John Steinbeck - Sweet Thursday

“Yes. How does she feel?”

“She ain’t up yet.”

“I’m going collecting.”

“Want me to tell her that?”

“Why should you? Wait—I’ve got her purse. Want to take it to her?”

“Hell, she ain’t crippled. Maybe she’ll want to get it herself.”

“I won’t be here.”

“You’ll be back.”

“Say,” he said, “what the hell is this?”

She knew he might turn angry now. “I got a lot to do. You ain’t mad at me?”

“Why should I be?”

“Well, if you need anything, let me know.”

“Fauna,” he began. “Oh, let it go.”

“What do you want?”

“I was going to ask you something—but I don’t want to know.”

Suzy was hunched over a cup of coffee when Fauna got back.

“’Morning,” said Fauna. And then, “I said good morning.”

“Oh yeah,” said Suzy. “’Morning.”

“Look at me!”

“Why not?” Suzy raised her eyes.

“You can look down now,” said Fauna.

“You don’t know nothing,” said Suzy.

“Okay, I don’t know nothing. When did I ever get nosy with you? Joe,” she called, “bring me a cup of coffee!” She slid a tin box of aspirins across the oilcloth tablecover.

“Thanks.” Suzy took three and washed them down with coffee.

“He’s going out collecting bugs,” said Fauna quietly.

“You went over there?”

“I met him in the street. Have a nice time?”

Suzy looked up at her with eyes so wide that she seemed to be turned inside out. “He didn’t make no pass,” she said breathlessly. “Went out on the sand dunes and he didn’t make no pass.”

Fauna smiled. “But he talked nice?”

“Didn’t talk much, but he talked nice.”

“That’s good.”

“Maybe I’m nuts, Fauna, but I told him.”

“Oh, you ain’t nuts.”

“I told him everything. He didn’t even ask.”

Fauna asked quietly, “What did he talk about?”

“He said there’s a fella in old times made a wife out of flowers.”

“What for, for God’s sake?”

“Well, I don’t know. But it was all right when he said it.”

“What else did he say?”

Suzy spoke slowly. “Out in the sand dunes I done most of the talking. But he give me a boost every now and then when I run down.”

Fauna said, “He can do that better than anybody.”

Suzy’s eyes were shining with excitement. “I almost forgot,” she said. “I never took no stock in stars and stuff like that, but you know what we had for dinner?”

“Champagne?”

“Fish and crab!” said Suzy. “And I didn’t break out.”

“Well?”

“Remember what you said, how I’m fish and he’s crab?”

Fauna turned her head away. “I got something up my nose,” she said. “I wonder if I’m catching cold.”

“Do you think that’s a sign, Fauna? Do you?”

“Everything’s signs,” said Fauna. “Everything.”

There was a glory in Suzy’s eyes. “Right after we ate we was talking, and he said, ‘I’m lonely.’ ”

“Now that ain’t like him,” Fauna said. “That’s a dirty trick!”

“No, ma’am,” Suzy contradicted her. “He didn’t say it like that. I heard that one before too. He said it like it was pushed out of him. It surprised him, like he didn’t know he was going to say it. What do you think, Fauna? Tell me, what do you think?”

“I think there’s going to be like a new gold star.”

“Well, s’pose—and there ain’t no harm in supposing—s’pose I moved over there. It would be—well, it would be right across the street from here. Everybody knows I worked here. Wouldn’t that kind of bother him?”

“He knows you work here, don’t he? Suzy girl, you got to promise me something. Don’t you never try to run away from nothing, because you can’t. If you’re all right nobody ain’t going to tear you down. Guy that runs away, why, he’s a fugitive. And a fugitive never gets away.”

“How about Doc?” said Suzy.

“Look, if you ain’t good enough for him, he ain’t good for you.”

“I don’t want to lay no bear trap for him, Fauna.”

Fauna was smiling to herself. She said, “I guess a man is the only kind of varmint sets his own trap, baits it, and then steps in it. You just set still, Suzy girl. Don’t do nothing. Nobody can’t say you trapped him if you don’t do nothing.”

“Well, he didn’t really say—”

“They never do,” said Fauna.

Suzy said weakly, “I can’t hardly breathe.”

“You know, you ain’t cussed once this morning,” Fauna said.

“Ain’t I?”

“Some of my gold stars was damn good hookers,” said Fauna. “But when I put up your gold star, Suzy, the whoring business ain’t lost nothing. Like the Patrón says, you’re too small in the butt and too big in the bust.”

“I don’t want nobody to get the idea I’m hustling Doc.”

“You’re damn right you ain’t. I’ll see to that.” She looked speculatively at Suzy. “You know, I’d like you to get out of town tonight and kind of freshen up.”

“Where’ll I go?”

“You could go on an errand for me to San Francisco if you wanted to. I got a little package up there in a safe-deposit box. I’ll give you some dough. And I want you should buy some clothes and a hat. Get a nice suit. It’ll last you for years. Look! Walk up and down Montgomery Street and see what the nice-looking dames is wearing—you know, the kind of material. They’re pretty smart women up there. Before you buy, look around a little—make it nice. Come on back tomorrow.”

Suzy said, “You getting me out of the way?”

“Yeah,” said Fauna. “You got the idea.”

“Why?”

“Suzy girl, that ain’t none of your business. There’s a two o’clock bus and a four o’clock bus.”

“I’ll take the four o’clock.”

“Why?”

“Well, you said Doc’s going out collecting bugs. Maybe while he’s gone I could kind of swamp out his joint. It ain’t had a scrubbing for years.”

“That might make him mad.”

“I’ll start him a nice stew cooking slow,” said Suzy. “I make a real nice stew.” She came around the table.

“Get your hands off me!” said Fauna. “Go on now! And don’t you ever say that thing again that made a sucker out of me. My best fur!”

“You mean, ‘I love you’?”

“That’s it. Don’t you say it.”

“Okay,” said Suzy.

Doc got back from his collecting about four-thirty. He had over a hundred chitons bound with string to little glass plates to keep them from curling, and submerged in sea water in his collecting buckets were hundreds of brittlestars.

Now, killing is one of the delicate operations of a marine zoologist. You want the animal to resemble its living self, but this is impossible. In death the color changes, just as it does with us. Also, if any violent means of killing is used there is constriction, and in the case of brittlestars the death struggle causes the animal to shed its arms.

In the front room of Western Biological, Doc poured out part of the sea water from his wooden bucket. Then he moved the brittlestars to a large, flat-bottomed glass dish and poured some sea water on top of them. The little animals with the snakelike arms whipped about for a moment and then settled down. When they were quite still and resting Doc added a little fresh water to the dish. The arms stirred nervously. He waited a while and then added a little more fresh water. To a sea animal, fresh water is a poison, and if it is slowly introduced it is as subtle as morphine. It relaxes and soothes until the little creature goes to sleep and dies without violence.