Jerome Salinger - Nine Stories

He resumed picking at his own first-aid work. “I pity him,” he said.

Ginnie snorted.

“It’s still bleedin’ like mad. Ya think I oughta put something on it? What’s good to put on it? Mercurochrome any good?”

“Iodine’s better,” Ginnie said. Then, feeling her answer was too civil under the circumstances, she added, “Mercurochrome’s no good at all for that.”

“Why not? What’s the matter with it?”

“It just isn’t any good for that stuff, that’s all. Ya need iodine.”

He looked at Ginnie. “It stings a lot, though, doesn’t it?” he asked. “Doesn’t it sting a helluva lot?”

“It stings,” Ginnie said, “but it won’t kill you or anything.”

Apparently without resenting Ginnie’s tone, Selena’s brother turned back to his finger. “I don’t like it when it stings,” he said.

“Nobody does.”

He nodded in agreement. “Yeah,” he said.

Ginnie watched him for a minute. “Stop touching it,” she said suddenly.

As though responding to an electric shock, Selena’s brother pulled back his uninjured hand. He sat up a trifle straighter—or rather, slumped a trifle less. He looked at some object on the other side of the room. An almost dreamy expression came over his disorderly features. He inserted the nail of his uninjured index finger into the crevice between two front teeth and, removing a food particle, turned to Ginnie. “Jeat jet?” he asked.

“What?”

“Jeat lunch yet?”

Ginnie shook her head. “I’ll eat when I get home,” she said. “My mother always has lunch ready for me when I get home.”

“I got a half a chicken sandwich in my room. Ya want it? I didn’t touch it or anything.”

“No, thank you. Really.”

“You just played tennis, for Chrissake. Aren’tcha hungry?”

“It isn’t that,” said Ginnie, crossing her legs. “It’s just that my mother always has lunch ready when I get home. She goes insane if I’m not hungry, I mean.”

Selena’s brother seemed to accept this explanation. At least, he nodded and looked away. But he turned back suddenly. “How ‘bout a glassa milk?” he said.

“No, thanks…. Thank you, though.”

Absently, he bent over and scratched his bare ankle. “What’s the name of this guy she’s marrying?” he asked.

“Joan, you mean?” said Ginnie. “Dick Heffner.”

Selena’s brother went on scratching his ankle.

“He’s a lieutenant commander in the Navy,” Ginnie said.

“Big deal.”

Ginnie giggled. She watched him scratch his ankle till it was red. When he began to scratch off a minor skin eruption on his calf with his fingernail, she stopped watching.

“Where do you know Joan from?” she asked. “I never saw you at the house or anything.”

“Never been at your goddam house.”

Ginnie waited, but nothing led away from this statement. “Where’d you meet her, then?” she asked.

“Party,” he said.

“At a party? When?”

“I don’t know. Christmas, ‘42.” From his breast pajama pocket he two-fingered out a cigarette that looked as though it had been slept on. “How ‘bout throwing me those matches?” he said. Ginnie handed him a box of matches from the table beside her. He lit his cigarette without straightening out its curvature, then replaced the used match in the box. Tilting his head back, he slowly released an enormous quantity of smoke from his mouth and drew it up through his nostrils. He continued to smoke in this “French-inhale” style. Very probably, it was not part of the sofa vaudeville of a showoff but, rather, the private, exposed achievement of a young man who, at one time or another, might have tried shaving himself lefthanded.

“Why’s Joan a snob?” Ginnie asked.

“Why? Because she is. How the hell do I know why?”

“Yes, but I mean why do you say she is?”

He turned to her wearily. “Listen. I wrote her eight goddam letters. Eight. She didn’t answer one of ‘em.”

Ginnie hesitated. “Well, maybe she was busy.”

“Yeah. Busy. Busy as a little goddam beaver.”

“Do you have to swear so much?” Ginnie asked.

“Goddam right I do.”

Ginnie giggled. “How long did you know her, anyway?” she asked.

“Long enough.”

“Well, I mean did you ever phone her up or anything? I mean didn’t you ever phone her up or anything?”

“Naa.”

“Well, my gosh. If you never phoned her up or any—”

“I couldn’t, for Chrissake!”

“Why not?” said Ginnie.

“Wasn’t in New York.”

“Oh! Where were you?”

“Me? Ohio.”

“Oh, were you in college?”

“Nope. Quit.”

“Oh, were you in the Army?”

“Nope.” With his cigarette hand, Selena’s brother tapped the left side of his chest. “Ticker,” he said.

“Your heart, ya mean?” Ginnie said. “What’s the matter with it?”

“I don’t know what the hell’s the matter with it. I had rheumatic fever when I was a kid. Goddam pain in the—”

“Well, aren’t you supposed to stop smoking? I mean aren’t you supposed to not smoke and all? The doctor told my—”

“Aah, they tellya a lotta stuff,” he said.

Ginnie briefly held her fire. Very briefly. “What were you doing in Ohio?” she asked.

“Me? Working in a goddam airplane factory.”

“You were?” said Ginnie. “Did you like it?”

“‘Did you like it?’” he mimicked. “I loved it. I just adore airplanes. They’re so cute.”

Ginnie was much too involved now to feel affronted. “How long did you work there? In the airplane factory.”

“I don’t know, for Chrissake. Thirty-seven months.” He stood up and walked over to the window. He looked down at the street, scratching his spine with his thumb. “Look at ‘em,” he said. “Goddam fools.”

“Who?” said Ginnie.

“I don’t know. Anybody.”

“Your finger’ll start bleeding more if you hold it down that way,” Ginnie said.

He heard her. He put his left foot up on the window seat and rested his injured hand on the horizontal thigh. He continued to look down at the street. “They’re all goin’ over to the goddam draft board,” he said. “We’re gonna fight the Eskimos next. Know that?”

“The who?” said Ginnie.

“The Eskimos…. Open your ears, for Chrissake.”

“Why the Eskimos?”

“I don’t know why. How the hell should I know why? This time all the old guys’re gonna go. Guys around sixty. Nobody can go unless they’re around sixty,” he said. “Just give ‘em shorter hours is all. … Big deal.”

“You wouldn’t have to go, anyway,” Ginnie said, without meaning anything but the truth, yet knowing before the statement was completely out that she was saying the wrong thing.

“I know,” he said quickly, and took his foot down from the window seat. He raised the window slightly and snapped his cigarette streetward. Then he turned, finished at the window. “Hey. Do me a favor. When this guy comes, willya tell him I’ll be ready in a coupla seconds? I just gotta shave is all. O.K.?”

Ginnie nodded.

“Ya want me to hurry Selena up or anything? She know you’re here?”

“Oh, she knows I’m here,” Ginnie said. “I’m in no hurry. Thank you.”

Selena’s brother nodded. Then he took a last, long look at his injured finger, as if to see whether it was in condition to make the trip back to his room.

“Why don’t you put a Band-Aid on it? Don’t you have any Band-Aid or anything?”

“Naa,” he said. “Well. Take it easy.” He wandered out of the room.

In a few seconds, he was back, bringing the sandwich half.

“Eat this,” he said. “It’s good.”