Jerome Salinger - Nine Stories

“Well, that’s something you know better than—I mean that’s out of my jurisdiction,” the gray-haired man said. “The point is, God damn it, you don’t do anything at all constructive to—”

“We’re mismated, that’s all. That’s the whole simple story. We’re just mismated as hell. You know what she needs? She needs some big silent bastard to just walk over once in a while and knock her out cold—then go back and finish reading his paper. That’s what she needs. I’m too goddam weak for her. I knew it when we got married—I swear to God I did. I mean you’re a smart bastard, you’ve never been married, but every now and then, before anybody gets married, they get these flashes of what it’s going to be like after they’re married. I ignored ‘em. I ignored all my goddam flashes. I’m weak. That’s the whole thing in a nutshell.”

“You’re not weak. You just don’t use your head,” the gray-haired man said, accepting a freshly lighted cigarette from the girl.

“Certainly I’m weak! Certainly I’m weak! God damn it, I know whether I’m weak or not! If I weren’t weak, you don’t think I’d’ve let everything get all—Aah, what’s the usea talking? Certainly I’m weak … God, I’m keeping you awake all night. Why don’t you hang the hell up on me? I mean it. Hang up on me.”

“I’m not going to hang up on you, Arthur. I’d like to help you, if it’s humanly possible,” the gray-haired man said. “Actually, you’re your own worst—”

“She doesn’t respect me. She doesn’t even love me, for God’s sake. Basically—in the last analysis—I don’t love her any more, either. I don’t know. I do and I don’t. It varies. It fluctuates. Christ! Every time I get all set to put my foot down, we have dinner out, for some reason, and I meet her somewhere and she comes in with these goddam white gloves on or something. I don’t know. Or I start thinking about the first time we drove up to New Haven for the Princeton game. We had a flat right after we got off the Parkway, and it was cold as hell, and she held the flashlight while I fixed the goddam thing—You know what I mean. I don’t know. Or I start thinking about—Christ, it’s embarrassing—I start thinking about this goddam poem I sent her when we first started goin’ around together. `Rose my color is and white, Pretty mouth and green my eyes.’ Christ, it’s embarrassing—it used to remind me of her. She doesn’t have green eyes—she has eyes like goddam sea shells, for Chrissake—but it reminded me anyway … I don’t know. What’s the usea talking? I’m losing my mind. Hang up on me, why don’t you? I mean it.”

The gray-haired man cleared his throat and said, “I have no intention of hanging up on you, Arthur. There’s just one—”

“She bought me a suit once. With her own money. I tell you about that?”

“No, I—”

“She just went into I think Tripler’s and bought it. I didn’t even go with her. I mean she has some goddam nice traits. The funny thing was it wasn’t a bad fit. I just had to have it taken in a little bit around the seat—the pants—and the length. I mean she has some goddam nice traits.”

The gray-haired man listened another moment.

Then, abruptly, he turned toward the girl. The look he gave her, though only glancing, fully informed her what was suddenly going on at the other end of the phone. “Now, Arthur. Listen. That isn’t going to do any good,” he said into the phone. “That isn’t going to do any good. I mean it. Now, listen. I say this in all sincerity. Willya get undressed and get in bed, like a good guy? And relax? Joanie’ll probably be there in about two minutes. You don’t want her to see you like that, do ya? The bloody Ellenbogens’ll probably barge in with her. You don’t want the whole bunch of ‘em to see you like that, do ya?” He listened. “Arthur? You hear me?”

“God, I’m keeping you awake all night. Everything I do, I—”

“You’re not keeping me awake all night,” the grayhaired man said. “Don’t even think of that. I’ve already told you, I’ve been averaging about four hours’ sleep a night. What I would like to do, though, if it’s at all humanly possible, I’d like to help you, boy.” He listened. “Arthur? You there?”

“Yeah. I’m here. Listen. I’ve kept you awake all night anyway. Could I come over to your place for a drink? Wouldja mind?”

The gray-haired man straightened his back and placed the flat of his free hand on the top of his head, and said, “Now, do you mean?”

“Yeah. I mean if it’s all right with you. I’ll only stay a minute. I’d just like to sit down somewhere and—I don’t know. Would it be all right?”

“Yeah, but the point is I don’t think you should, Arthur,” the gray-haired man said, lowering his hand from his head. “I mean you’re more than welcome to come, but I honestly think you should just sit tight and relax till Joanie waltzes in. I honestly do. What you want to be, you want to be right there on the spot when she waltzes in. Am I right, or not?”

“Yeah. I don’t know. I swear to God, I don’t know.”

“Well, I do, I honestly do,” the gray-haired man said. “Look. Why don’t you hop in bed now, and relax, and then later, if you feel like it, give me a ring. I mean if you feel like talking. And don’t worry. That’s the main thing. Hear me? Willya do that now?”

“All right.”

The gray-haired man continued for a moment to hold the phone to his ear, then lowered it into its cradle.

“What did he say?” the girl immediately asked him. He picked his cigarette out of the ashtray—that is, selected it from an accumulation of smoked and halfsmoked cigarettes. He dragged on it and said, “He wanted to come over here for a drink.”

“God! What’d you say?” said the girl.

“You heard me,” the gray-haired man said, and looked at her. “You could hear me. Couldn’t you?” He squashed out his cigarette.

“You were wonderful. Absolutely marvellous,” the girl said, watching him. “God, I feel like a dog!”

“Well,” the gray-haired man said, “it’s a tough situation. I don’t know how marvellous I was.”

“You were. You were wonderful,” the girl said. “I’m limp. I’m absolutely limp. Look at me!”

The gray-haired man looked at her. “Well, actually, it’s an impossible situation,” he said. “I mean the whole thing’s so fantastic it isn’t even—”

“Darling- Excuse me,” the girl said quickly, and leaned forward. “I think you’re on fire.” She gave the back of his hand a short, brisk, brushing stroke with the flats of her fingers. “No. It was just an ash.” She leaned back. “No, you were marvellous,” she said. “God, I feel like an absolute dog!”

“Well, it’s a very, very tough situation. The guy’s obviously going through absolute—”

The phone suddenly rang.

The gray-haired man said “Christ!” but picked it up before the second ring. “Hello?” he said into it.

“Lee? Were you asleep?”

“No, no.”

“Listen, I just thought you’d want to know. Joanie just barged in.”

“What?” said the gray-haired man, and bridged his left hand over his eyes, though the light was behind him.

“Yeah. She just barged in. About ten seconds after I spoke to you. I just thought I’d give you a ring while she’s in the john. Listen, thanks a million, Lee. I mean it—you know what I mean. You weren’t asleep, were ya?”

“No, no. I was just—No, no,” the gray-haired man said, leaving his fingers bridged over his eyes. He cleared his throat.

“Yeah. What happened was, apparently Leona got stinking and then had a goddam crying jag, and Bob wanted Joanie to go out and grab a drink with them somewhere and iron the thing out. I don’t know. You know. Very involved. Anyway, so she’s home. What a rat race. Honest to God, I think it’s this goddam New York. What I think maybe we’ll do, if everything goes along all right, we’ll get ourselves a little place in Connecticut maybe. Not too far out, necessarily, but far enough that we can lead a normal goddam life. I mean she’s crazy about plants and all that stuff. She’d probably go mad if she had her own goddam garden and stuff. Know what I mean? I mean—except you—who do we know in New York except a bunch of neurotics? It’s bound to undermine even a normal person sooner or later. Know what I mean?”