Saul Bellow - The Victim

“You folks in?” Max asked huskily, still hesitant.

It struck Leventhal that his brother was behaving as if he were about to enter a stranger’s house. He had never been here before.

“Well, I am, that’s sure. I didn’t get a chance to tell you the other day. Mary’s out of town. But come on in.” And he led him over the threshold and turned to the front room, filled with anxiety at his new difficulty. He did not know what to expect from Allbee, what he would say when he learned who Max was. He was already leaning forward inquisitively. Leventhal stood arrested for an instant, incapable of speaking or moving forward. Glancing into the room and seeing Allbee, Max said, apologetically, “Say, you’re busy. I’ll come back later.”

“I’m not,” Leventhal whispered. “Come on.”

“I should have called up first.”

But Leventhal held him by the arm and forced him in.

“This is my brother Max. This is Kirby Allbee.”

“Your brother? I didn’t know you had one.”

“Only one.”

Reticent and somber, Max looked down, perhaps partly to acknowledge his share in their estrangement.

“I don’t know what made me think you were an only child, like me.” Allbee was conversational and bright, and Leventhal wondered what he was preparing and hid his dread in impassivity. He brought up a chair and Max sat down. The points of his dusty shoes were turned inward. The side of his lowered face and his large neck formed one surface, from the curve of his nose to the padded thickness of his shoulder.

“I often used to wish there were two of us,” said Allbee.

“How are things at home, Max?” asked Leventhal.

“Oh,” Max said. “You know…” Leventhal expected him to finish the sentence, but it tailed off.

Allbee seemed to be commenting to himself smilingly on something in the appearance of the two brothers. Leventhal covertly indicated the door with his head. Allbee’s brows curved up questioningly. His whole air said, “Why should I?” Leventhal bent close to him and muttered, “I want to talk to my brother.”

“What’s the matter?” Allbee spoke out loudly.

Sternly Leventhal made the same sign with his head.

But Max had heard. “Did you ask me what was the matter?” he said.

Allbee looked at Leventhal and shrugged, to confess his slip. He did not reply.

“I guess it must show on me,” said Max.

“We had a death in the family recently,” Leventhal said.

“My youngest son.”

An expression went over Allbee’s face that Leventhal could not interpret, a cold wrinkling. “Oh, sorry to hear it. When?”

“Four days ago.”

“You didn’t mention it to me,” Allbee said to Leventhal.

“No,” Leventhal answered flatly, gazing at his brother.

Allbee came forward swiftly in his chair. “Say, was that the boy… the other day?”

“No, not the one that was with me. He means Phil,” Leventhal explained to Max. “I took him to the movies awhile back, and we ran into Mr Allbee.”

“Oh, Phil. Knock wood. That’s my other son you saw.”

“Oh, I see, two children…”

“Are you going?” Leventhal said to him, aside.

“Will you fix it up for me with Shifcart?”

Leventhal fastened his hand on his arm. “Will you go?”

“You said you’d help me.”

“We’ll take it up later.” Leventhal was growing savage with impatience. “Don’t think you can hold me up.”

“I don’t want to interfere with business,” said Max.

“What business! There’s no business.”

Allbee rose and Leventhal went into the hall with him.

“I’ll be back for your answer,” Allbee said. He looked into Leventhal’s face as though he saw something new there. “I’m really surprised. Here this happens to you — your nephew. I’m in the same house and you don’t even say a word about it.”

“What do I want to talk to you about it for?” Before Allbee could speak again, he had shut the door.

“Who is he?” said Max, when Leventhal came back. “A friend?”

“No, just a guy who keeps coming around.”

“He’s peculiar looking..” Max checked himself and then said, “I hope I didn’t butt in on anything.”

“Oh, hell no. I was going to call you up, Max. But I thought I’d better wait awhile.”

“I was kind of expecting you to, since you took an interest and came to the funeral, and all.”

Max addressed him diffidently, a little formally, feeling his way with a queer politeness, almost the politeness of a stranger. Subdued, worn, and plainly, to Leventhal’s eyes, tormented, he was making an effort, nevertheless, to find an appropriate tone, one not too familiar. The blood crowded to Leventhal’s heart guiltily. He wanted to say something to Max about it. He did not know how and he was afraid of creating a still greater difficulty. How should they talk when they had never, since childhood, spent an hour together? And he surmised also that the flat, the contrast between his upholstered chairs and good rugs and the borax furniture in Staten Island, shabby before half the installments were paid, made Max deferential.

“So how are things going?” he said. He thought Max would speak about Elena. He was in fact certain that the main object of his visit was to discuss her with him.

“I guess as good as I can expect.”

“Phil all right?”

“Well, when one kid passes on it’s pretty hard on the othei one.”

“He’ll come around.”

Max said nothing to this, and Leventhal began to think he was debating whether to mention Elena at all, undecided at the last moment, and struggling with himself.

“Yes, kids come around,” Leventhal repeated.

“I wanted to ask you,” said Max. “I want to straighten it up with you about the specialist. He says you gave him ten dollars the first visit.” His hand dropped inside his coat.

“Oh, no.”

But Max opened his wallet and, half rising, laid a ten dollar bill beside the lamp on the desk.

“That’s not necessary.”

“I want to pay you back. Thanks.”

“Now he takes over,” was Leventhal’s unspoken comment. His original vexation with Max revived and he said, a shade coldly, “You’re welcome.”

“Not just for the money,”said Max.”The rest, too.”

Leventhal’s temper got the better of him.

“For doing a small part of what you should have been here to do.”

Max reflected, raising his rough-skinned, large-jawed face with its high-ridged, freckled nose. “Yes,” he said. “I should have been here.” He was submissive, seeming to find nothing in himself with which to resist.

Leventhal could not hold back his next question.

“What does Elena say?”

“About what?”

“About me?”

Max appeared surprised.

“What should she say? All she said was that she wondered why you didn’t come to the house after the funeral. But she doesn’t say much. She’s in bed most of the time, crying.”

Leventhal had edged forward. The lamplight shone into his hair and over his shoulders.

“Does she give you a lot of trouble, Max?”

“Trouble? You’ve got to consider. It’s a rough deal. She cries. That’s pretty natural.”

“You might as well be open with me.”

Max’s surprise grew.

“What’s there not to be open about?”

“If you don’t know, I don’t either. But you’ve got a chance to talk it out, if you want to. I realize we’re not so close. But do you have anyone else to talk to? Maybe you have friends. I didn’t notice many at the funeral.”

Max said uncertainly, “I don’t catch your drift, exactly.”

“I asked if Elena gives you trouble.”

The blood rose darkly in Max’s face under the full mask of his ill-shaven beard. There was a show of fear and bewilderment in his eyes and, reluctantly, he began a motion of denial with his black-nailed hands; he did not finish; he gave it up.