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

At 9:14 Mrs. Mullhouse said: “Well, Karen, time to go beddy-bye.” “Just one more game!” pleaded Edwin, who was keeping score and who was leading by over 300 points. At 9:27 Dr. Mullhouse said: “It’s nine-thirty.” “Okay, okay,” breathed Edwin, as he stared at the trembling stick that I was slowly pulling out from between two reds, while Karen stifled a yawn and rubbed her eyes. At 9:34 he cried: “I won!” whereupon Karen stood up and began to kiss everybody good night. At 9:36 she began to clump her way upstairs, bearing with her a dirty white bear with red ears. I glanced longingly at Edwin, who said: “Now that she’s gone we can really play. A thousand wins. I’ll keep score.” Frowning suddenly, and raising a fist as if to strike me, he added: “Odds or evens?”

Ten minutes later Mrs. Mullhouse went upstairs to tuck Karen in. From time to time I heard a murmur of lines from A Child’s Garden of Verses. When she returned she sat down on the couch beside her book, and resting her right elbow on her knee, and leaning forward, she placed her chin on her hand and began to stare at Edwin. “What’s wrong?” said Edwin, who was leading 95 to 17. “Oh, nothing,” sighed Mrs. Mullhouse. “I was just thinking about my handsome birthday boy.” Edwin, lowering his eyes, flushed with pleasure. “You know,” she continued, “I can remember when you were such a fat little baby.” “Fat!” said Edwin. “Was I really fat?” “Like a lambchop, Edwin. And noisy? If you didn’t wake up ten times a night, crying and screaming. Day and night you always wanted your mommy-mommy. Oh, it’s true. Daddy wasn’t allowed to give you the formula, oh no, it had to be mommy, such a kvetch. That was when they were still having those air-raids, remember? and we were all so scared. But he just slept like a log, that one. And I thought: God in heaven, is this a world to bring a son into. I can still remember walking in Times Square. Everyone was looking up at the Times Building, it said the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. That was before you were born. I’m so sorry you never knew Father, he would have been so proud. He and Daddy used to have long talks together, you remember how he used to: Abe? oh, he’s not even listening. And stubborn! Really, Edwin, sometimes I wondered what I had given birth to. You were always having these attachments for things, you just wouldn’t let go of the percomorph-oil spoon. Then you ate my white button. I almost died I was so scared. Stupid me, I called the fire department by mistake. And you always made Daddy tell you two stories at night, one wasn’t enough. Then Karen was born and when you came in to look at her you didn’t say anything at all. I didn’t know what to think. But you were such a good brother, always reading stories to your little sister and tucking her in. Eleven years old. Look at him, Abe. Such a handsome birthday boy.”

“Mmm?” said Dr. Mullhouse, looking up from his book. “Are you talking to me?”

At 10:21 he again looked up from his book and said: “Isn’t it about time you boys started thinking about bed?”

“Just let me get to a thousand,” said Edwin, who had 804. Holding the pick-up-sticks in a loose careful sheaf, he tore away his hand and watched them fall into a nearly perfect spoke-design.

He won at 10:43. The final score was 1,012 to 96. As Edwin stood up, Mrs. Mullhouse said: “Now remember, be quiet going upstairs. And I don’t want you staying up till all hours.”

“Yes,” said Dr. Mullhouse. “Lights out immediately, is that clear? You’ve stayed up far past your bedtime as it is.”

“Your towel is on the lower right, no, left, no, right,” said Mrs. Mullhouse.

As she hugged Edwin good night she said to Dr. Mullhouse: “Hey, old man. What do you think of my handsome birthday boy?”

“I think he’d be a damn sight handsomer if he weren’t half dead from lack of sleep. Frankly, mama, I wouldn’t marry him myself.” He paused, looking critically at Edwin. “But he’ll do. Now go to bed, for the love of Christ.”

“And remember, you two,” called Mrs. Mullhouse as we were halfway up the stairs. “No clowning around.”

