood back to its strength, remember this vineyard, remember the family, remember Swan, remember Red and Eva.”

“She begged me, Dade.”

“Yes, I know,” Dade said. “If you want to take a gun, take it. I think you should. If it bothers you, take a gun. Otherwise forget it, and take the book.”

“What book?” Evan said.

“The book you gave me,” Dade said. “This book.” He brought the book out of his coat pocket. “Have you forgotten?” he said in their own language. He brought the smallest of the guns from the same pocket. “Here’s the gun,” he said. “If it bothers you—if you think you’ve killed the mother of your children and must kill yourself, too, take the gun, take it to Paterson with you. Swan was a beautiful mother of beautiful children. I’m sick at heart that she’s gone, that we’re driving to her poor burial, but I’d like Swan to stay beautiful, I’d like her children to stay beautiful. Here they are, the gun and the book. Take one or the other.”

“I’d like to take them both,” Evan said.

“Sure,” Dade said.

Evan Nazarenus took the book and put it in one pocket. He took the gun and put it in the other.

They went into Gladding and Starch and looked at Swan again. There was no music, no flowers, just the open casket in the private room.

“Whoever she was,” Dade said, “she was beautiful.”

“She’s dead,” Evan said.

“Yes,” Dade said. “The best a man can do is find a mother for his children. You found the best for yours.”

He turned to the young Gladding, and nodded. The man put the cover over the casket. The casket was carried to the hearse, and Evan followed the hearse to the cemetery.

The casket was lowered, and everybody went off.

His brother, standing beside him, fell upon him suddenly, so heavily that Evan was almost unable not to fall, too. He hugged his brother, holding him up, then quickly dragged him to the car.

“For God’s sake, Dade.”

He stretched him out in the back seat, and began to drive back.

When he reached the driveway, he saw Dr. Altoun sitting on the steps of the front porch.

The man hurried to the car.

They got him into the house and onto his bed, the doctor working swiftly. He found a needle, pierced the flesh near the heart, pressed the fluid out of the tube into the flesh.

The man put his cheek to Dade’s nose and mouth.

“You’re working too hard,” Evan said in their language at last. “He’s dead. He died in the cemetery.”

The man turned and looked at Evan. His eyes very nearly wept, then grew hard and swift.

“I shot him,” Evan said.

“I know,” the man said. “Now let me think a moment. You must attend the inquiry,” he said at last. “That is the only thing you can do. Yes, you did shoot him. It was an accident, as you know. You would not kill your own brother. You were sitting and talking, cleaning the gun. It went off. It was an accident.”

“I shot him,” Evan said. “It was not an accident. I killed my wife, too. My brother helped me kill her. I was mad. I shot him. He’s dead. I do not want to go to the inquiry.”

“You must go,” the man said, “for your children.”

“My children are dead,” Evan said. “I can do nothing for the dead.”

“They are in the back yard with Mary Koury,” the man said. “Please think of your children. If you go away, it will be taken for a sign of guilt which will be most difficult to disprove. I will help you. I am of your family.”

“I wish no help,” Evan said. He took his brother’s hands and held them a long time. “I’m sorry, Dade,” he said.

He brought the money from the top drawer of Dade’s bureau and handed it to the man.

“For you, Doctor Altoun,” he said. “For Mary Koury. For my son and my daughter.”