Stanley Elkin - The Dick Gibson Show

“I don’t really believe that, Dick boy, do you?”

“Well, certainly I do. Of course I do. You’re just a little discouraged now because of Tom.”

“She’s stopped taking her medicine, Mr. Gibson.”

“Who’s there? Who is that? Frances?”

“It’s Frances, Mr. Gibson. Mother’s stopped taking her medicine. She won’t take any of her pills. Would you say something to her? Just say something to her, would you, Mr. Gibson?”

“Mrs. Dormer?”

“I’m here, Dick boy.”

“This is shocking, Mrs. Dormer. I’m really surprised. Here’s Frances, come to be with you all the way from Chicago, missing her son’s graduation. All she wants is for you to get better, and here you are acting like a naughty child who won’t take her medicine! How do you think that makes Frances feel?”

“I’ve called to say goodbye, Dick boy. I’m weaker every day. I’ll slide into a coma soon. You shouldn’t try to trick an old woman on her deathbed.”

“Now Mrs. Dormer, you mustn’t say things like that. You’re a religious woman, Mrs. Dormer. Only God can tell when a person’s going to … what you just said. You believe that, don’t you?”

“I called to say goodbye to you and all my friends in the Listening Posts, and to thank all the nice people who took the trouble to send me cards and little notes. I don’t think I’ll be able to speak to you again, and I want you to listen. It’s a great effort for me to speak at all, and you shouldn’t make me argue about what is obvious. Now you’ve got to listen. Will you listen, Dick boy?”

“I wish you wouldn’t—”

“Will you?”

“Yes, ma’m. I’m listening.”

“Mr. Gibson, she won’t even take her pain killers. I’m sorry to blubber like this, but you don’t know the agony my mother’s in.”

“Frances?”

“Gracious, Mr. Gibson, do you know she’s actually lying here naked on the bed because the pressure of her night clothes is just too painful on her skin? I never saw my mother naked in my life, Mr. Gibson, and now she won’t even cover herself with a handkerchief. She’s going to get pneumonia. Besides everything else, she’s going to come down with pneumonia. If she’d take her pain killers we could dress her properly and then she wouldn’t come down with pneumonia. She won’t listen, Mr. Gibson. I’m going to put the phone back to her ear. You make her listen, will you?”

“Frances, Dick boy doesn’t want to hear all this. Shame on you for making such a fuss. I’ve got wonderful friends in the Listening Post organizations who love me and who I love, and a lot of them are just as sick and broken as I am, and you’ve got no right to upset them like this. I wanted to say goodbye to my good friends, and it looks like no one is going to let me do that.”

“Mrs. Dormer?”

“What is it, Dick boy?”

“Look, Mrs. Dormer, you have got wonderful friends in the Listening Posts. You have. And because they do love you they don’t like to see you give up like this. They want you to fight back, just as you fought back in the past. Why don’t you take your pain pills and whatever else Dr. Pepper thinks you ought to have. Don’t let those good friends down. Don’t give up. Will you promise that? Will you make that promise to me and to your good friends in the Listening Posts?”

“No, Dick boy, I won’t. And who said anything about giving up, Dick boy? It’s because I haven’t given up that I won’t take those pills. That boy who was on last week, that Henry Harper, he mentioned my name and said he wanted to give me advice, that old dying people should have courage. Well, I’ll show him courage! What does he know about it? That’s why I won’t take those pills. Do you know how it hurts me? I hadn’t meant to talk like this, but it seems no one will let me say what I wanted to say, that you all want me to believe everything’s all right, not so’s you can believe it too, but so’s you can believe I believe it and be comforted. I call that selfish. And everything isn’t all right. Do you know how it hurts? Do you know how bad it is? My voice, just my own voice coming out of my throat is enough pressure to pull the skin off me. Just my words. Just the weight of my words in my throat is like being cut with knives. Just that. Just to say ‘flower’ is a torture to me. Just to whisper it. I’m killing myself, I’m killing myself to speak and now you make me say all this. I want to be still. All I want is to be still.”

“Hush.” Dick said, frightened. “Hush, Mrs. Dormer. Please hush.”

“I’m going to say it. Let me, for God’s sake, will you please? You’re killing me, Dick boy.”

“Go ahead, Mrs. Dormer. Go ahead, ma’m.”

“I want … I want … to thank you all. You’ve been … my family. Now I know, I know it’s awful for an old dying woman to call up and oppress folks this way and give them bad dreams. It’s awful. It’s vulgar, a phone call from the death bed. It’s inexcusable and I’m sorry, and now all this other has come out and I’ve made a mess — but I did have to tell you all goodbye and thank you for the happiness you’ve given me. And this is the only way I have, don’t you see? I had to make peace with my friends and give them my love. I had to. Goodbye, all my good friends, and God bless you. God bless you, Dick boy. Goodbye, my dear.”

“Goodbye,” Dick Gibson said. “Goodbye, Mrs. Dormer. I love you.” He waited a moment to see if she would answer, but he heard nothing and finally he hung up and took another call.

There was a call on the Tennessee line.

“Night Letters. Go ahead, please.”

“You can wish me a happy birthday.”

“Happy birthday. Who is this?”

“Don’t you recognize my voice?”

“Help me out. Where in Tennessee are you calling from?”

“Knoxville.”

Dick opened the directory and turned to the Knoxville page. The voice was thickish with no hint of a Southern accent. Quickly he ran down the one- and two-word descriptions of voices he had penciled in beside each of the names. Next to one he found the word “whiskey.” He had a go. “Harold Flesh?”

“That’s right.”

“Get any cards from the Mail Baggers?”

“Them Mail Baggers come through when you’re laid up in the hospital. When you got a broken leg they come to your room and write their names on your cast.”

“Well, Harold, so many of the Mail Baggers have trouble, you see.” Recently he had begun to detect a note of piety in his voice. It was not unpleasant. “They’re kept pretty busy cheering up our Mail Baggers who really need it. An awful lot of our people have trouble, Harold.”

“They’re trouble shooters.”

“Well, there’s a lot of fun in them too, Harold.”

“They pitch in for a wreath. They sit with the kids when it’s time for the funeral.”

“That isn’t all there is to it, Harold.”

“They knit and they bake. They read to the blind from newspapers.”

“I think you’ve got it wrong, Harold.”

“Have I, yeah? They have the names of cleaning women and lend you Consumer’s Report. They bring back an ice cream when they walk to the corner. Naw, I didn’t get no cards from them. I can stand on my feet, nothing’s broke. I didn’t get no cards.”

“Do you know what I think? I think that as soon as you hang up folks are going to call to wish you a happy birthday. I’ll bet that’s exactly what happens. I’ll bet some of them sing their greetings right over the phone. You see if I’m not right.”

“Big deal.”

“You’ll see.”

“Big deal.”

“I’m certain of it. They’ll wish you happy birthday and sing ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.’”