Stanley Elkin - The Dick Gibson Show

“Has anyone actually tried to take advantage of you?”

“Oh, Dick, please — don’t be such a naif. You should see some of the letters in that P.O. box. When I drove to Jacksonville to pick up the first batch—”

“Drove to Jacksonville? You said you lived in Jacksonville.”

“I maintain a post office box there, yes, but just as I was reluctant to give my right name, so was I loath to declare my true place of residence. How many estates of the kind I described do you suppose there are in a city the size of Jacksonville? As I’ve been at one time or other a guest in them all, I know only too well how easy I would be to trace. Look, everything I told you before is substantively true. I wasn’t trying to deceive you personally, and I didn’t intend my natural precautions to be taken as a slander on the Mail Baggers themselves. The people in the Listening Posts are good people, but there are others — voyeurs — who listen to this program who have never bothered to list themselves in the Directory. It’s these people who aren’t my friends.”

“You lied once, and you lied twice. You could be lying a third time.”

“The Harpers are not liars, Mr. Gibson.”

“Hah.”

“Nor are we sitting ducks. I’ve explained why it’s necessary to misrepresent myself, why it’s necessary for me to hire a car to take me to Jacksonville to pick up my mail. If you read that mail you’d understand. I have money. People want to trick me. They make the most blatant overtures. There are people who will do anything for money, Mr. Gibson, and while I don’t care for the money itself, I have no intention of turning over my fortune to gold diggers and picklepusses. Not so long as that fortune can be used to relieve the miseries of my friends — and I consider all the legitimately unfortunate my friends. There are operations, medicines, birthday presents for children whose parents can’t afford them. There are vacations, holidays, financing alcoholics and addicts at sanitoria. There are so many good purposes to which my money can be put.”

“You’re a good boy, Henry. I’ve already told you,” Dick said bitterly. He felt that perhaps he was being unfair. The kid’s reasons — if he was a kid — were excellent, but a program like this was peculiarly susceptible to masquerades. His phones must not be used for disguises.

“Why are you doing this?” Henry pleaded. “I’m a child, an orphan. Do you think I’m Tom Sawyer? That I find being alone romantic, or that the enormous estate I live on is some dreamy little treehouse place where I can escape from the realities of the adult world? I’m a child. A child needs guidance, security, love. It’s his instinct to have these things. Do you suppose I’m the only little boy ever to overthrow his own instincts? I sleep with a light on, Mr. Gibson! When I sleep. Why do you suppose me so unnatural as to wish myself naked in the world? Is a little boy naturally a loner? Absurd! No. I place myself in this awful jeopardy because in addition to a child’s instinctive need for guidance and security and love, he has an even more powerful instinct for virtue. It’s like a tropism with us. We’re innocents, sir, every mother’s son of us, innocents who would legislate a just world where no one is deprived or disadvantaged, where virtue is rewarded and evil punished, and all needs annulled. I place myself in jeopardy not by choice, not by dint of rebellion, but because only by operating outside the law am I able to operate at all. Only in this way am I able to do my part, pull my own small boy’s weight in the world and do something with my little shaver’s instinctive sympathies. How long do you think I would be permitted to contribute to my favorite charities or allay with money — yes! I admit it; money, alas, is all that ultimately makes the difference — the sufferings of my fellows? How long would I be able to accomplish these things if I were to turn myself over to an executor or allow myself to be legally adopted? The best-willed bankers and trustees in the world would turn down my requests for funds to make my little gifts. And I’d respect them for it. I wouldn’t blame them one iota, for anything less would be a betrayal of their instincts and duties! The most loving, abnegative adoptive parents would do the same. That’s why I didn’t give my name.”

“You lied to me over the air on my program,” Dick Gibson said stubbornly.

“I’m a child, Mr. Gibson,” Henry Harper told him tragically. “I’ve a child’s emotions. Don’t expect self-control from me. Don’t look to me for emotional continence. I’m little and my passions are everywhere closer to the surface than in an adult. I’m small and may be bullied. It’s often difficult for a child to distinguish between pressure and the guidance his childishness requires. I warn you of this, for I know I will not be able to stand up to you. In any contest of wills between us yours is bound to emerge triumphant.”

“You lied,” Dick Gibson said. “I trusted you and you lied. Over the air. On my program. What’s your real name?”

“Very well then,” Henry Harper said. He was sobbing now and could barely catch his breath. “Very well then. My real name … my name … is … is Richard Swomley-Wamble. I live in Tampa, Florida.”

“How do I know that’s your real name?”

“It is.”

“How do I know?”

“I tell you it is.”

“How do I know it isn’t Edmond Behr-Bleibtreau?” It was thrilling to him to speak the name aloud. He listened for a reaction, some dead giveaway, but all he heard were the boy’s unbroken, now uncontrollable sobs.

“It’s what I said it is,” Henry Harper said, “and you’ll know it by the damage you’ve just done.”

A lady was on the phone. Her voice was familiar, though Dick was sure she had never called the program before. For one thing, she was shy and hesitant. Also her voice, though familiar, seemed altered.

Dick tried to help her out. “Take your time,” he said.

“Well, this is embarrassing to me.”

“Oh, come on,” he kidded, “we only go out to twenty-three states. There couldn’t be more than a million and a half people listening to you right now.”

“I was going to ask you a personal question.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t exactly know how to put it. I’m not really one of your regular listeners.”

“Win a few, lose a few.”

“I’ve only been listening to the program two weeks — since I’m on this case.”

“Are you a detective?”

“Oh, goodness no.” She laughed.

“That’s better. Well, since you’re not a detective, go ahead— shoot.”

The woman laughed again. “I’m calling from Ohio,” she said.

“How are we coming in up your way?” He was not as cheerful and expansive as he sounded, for Behr-Bleibtreau was on his mind. Ever since he had mentioned the man’s name on the air all his heartiness had been intended for Behr-Bleibtreau. He was showing the flag.

“Your station fades sometimes, but mostly it’s very clear.”

“Glad to hear it. Excuse me, let me just do a station break here. … WMIA, Miami Beach, the 50,000-watt voice of the Sun Coast. … I’m sorry, go ahead, ma’m.”

“Well, I was almost certain I was right, that’s why I called, but hearing you speak on the telephone, now I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what, ma’m?”

“Whether I know you.”

“Oh? Well, you know what? I was thinking your voice was familiar too.”

“I used to know somebody, oh years back. Gosh, if I’m right I’ll be giving away both our ages. He had [a voice something like yours, only your name is different. Marshall Maine?”]