Stanley Elkin - George Mills

Louise demanded that he not speak so, that he be like other men. “You’re out of work,” she said. “We’ve got bills. The gas. The phone. The electric. I don’t have a nice dress. My coat’s too thin. I don’t think it will last the winter. What if one of us has to go into the hospital? What if we have to see dentists? What if there’s car trouble, if we need a new battery or a tire gives out? How will we pay for prescriptions? Suppose we decide to take the paper? What do we do if the TV breaks, the hot water heater? What would happen if something came up?”

“Nothing will,” Mills said.

“I can’t hide my head in the sand,” she said. “Things happen.”

“Nothing happens,” George said.

“It’s no joke. You’re over fifty.”

“I am,” Mills said.

“George, it’s scary.”

“Don’t take on, Louise. Please don’t.”

“Don’t take on? Don’t take on? ”

“Your disasters give me the creeps, doll.”

“My disasters—”

“They wear me out, Louise. They get me down, babe.”

“They wear you out? They get you down?”

“Sure,” Mills said, “if my banks don’t fail, if no one’s after my companies. If the young Turks and wise guys can’t force me off the board of directors, or my country doesn’t give a damn if I defect, sure. Sure they do. You’re saying I’m a failure, Louise, that the worst thing that can happen is we can’t take the paper, that something could break, that we’ll wash in cold water and ride on the bus.”

The telephone rang and Louise went to answer it.

It was a Judith Glazer, Louise said. She had known Louise’s father and regretted she’d been unable to attend the funeral. She had called to offer her condolences. Mr. Mead had told her about them. She wanted George to come see her. She had a proposition for him.

From the address he’d expected a mansion, something grander than the ordinary brick home set back less than forty feet from the street where he’d parked his car, and at first — the houses beside it were larger — he thought Louise had gotten the directions wrong. It was the only house on the block without a garage. The only other car on the street, an old, pale green Chevrolet with modest tail fins and a partially deflated rear tire, was parked by the curb, obscuring the black street numbers that would have been painted there. The windows were up but George could see two people sitting inside. The woman in the back appeared to be napping. He could imagine precisely how it would feel and smell inside, almost tasting the car’s close quarters, its stuffy, hundred-thousand-mile, yellowing newspaper’d, overflowing ashtray and worn seat-cover’d essence. And feel the oxidation of apples in the stale stilled air, the sky-high temperatures where cantaloupes combust. He rapped on the driver’s window with his mood ring. The man looked at him but wouldn’t roll the window down. George checked the address with him through the glass.

A big girl in yellow lounging pajamas opened the door for him.

“Do you work for my daddy?” she asked.

“No,” George said.

She seemed disappointed but brightened at once. “Oh,” she said, “you’re the man from the boat club. Or are you here to see Mom?”

“Is that Mrs. Glazer?”

“I’ll see if she’s awake. Oh,” she said, recalling instructions, “you’re not a tradesman, are you? There’s tragedy in our house and we’re turning tradesmen away. I’m sorry.” She genuinely seemed so, and started to close the door when Mills told her his name and said that Mrs. Glazer had asked to see him. “Oh, then it’s all right,” she said. “I’m sorry Milly didn’t get the door. Milly’s my sister. I’m older but she’s more mature.”

“Who is it, Mary? Who’s out there with you? What does he want?” a woman asked from the living room.

“I forgot your name,” Mary said.

“Mills.”

“Mills,” Mary said. “I don’t know what he wants.”

As soon as he heard the woman’s voice something happened to George. It would not be extravagant to say that he was thrilled. It was quite inexplicable. He could not have told you anything about her from its sound, not what she looked like, not her age. Nothing. Unless it was something of his sudden anticipatory sense of his place in her life. It didn’t make sense. It was crazy. It was not love at first sight — he hadn’t seen her yet — it was not love at all. But something. Loyalty perhaps, some deep-pledged human patriotism.

“You’ll have to go in,” Mary said. “Mother’s not going to come out here.” And already, though he knew nothing about the child, he was preparing concessions, making allowances, giving dispensation to her absent, younger, more mature sister. His regard was loose, and he took impressions like a pilgrim, like a man at a reunion. He had spent much of his working life in other people’s rooms. He knew the handholds of sofas and box springs, all the secret toeholds of furniture, but knew them as increments of size and weight, without associations. Now he noticed the hallway’s umbrella stand, two tightly furled black umbrellas, and had a profound sense of the Glazers’ weather. He glimpsed their dining room out of the corner of his eye and guessed their appetite.

He walked into the living room.

The child preceded him and went to the head of her mother’s bed — Mrs. Glazer sat on the side of a rented hospital bed that took up much of the room — and fished a cookie from the rumpled sheets. She slouched against her mother with a type of sullen possessiveness. He might have been sympathetic to the girl’s fawning panic, but he’d already guessed the woman’s irritation and felt his precarious allegiance sway.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” she said, and turned to her daughter, stroking and chastising her. “Mary dear,” she said, “it isn’t convenient for you to hang on me. And if you’ve hidden any more cookies in my sheets I wish you’d dig them up. Why don’t you go play with your sister?”

“I’m on the door.”

“Mr. Mills can get the door while he’s here. I’ll call you when he leaves.”

“Can I make a milk shake?”

“Didn’t you already have one today?”

“So did Milly.”

“But Milly hasn’t asked for a second. And aren’t you supposed to be going out on your uncle’s boat this afternoon?”

“Has he called? Has he?”

“Oh, make the damn milk shake! Wait. I’m sorry, Mary. Of course you may have a milk shake. One scoop, remember. Perhaps Mills wants one too.”

“No ma’am. Thank you.”

When they heard the blender Mrs. Glazer finally greeted him.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to attend Mr. Mead’s funeral.”

“Oh that’s all right.”

“It’s not all right. He was a lovely man. We were good friends. I was about to say that I couldn’t attend your father-in-law’s funeral because I was arranging my own. My bishop, Mr. McKelvey, was here that morning with Mr. Crane, my funeral director. We were going over the music I’ve chosen. I also gave Roger the names of my pallbearers, and dictated the letters I had him send them. Most of these people are extremely busy men. There’s no guarantee any two of them will even be in town when the time comes, so I’ve put them on notice. I picked my casket out from photographs, and selected the clothes and shoes I’m to be buried in. Two costumes really, two pair of shoes. My nice tweed if it’s chilly, my linen if it’s mild. Well, I can’t be absolutely sure of the season, can I? I sent the garments with Mr. Crane to be dry-cleaned, and the shoes to the dago to be resoled.