It was 10:48 when we entered Edwin’s room. I closed the door behind me and turned to Edwin with a sigh of relief. But ignoring me completely he disappeared into his closet, emerging moments later with his skyblue pajamas and his purple bathrobe draped over his left forearm, and holding in his right hand a pair of soft beige moccasins with dark blue Indian chiefs on the toes. “I’ll change in the bathroom,” he remarked, and as he opened and closed the door I heard from downstairs a brief murmur of conversation.

As soon as I was alone I hurried to the closet, set up a rickety folding chair, climbed onto the padded seat, and proceeded to search on the dark deep cluttered shelf for an old shoebox filled with cowboy pistols. The closet lacked a light of its own, and my efforts were only partially illuminated by the light of the room. There were piles of old comics, old stuffed animals, a plug-in electrical baseball game with pitching and batting diagrams, a frame for weaving potholders, a shoebox containing a pair of old sneakers, a Viewmaster box containing little green houses and little red hotels and a little silver dog, an empty white shirt-box, an eyeless zebra, volume one of A Child’s History of the World, a small rubber football, a broken shooting gallery, a smashed Indian headdress, a valentine from Donna Riccio, a shoebox containing dusty rolls of old negatives, a coloring set consisting of twelve un-sharpened colored pencils and six eerie white landscapes filled with blue numbers, a cowboy boot with a picture of Roy Rogers on it, an old sock-ball containing a rifle bullet, a piece of folded typewriter paper on which was scribbled a rejected Rose Dorn valentine poem (“Blue are violets/ Red are roses/ Sweet my Rose/ From head to toes is”), a green glass ashtray from White Beach, a shoebox containing a complete set of Parcheesi pieces and a small stack of Freedom’s War cards bound by a red rubber band, a shirt-box filled with crayon drawings done in Miss Tipp’s class, the missing vial of tannic acid from my chemistry set, a shoebox containing puzzle pieces from at least two puzzles and a hunting knife with a wavy handle, a piece of old tracing paper on which was a picture of Donald Duck’s head, a pile of Golden Books, a pair of earmuffs, a whiffle ball, a mousetrap, a water pistol, a shoebox containing (“What are you doing?” whispered Edwin) a pile of gold-starred spelling tests. Whirling, and peering down at his pale frowning face, I whispered: “Looking for — looking for—” “Get down!” he harshly whispered, and the rickety chair almost collapsed under me as I quickly obeyed. “But where,” I said. “Shhh,” hissed Edwin, adding in an indignant whisper: “You’re not even changed.”

I carried my bag into the bathroom and changed rapidly into my red pajamas, my maroon slippers, and my black bathrobe. I did not remove my watch.

When I returned I found frowning Edwin seated on the edge of his bed, leaning back on his purple elbows. As soon as I closed the door he stood up and said in a low brisk voice: “Okay, listen. You guard the door. If you hear anything, clear your throat twice, like this.” He cleared his throat twice, like that. I nodded solemnly and took up my position at the door. As I stood with my ear pressed against the wood, listening to sounds of movement in the living room below, Edwin walked briskly to the closet and climbed onto the squeaking chair. Almost immediately he climbed down. He tiptoed toward the bed in his soft moccasins, bearing in his arms a light brown shoebox with a dark brown cover, and as I straightened up he whisper-cried: “Stay there!” Placing the shoebox on the bed he quickly lifted out five silver pistols, a leather holster, and a.25-caliber Colt automatic. Quickly he began to replace the pistols. “The clip!” I whispered. “The what?” he whispered. Aloud I said: “The other thing,” slapping a guilty hand over my mouth. Edwin glared at me and then took out the clip, staring at it for a moment with a puzzled expression. Rising, and giving me another dirty look, he carried the clip and pistol to his chest of drawers, where he suddenly squatted and began slowly pulling out the crowded bottom drawer, looking up nervously each time it squeaked. He placed the gun and clip beneath a large green rubber frog-foot, which he covered with a pair of cowboy pajamas and a folding chessboard. Then he closed the drawer, reloaded the shoebox, replaced it on the closet shelf, folded the chair, and closed the closet door; and turning to me at last he said quietly: “Okay.” The time was 11:09.