Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

“Well, well, David, having a little cup of coffee?” the voice said.

David turned. “Oh, hello, George,” he whispered.

George Devereaux put his hands on his hips and studied David with his chipmunk grin, his eyebrows askew, his brown eyes glinting. David smiled back.

“Sir,” Devereaux said.

“Huh?”

“ Sir ,” Devereaux repeated, still grinning. “I believe I am an officer in the United States Navy, and as such I am entitled to the respect of an enlisted man, as exemplified by the use of the respectful title ‘sir.’” Devereaux paused, still grinning. “Respect, that’s what the captain said. Respect is the key word.”

“You’re absolutely right,” David answered, sipping at his coffee, and then smiling as he took the cup away from his mouth.

“I am absolutely right, sir ,” Devereaux said.

“You are absolutely right, sir ,” David affirmed, hitting the word hard, grinning.

“That’s better,” Devereaux said. He lost his balance for an instant and wobbled on the dock, catching at the handrail of the gangway for support and then straightening up to face David again. David suddenly smelled the whiskey fumes on his breath.

“Now get rid of that coffee cup,” Devereaux said.

“Sir?”

“Put down the coffee cup.”

“Yes, sir,” David said, grinning, wondering what kind of game Devereaux was playing, but grateful for anything that broke the monotony of the long watch. He put the cup down on the dock.

“Atten- shun! ” Devereaux shouted.

David snapped to attention, smiling.

“What’s so funny, Regan?”

“Nothing, sir,” David said, still smiling.

“Take that smile off your face!”

“Yes, sir! ” David answered, and immediately pulled a serious face, his mouth grim, his brows pulled down.

“That’s better,” Devereaux said, nodding. His hands reached out for David’s kerchief. “That’s a pretty sloppy knot, Regan.”

“Yes, sir! ”

“And your shoes need shining.”

“Yes, sir! ”

“And you need a haircut.”

“I haven’t been ashore, sir.”

“There’s a barber aboard, Regan.”

“I know, sir. But there didn’t seem any sense in getting a haircut when I’m restricted to the—”

“Are you questioning my judgment, Regan?”

David smiled again. “No, sir! ”

“What’s so funny?” Devereaux said, and David suddenly realized he was smiling alone; Devereaux’s face was dead serious.

“Nothing, sir,” he said. The smile dropped from his mouth.

“I tell you your shoes are messy and you heed a haircut, and you think that’s funny, do you?”

“No, sir, I don’t,” David said.

“Very well,” Devereaux answered. “Get a haircut. Shine those shoes.”

“I will, sir.”

“Very well,” Devereaux said, and he started up the gangway. He saluted Sammener and said, “Well, well, look who’s standing the deck watch. Ole Jonah Sammener. What’s doing, Jonah? Got any girls aboard? Is there a wild party going on in the bosun’s locker?”

“You look as if you just came from one,” Sammener said dryly.

“What are you drinking, Jonah? Coffee? The whole watch is drinking coffee. A fine alert bunch of men we’ve got guarding our lives while we sleep the sleep of innocents.” He nodded, and seemed to remember David standing on the dock. He wheeled toward the gangway, went down it rapidly, and walked to where David was standing at its foot. David did not move.

“I believe it is customary to salute an officer when he approaches, Regan,” Devereaux said.

David snapped to attention, his left hand moving over to cross the muzzle of the rifle in salute. Devereaux touched the peak of his cap and snapped a salute in return. David remained at attention. Devereaux kept studying him. The chipmunk grin had vanished completely. There were only the hard brown eyes now, staring from beneath the crooked eyebrows.

“I thought I told you to get a haircut,” Devereaux said.

David, puzzled, did not answer.

“I’m talking to you, Regan! You still need a haircut.”

“Sir, I... I’m on watch, sir.”

“And a pretty sloppy watch, I might add.”

“Hey, George, come on aboard,” Sammener yelled from the quarterdeck. “You’re waking up the whole ship.”

“You just keep out of this, Jonah,” Devereaux said over his shoulder.

“Sir,” David whispered, “I think maybe—”

“Never mind what you think, Regan!” Devereaux snapped. “I’m not interested in what you think.”

“Sir, I only meant—”

“Yes, what did you mean, Regan? I wish you would say what you mean. We’ve been rewriting ‘Man Drowning’ until it’s coming out of my ears, and I still don’t know what you mean. Can’t you say what you mean? Just for once? Can’t you, for God’s sake, spit it out in clear intelligent English?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” David said. “I’ve been trying to, but—”

“Don’t be so sorry. I’m sorry enough for both of us. I’m sorry I ever read your letters and ever made the mistake of thinking you could possibly in a thousand years write even a single paragraph of interesting prose. Don’t go telling me you’re sorry, Regan.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but—”

“I said don’t tell me you’re sorry!”

David stared at Devereaux, wondering how this had suddenly got so serious. He’s drunk, yes, he thought, but still this had got so serious all at once. He glanced toward Sammener, who had washed his hands of the entire affair and was leisurely sipping his coffee on the quarterdeck.

“What made you think you were a writer, Regan?” Devereaux asked.

“I never thought that, sir. It was you who—”

“Don’t contradict me! What was it, Regan? A burning desire to get that magnificent event on paper?”

“No, sir, I—”

“Man Drowning, Man Drowning, Man Drowning, how many times has he drowned since we first started the story?”

“I don’t know, sir. There have been a lot of revis—”

“What makes you think anyone would be interested in reading about some fool who’s too stupid to avoid getting caught in an anchor line?”

David felt his right fist tightening on the barrel of the rifle.

“I... I don’t know, sir.”

“No one. That’s who would be interested. No one. A colorless little man goes out in a rowboat and—”

“Sir!”

“What is it?”

“Sir, I... I’d rather not discuss the story now, sir.”

“Ahh, he’s sensitive,” Devereaux said solicitously. “The sensitive artist. How literary. If you’re so literary and sensitive, Regan, why did you choose to write about such an insensitive clod? Why did you—?”

“Sir, that’s my father,” David said quietly. He could feel an uncontrollable anger boiling inside him. His fist was tight on the barrel of the rifle. He hoped he would not cry. His eyes blinked as he tried to stifle the anger.

“Oh, your father. Oh, forgive me, Regan.”

“That’s all right, sir.”

“Yes, your father. I didn’t realize your father was the idiot who—”

“Stop it, Mr. Devereaux!”

“—stepped into a rowboat and allowed his foot to—”

“ Stop it! ”

“—get caught in an anchor line. That takes brains. A damn fool is what that man was, a goddamn stupid...”

His first impulse was to raise the rifle and fire it.

He controlled the impulse somehow, bringing the rifle up, his right hand almost going to the trigger, and then he decided to swing the rifle, and he started to do that and simply threw the rifle away and smashed his right fist into Mr. Devereaux’s face. Devereaux reeled back against the gangway, and David went after him, his eyes brimming with tears, his heart pounding.