Эд Макбейн - Happy New Year, Herbie and other stories

Herbie stopped dead in the center of the room.

“Isn’t...” He shrugged helplessly. “Back home, we...” He shrugged again.

“Sure, Herbie,” Jason said, “go ahead, kiss them! Kiss them all! Mary, Herbie wants to kiss you!”

“No, that’s all right,” Herbie said. “You see, back home, it’s what we...”

“Kiss him!” Jason said angrily, and he shoved Mary across the room and into Herbie’s arms. Herbie was blushing now, a deep blush that started on his thick neck and worked its way over his face. He kissed Mary on the cheek quickly and then turned with one hand outstretched, embarrassed, reaching for the reassurance of his wife. But Jason yelled again, “That was fun! Kiss them all, Herbie!” and he grabbed Herbie’s outstretched hand and dragged him across the room.

The room was silent now. Jason clung to Herbie’s hand and led him from woman to woman as if he were forcing him to run a gantlet. With each kiss Herbie blushed more furiously. His eyes behind the thick glasses were blinking in confusion, as if he wondered how such a simple thing had suddenly become so monstrous. Beside me, I could feel Joan trembling. I watched in fascinated horror as Jason led Herbie around the room, holding his wrist tightly, shouting, “That was fun! Now the next one!” after each kiss. There were fourteen women besides Shirley in that room. The silence persisted as Herbie kissed each one of them. He turned away from the last woman in a blind sort of panic, searching for Shirley, seeing her, and then rushing across the room as Jason shouted, “How’d you like that, Herbie? You like kissing the girls, huh?”

“ I like kissing them, too,” I said suddenly, surprised when the words came from my mouth. I squeezed Joan’s hand quickly and briefly, and then I walked to where Shirley stood against the wall, her eyes frightened and confused, and I said, “Happy New Year, Shirley,” and I kissed her gently on the cheek. I went around the silent room wishing each of the women a happy new year, and then I took Joan’s hand, and I picked up the container of gin and orange juice, and I walked to the door and without turning I said, “Good night.”

In the hallway Joan said, “I love you.”

I didn’t say anything. I felt as if I’d lost something in that apartment, and I didn’t know what the hell it was. We undressed quietly. Before we got into bed, Joan said again, “I love you,” and I nodded and turned my head into the pillow.

In a little while I heard the sound coming from the apartment next door. I got out of bed and walked to the wall. The sound was deep and soul-shattering, the sound of a grown man crying.

I stood near the wall listening, and then I bunched my fist and I banged it against the plasterboard, banged it with all my might, and I yelled, “Herbie!” as though I were yelling to a man who was drowning while I stood on the shore.

The sobbing stopped.

There was a silence.

“Yes?” Herbie answered in his thick Midwestern voice.

“Herbie,” I yelled, “Happy New Year. You hear me, Herbie? Happy New Year!”

There was another silence.

Then Herbie said, “I hear you.”

Since that day in 1954 when Evan Hunter first burst on the literary scene with his powerful first novel , The Blackboard Jungle, his writing has stamped him as one of this country’s most exciting and gifted young authors. Four major novels have appeared since then, the most recent of which was the best-selling Mothers and Daughters. Mr. Hunter has also kept up a steady flow of short stories for the magazines, the cream of which appear in this present volume.

Evan and Anita Hunter and their three children live in upper Westchester, New York.