John Steinbeck - The Winter of Our Discontent

“Are you my enemy, now?”

“Me, New Baytown’s playmate, your enemy?”

I was silent so long that I could feel her growing restless. “Take your time,” she said. “You’ve got all your life to answer. I’ll get you a drink.”

I took the full glass from her and my lips and mouth were so dry I had to sip from it before I could speak, and when I did my throat wore a husk.

“What do you want?”

“I might have settled for love.”

“From a man who loves his wife?”

“Mary? You don’t even know her.”

“I know she’s tender and sweet and kind of helpless.”

“Helpless? She’s tough as a boot. She’ll go right on long after you’ve rattled your engine to pieces. She’s like a gull that uses the wind to stay aloft and never beats a wing.”

“That’s not true.”

“Comes a big trouble, she’ll breeze through while you burn up.”

“What do you want?”

“Aren’t you going to make a pass? Aren’t you going to beat out your hatred with your hips on good old Margie?”

I set my half-emptied glass down on a side table, and quick as a snake she lifted it and put an ash tray under it, and dried the ring of moisture with her hand.

“Margie—I want to know about you.”

“No kidding. You want to know what I thought of your performance.”

“I can’t figure what you want until I know who you are.”

“I believe the man means it—the dollar tour. Through Margie Young-Hunt with gun and camera. I was a good little kid, a smart little kid and a medium lousy dancer. Met what they call an older man and married him. He didn’t love me—he was in love with me. That’s on a silver platter for a good smart little kid. I didn’t like to dance much and I sure as hell didn’t like to work. When I dumped him he was so mixed up he didn’t even put a remarriage clause in the settlement. Married another guy and led a big world whirl that killed him. For twenty years that check has zeroed in on the first of every month. For twenty years I haven’t done a lick of work, except pick up a few presents from admirers. Doesn’t seem like twenty years, but it is. I’m not a good little kid any more.”

She went to her little kitchen and brought three ice cubes in her hand, dumped them into her glass, and sloshed gin over them. The muttering fan brought in the smell of sea flats exposed by the dropping tide. She said softly, “You’re going to make a lot of money, Ethan.”

“You know about the deal?”

“Some of the noblest Romans of them all are creepers.”

“Go on.”

She made a sweeping gesture with her hand and her glass went flying; the ice cubes bounced back from the wall like dice.

“Lover boy had a stroke last week. When he cools, the checks stop. I’m old and lazy and I’m scared. I set you up as a backlog, but I don’t trust you. You might break the rules. You might turn honest. I tell you I’m scared.”

I stood up and found my legs were heavy, not wavery—just heavy and remote.

“What have you got to work with?”

“Marullo was my friend too.”

“I see.”

“Don’t you want to go to bed with me? I’m good. That’s what they tell me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“That’s why I don’t trust you.”

“We’ll try to work something out. I hate Baker. Maybe you can clip him.”

“What language. You’re not working on your drink.”

“Drink’s for happy times with me.”

“Does Baker know what you did to Danny?”

“Yes.”

“How’d he take it?”

“All right. But I wouldn’t like to turn my back.”

“Alfio should have turned his back to you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Only what I guess. But I’d make book on my guess. Don’t worry, I won’t tell him. Marullo is my friend.”

“I think I understand; you’re building up a hate so you can use the sword. Margie, you’ve got a rubber sword.”

“Think I don’t know it, Eth? But I’ve got my money on a hunch.”

“Do you want to tell me?”

“Might as well. I’m betting ten generations of Hawleys are going to kick your ass around the block, and when they leave off you’ll have your own wet rope and salt to rub in the wounds.”

“If that were so—where does it leave you?”

“You’re going to need a friend to talk to and I’m the only person in the world who fills the bill. A secret’s a terribly lonesome thing, Ethan. And it won’t cost you much, maybe only a small percentage.”

“I think I’ll go now.”

“Drink your drink.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Don’t bump your head going downstairs, Ethan.”

I was halfway down when she followed me. “Did you mean to leave your stick?”

“Lord, no.”

“Here it is. I thought it might be a kind of—sacrifice.”

It was raining and that makes honeysuckle smell sweet in the night. My legs were so wobbly that I really needed the narwhal stick.

Fat Willie had a roll of paper towels on the seat beside him to mop the sweat from his head.

“I’ll give you odds I know who she is.”

“You’d win.”

“Say, Eth, there’s been a guy looking for you—guy in a big Chrysler, with a chauffeur.”

“What’d he want?”

“I don’t know. Wanted to know if I seen you. I didn’t give a peep.”

“You’ll get a Christmas present, Willie.”

“Say, Eth, what’s the matter with your feet?”

“Been playing poker. They went to sleep.”

“Yeah! they’ll do that. If I see the guy, shall I tell him you’ve went home?”

“Tell him to come to the store tomorrow.”

“Chrysler Imperial. Big son of a bitch, long as a freight car.”

Joey-boy was standing on the sidewalk in front of the Foremaster, looking limp and humid.

“Thought you were going into New York for a cold bottle.”

“Too hot. Couldn’t put my heart in it. Come in and have a drink, Ethan. I’m feeling low.”

“Too hot for a drink, Morph.”

“Even a beer?”

“Beer heats me up.”

“Story of my life. When the cards are down—no place to go. Nobody to talk to.”

“You should get married.”

“That’s nobody to talk to in spades.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Damn right I am. There’s nobody as lonely as an all-married man.”

“How do you know?”

“I see ’em. I’m looking at one. Guess I’ll get a bag of cold beer and see if Margie Young-Hunt will play. She don’t keep hours.”

“I don’t think she’s in town, Morph. She told my wife—at least I think she did—that she was going up to Maine till the heat is over.”

“Goddam her. Well—her loss is the barkeep’s gain. I’ll tell him the sad episodes of a misspent life. He don’t listen either. So long, Eth. Walk with God! That’s what they say in Mexico.”

The narwhal stick tapped on the pavement and punctuated my wondering about why I told Joey that. She wouldn’t talk. That would spoil her game. She had to keep the pin in her hand grenade. I don’t know why.

I could see the Chrysler standing at the curb by the old Hawley house when I turned into Elm Street from the High, but it was more like a hearse than a freight car, black but not gleaming by reason of the droplets of rain and the greasy splash that rises from the highways. It carried frosted parking lights.

It must have been very late. No lights shone from the sleeping houses on Elm Street. I was wet and I must somewhere have stepped in a puddle. My shoes made a juicy squidging sound as I walked.

I saw a man in a chauffeur’s cap through the musty windshield. I stopped beside the monster car and rapped with my knuckles on the glass and the window slid down with an electric whine. I felt the unnatural climate of air-conditioning on my face.