Steven Millhauser - Edwin Mullhouse - The Life and Death of an American Writer 1943-1954

Edwin’s second mistake was his persistent attempt to initiate Arnold Hasselstrom into the joys of reading. Arnold Hasselstrom had neither mentioned nor returned the three comic books that Edwin had lent to him in a fit of foolish generosity, and Edwin, too timid to ask for them back, was perhaps trying to stimulate his memory as well as his imagination. Slyly at first, by pretending to be in the midst of reading something when Arnold Hasselstrom arrived, and then more boldly, he sought to arouse in Arnold Hasselstrom an interest in his favorite books. But Arnold Hasselstrom showed no interest whatever in Edwin’s books. His passion was Parcheesi. And this indifference, not merely to reading but to Edwin’s favorite stories, inspired in Edwin quite helplessly his first faint feeling of contempt.

The first clear evidence of decay was a certain comic book that Edwin displayed angrily to me one afternoon in late February when we were alone in his room. For weeks he had worried about his precious comic books, and when, finally, he asked for them back, he learned to his horror that Arnold Hasselstrom was uncertain whether he still had them. Surprised by Edwin’s alarm, he promised to search his house. He returned with one of the original three. It was this comic book that Edwin displayed to me that February day: swollen and wrinkled and discolored, it had evidently fallen into a puddle or perhaps lain in one for weeks; and the blurred, soiled cover was detached from the stapled pages. Arnold Hasselstrom had presented it without explanation or apology, and Edwin had been too embarrassed to ask for either. The other comic books were apparently gone forever.

And yet I feel certain that Edwin would have forgiven him if it had not been for his manner. I refer not to his pardonable impoliteness but to his inexcusable sincerity. For it was clear that Arnold Hasselstrom, who liked Edwin, was not being malicious or even thoughtless — he simply could not imagine anyone making a fuss over a couple of old comic books. He thus revealed to Edwin a remoteness from his world so absolute and appalling as to be comparable to the remoteness of the world of Edward Penn from that of General Eisenhower. Edwin’s anger at the mutilated comic book was really, I mean to say, a form of spiritual revulsion.

Edwin’s response to all this was as curious in its way as the memorable disappearing act inspired in him by Rose Dorn. For suddenly he was overwhelmed by a desire to repossess his property, all of which seemed to him in danger of being destroyed by Arnold Hasselstrom, and all of which, moreover, seemed to him absolutely necessary to his happiness and indeed to his continued existence — even the baseball bat, which was quite useless to him because of its weight. Arnold Hasselstrom had returned Dr. Mullhouse’s screwdriver promptly, but he still had not returned the baseball bat, the dartboard, and the basketball game, not to mention some half dozen nickels (Edwin’s allowance at this time was twenty cents a week). The bat, especially, obsessed Edwin. It infuriated him to think that Arnold Hasselstrom might think that the bat was useless to him because of its weight. He feared that Arnold Hasselstrom had lost the bat, or broken it, or left it in a puddle somewhere, or given it away. But for almost a week he could not bring himself to ask for the bat, partly because he feared to know the worst and partly because it was impossible to ask for a bat that he thought Arnold Hasselstrom might think was useless to him because of its weight, to say nothing of the fact that it happened to be the middle of winter. But hadn’t Arnold Hasselstrom borrowed the bat in the middle of winter, for the purpose of practicing in his cellar? And Edwin wanted to know how he, Edwin, would ever learn to swing such a heavy bat unless he too practiced in the cellar. Meanwhile Arnold Hasselstrom continued to visit Edwin, quite unaware of the battle raging within his mild pale friend; and I could sense, as in a curtained room one senses the darkening of the sky, Edwin’s growing anger at the sheer presence of Arnold Hasselstrom, who sat calmly shaking the dice over the Parcheesi board as if he had never so much as heard of Edwin’s baseball bat.

Edwin asked for the bat, finally, staring at Arnold Hasselstrom’s toes; to his astonishment Arnold Hasselstrom seemed annoyed. Instead of immediately offering to return the bat, instead of apologizing for having kept it so long, he asked Edwin why he wanted it back. “Why?” said Edwin. “Oh, well, why. I don’t know. I guess I don’t really need it.” “You sure?” snapped Arnold Hasselstrom. “Sure,” said Edwin. “Keep it. I don’t really need it. Anyway, it’s too heavy.” And he felt ashamed of having asked for a bat that he really did not need and could barely pick up. But that evening in his room he paced up and down in front of me, throwing up his hands. Arnold Hasselstrom had no right to ask him why he wanted his stupid bat; he wanted his stupid bat because it was his stupid bat. And he needed it; he needed it right now. I listened patiently and, I confess, cheerfully as he continued in this strain, and finally I suggested that he simply ask for the bat again.

Two days passed. When at last he gained the courage to ask for his bat, Arnold Hasselstrom was ready for him. “You said you didn’t need it,” he said. Edwin was stunned. Immediately he saw the justice of Arnold Hasselstrom’s position. At the same time he felt an irresistible craving for his bat, and with the vigor of desperation he replied: “I didn’t need it then. But I need it now.” And because he knew that this was an outrageous thing to say, he felt a surge of hatred for Arnold Hasselstrom.

The next afternoon I was in Edwin’s room when we heard Arnold Hasselstrom’s tread on the stairs. The very sound of his footsteps was now a source of annoyance to Edwin, who was also becoming heartily sick of Parcheesi. Instead of knocking at the closed door, Arnold Hasselstrom gave it a kick. Edwin flinched in disgust. “Come in!” he called angrily. Arnold Hasselstrom kicked again. Frowning, Edwin stood up and walked across the room. As he placed his hand on the doorknob I had a sudden vision of Arnold Hasselstrom standing on the other side with a gun in his hand. “Edwin!” I cried, as he opened the door.

There stood Arnold Hasselstrom, resting his right hand on the vertical baseball bat and holding under his left arm the boxed basketball game. “What,” replied Edwin. “What?” said Arnold Hasselstrom. “Nothing,” I replied. I noticed that the top of the basketball game was torn at two corners. But Edwin’s ill will had vanished, and after a rousing game of Parcheesi he persuaded Arnold Hasselstrom to borrow a brand new red-and-black plastic roulette wheel, which when you pushed a lever spun beautifully round and round.

But that evening he wondered why Arnold Hasselstrom had not returned the dartboard. It was true that Edwin had not asked for the dartboard, but it was also true that he had not asked for the basketball game. But having just asked for the baseball bat he found it impossible to ask for the dartboard as well. Worse, he no longer had the new roulette wheel that he had just received for Christmas and that he had barely had time to play with at all. And he began to fear the visits of Arnold Hasselstrom, who always took something away.

Moreover, now that Edwin had his bat he began to brood over his two lost comic books. He longed to read them; he longed to see them; above all he longed to fill in the gaps in his collection, which without them was a poem lacking two rhymes. The comic books in question happened to be from two different years, so that the damage spread far beyond the two comics themselves. Two entire years, or twenty-four comic books, were affected by the loss. Not only that, but the stories in back were continuous, so that two serials, ranging over fourteen comic books, were permanently ruined. Sadly he spread out on his bed, in two neat rows, the twenty-two comic books that should have been twenty-four, leaving a space between the fifth and seventh of one row and the second and fourth of the other; and sadly he stared at the ugly swollen discolored thing with a stained and faded cover that formed the last comic book of the first row.