Jerome Salinger - Nine Stories

Mary Jane giggled. She was lying on her stomach on the couch, her chin on the armrest, facing Eloise. Her drink was on the floor, within reach.

“Well, he could make me laugh that way,” Eloise said. “He could do it when he talked to me. He could do it over the phone. He could even do it in a letter. And the best thing about it was that he didn’t even try to be funny—he just was funny.” She turned her head slightly toward Mary Jane. “Hey, how ‘bout throwing me a cigarette?”

“I can’t reach ‘em,” Mary Jane said.

“Nuts to you.” Eloise looked up at the ceiling again. “Once,” she said, “I fell down. I used to wait for him at the bus stop, right outside the PX, and he showed up late once, just as the bus was pulling out. We started to run for it, and I fell and twisted my ankle. He said, `Poor Uncle Wiggily.’ He meant my ankle. Poor old Uncle Wiggily, he called it… . God, he was nice.”

“Doesn’t Lew have a sense of humor?” Mary Jane said.

“What?”

“Doesn’t Lew have a sense of humor?”

“Oh, God! Who knows? Yes. I guess so. He laughs at cartoons and stuff.” Eloise raised her head, lifted her drink from her chest, and drank from it.

“Well,” Mary Jane said. “That isn’t everything. I mean that isn’t everything.”

“What isn’t?”

“Oh … you know. Laughing and stuff.”

“Who says it isn’t?” Eloise said. “Listen, if you’re not gonna be a nun or something, you might as well laugh.”

Mary Jane giggled. “You’re terrible,” she said.

“Ah, God, he was nice,” Eloise said. “He was either funny or sweet. Not that damn little-boy sweet, either. It was a special kind of sweet. You know what he did once?”

“Uh-uh,” Mary Jane said.

“We were on the train going from Trenton to New York—it was just right after he was drafted. It was cold in the car and I had my coat sort of over us. I remember I had Joyce Morrow’s cardigan on underneath—you remember that darling blue cardigan she had?”

Mary Jane nodded, but Eloise didn’t look over to get the nod.

“Well, he sort of had his hand on my stomach. You know. Anyway, all of a sudden he said my stomach was so beautiful he wished some officer would come up and order him to stick his other hand through the window. He said he wanted to do what was fair. Then he took his hand away and told the conductor to throw his shoulders back. He told him if there was one thing he couldn’t stand it was a man who didn’t look proud of his uniform. The conductor just told him to go back to sleep.” Eloise reflected a moment, then said, “It wasn’t always what he said, but how he said it. You know.”

“Have you ever told Lew about him—I mean, at all?”

“Oh,” Eloise said, “I started to, once. But the first thing he asked me was what his rank was.”

“What was his rank?”

“Ha!” said Eloise.

“No, I just meant—”

Eloise laughed suddenly, from her diaphragm. “You know what he said once? He said he felt he was advancing in the Army, but in a different direction from everybody else. He said that when he’d get his first promotion, instead of getting stripes he’d have his sleeves taken away from him. He said when he’d get to be a general, he’d be stark naked. All he’d be wearing would be a little infantry button in his navel.” Eloise looked over at Mary Jane, who wasn’t laughing. “Don’t you think that’s funny?”

“Yes. Only, why don’t you tell Lew about him sometime, though?”

“Why? Because he’s too damn unintelligent, that’s why,” Eloise said. “Besides. Listen to me, career girl. If you ever get married again, don’t tell your husband anything. Do you hear me?”

“Why?” said Mary Jane.

“Because I say so, that’s why,” said Eloise. “They wanna think you spent your whole life vomiting every time a boy came near you. I’m not kidding, either. Oh, you can tell them stuff. But never honestly. I mean never honestly. If you tell ‘em you once knew a handsome boy, you gotta say in the same breath he was too handsome. And if you tell ‘em you knew a witty boy, you gotta tell ‘em he was kind of a smart aleck, though, or a wise guy. If you don’t, they hit you over the head with the poor boy every time they get a chance.” Eloise paused to drink from her glass and to think. “Oh,” she said, “they’ll listen very maturely and all that. They’ll even look intelligent as hell. But don’t let it fool you. Believe me. You’ll go through hell if you ever give ‘em any credit for intelligence. Take my word.”

Mary Jane, looking depressed, raised her chin from the armrest of the couch. For a change, she supported her chin on her forearm. She thought over Eloise’s advice. “You can’t call Lew not intelligent,” she said aloud.

“Who can’t?”

“I mean isn’t he intelligent?” Mary Jane said innocently.

“Oh,” said Eloise, “what’s the use of talking? Let’s drop it. I’ll just depress you. Shut me up.”

“Well, wudga marry him for, then?” Mary Jane said.

“Oh, God! I don’t know. He told me he loved Jane Austen. He told me her books meant a great deal to him. That’s exactly what he said. I found out after we were married that he hadn’t even read one of her books. You know who his favorite author is?”

Mary Jane shook her head.

“L. Manning Vines. Ever hear of him?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Neither did I. Neither did anybody else. He wrote a book about four men that starved to death in Alaska. Lew doesn’t remember the name of it, but it’s the most beautifully written book he’s ever read. Christ! He isn’t even honest enough to come right out and say he liked it because it was about four guys that starved to death in an igloo or something. He has to say it was beautifully written.”

“You’re too critical,” Mary Jane said. “I mean you’re too critical. Maybe it was a good—”

“Take my word for it, it couldn’t’ve been,” Eloise said. She thought for a moment, then added, “At least, you have a job. I mean at least you—”

“But listen, though,” said Mary Jane. “Do you think you’ll ever tell him Walt was killed, even? I mean he wouldn’t be jealous, would he, if he knew Walt was—you know. Killed and everything.”

“Oh, lover! You poor, innocent little career girl,” said Eloise. “He’d be worse. He’d be a ghoul. Listen. All he knows is that I went around with somebody named Walt—some wisecracking G.I. The last thing I’d do would be to tell him he was killed. But the last thing. And if I did—which I wouldn’t—but if I did, I’d tell him he was killed in action.”

Mary Jane pushed her chin farther forward over the edge of her forearm.

“El…” she said.

“Why won’t you tell me how he was killed? I swear I won’t tell anybody. Honestly. Please.”

“No.”

“Please. Honestly. I won’t tell anybody.”

Eloise finished her drink and replaced the empty glass upright on her chest. “You’d tell Akim Tamiroff,” she said.

“No, I wouldn’t! I mean I wouldn’t tell any—”

“Oh,” said Eloise, “his regiment was resting someplace. It was between battles or something, this friend of his said that wrote me. Walt and some other boy were putting this little Japanese stove in a package. Some colonel wanted to send it home. Or they were taking it out of the package to rewrap it—I don’t know exactly. Anyway, it was all full of gasoline and junk and it exploded in their faces. The other boy just lost an eye.” Eloise began to cry. She put her hand around the empty glass on her chest to steady it.

Mary Jane slid off the couch and, on her knees, took three steps over to Eloise and began to stroke her forehead. “Don’t cry, El. Don’t cry.”