Now and on Earth Read online

  And before Shannon could do anything more than grin wisely, the proprietor was there, seating us, and saying, no, Shannon couldn’t get married because she had to work for him.

  He introduced himself, and I said, rather embarrassed, that I hoped Shannon hadn’t given him too much trouble.

  “Trouble?” he appeared astonished. Then he laughed. “Well, we did have a painful few days before we learned how to take her. She came in here and demanded some chewing gum, and she raised so much—well, we finally had to give it to her. And the next day it was the same old story, and the next. It was cheaper to give her the coke or the candy or whatever she wanted than it was to argue about it. After we’d paid our toll, she still wouldn’t leave, but she was quiet. She’d go over there to the magazine rack and fuss around, and we all thought she was looking at the comics. And then Ray noticed—”

  “It wasn’t Ray, it was me,” said the car-hop.

  “Well, then, Alice—Alice noticed that Shannon was arranging the magazines. She’d looked all around and decided that was what needed doing worst; so, by George, she’d taken on the job. And a darned good job she was doing, too! I—can she read?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think she must be able to. I don’t see how she could remember the looks of things well enough to do what she does. Why I’ve got almost 150 magazines and periodicals there, Mr. Dillon, and Shannon knows them all. She never makes a mistake. She’ll come over here in the morning and open up twenty or thirty bundles and rack every one in the right place.” He laughed and slapped his knee. “Oh, Shannon’s worth her weight in gold. These high-school jellybeans that used to come in and buy a coke and thumb through the magazines for half a day don’t hang around any more. Shannon’s got them all spotted. She’ll give ’em about five minutes, and then—”

  “I want some beer,” said Shannon.

  “Now, baby,” I said. “How about a nice ice cream—”

  “Beer!”

  Of course, she has drunk beer. We have it around the house, and there’s no way of stopping her. But out in public like that…

  The druggist felt her pulse and laid a hand over her heart. His eyebrows went up.

  “If you don’t mind, a little beer might help her. She needs to sleep.”

  They brought a fresh bottle; Shannon wouldn’t take mine. She lay back in my arms, nursing it, sipping daintily and licking at the foam.

  “Yessir, Shannon’s a great girl. I only wish she was mine,” said the druggist.

  And I didn’t say anything, but I thought. I thought, well, why couldn’t you have had her? Why couldn’t you, instead of us? Or why couldn’t we have had your security, so that we could have wanted her as you want her. For, oh, Christ, as she lies here in my arms, exhausted but afraid to sleep, living on hatred, even the thought that we did not want to want her makes me feel a criminal. And I am not. And Roberta is not. We wanted Jo, and we wanted Shannon, and we wanted Mack. Six in all, we had dreamed of; and a big white house with a deep lawn and many bedrooms and a pantry that was always full. We wanted them, but we wanted that, too. Not for ourselves, but for them. We wanted it because we knew what it would mean if we didn’t have it. I knew how I was, and Roberta knew how she was. And we knew how it would be: As it had been with us.

  We did want her. Goddammit, I say we did! We want her now. I was crazy to say that we didn’t or hadn’t. But we are getting tired, and we are so cramped, and there are so many things to be done.

  Why? I ask, why is it like this? Not for Roberta, not for myself; but for all of us.

  Why, Karl? And what will you do about it? Not twenty years from now when Shannon and all the other Shannons have bred, and a plague spreads across the land, and brother slays brother.

  Not then, when it is too late, but now!

  And you, God? What have you to offer? Sweet music? Pie in the sky? Yes. But, on earth…?

  Now and on Earth?

  “Yes, sir,” said the druggist. “A great girl. You should be very proud of her.”

  “I am proud,” I said. “I did not know just how proud I was or how much I loved her until tonight.”

  The bottle slipped from Shannon’s hands and crashed to the floor. Her head fell back against my arm, and a tremor ran through her fragile body. And then she was asleep. And try as I will, I cannot describe the beauty of her smile.

  12

  That was last Saturday, and Shannon has been sick all week. We’ve had the doctor twice—and I don’t know how in the hell we’re going to pay him—but about all he could tell us was that Shannon was overwrought and undernourished. We are supposed to keep her quiet, and we have some vitamin tablets to give her. And that’s about all we can do.

  We have been very quiet, all of us. For a week now we’ve not had a single brawl. But it doesn’t seem to help much. Shannon is getting more listless every day. She sits for hours, looking off into space, and she seems to be listening for something. And every once in a while she will get up and prowl around the house, looking, I don’t know for what.

  We’ve offered her everything we could think of and tried to find out what the trouble was, but it doesn’t do any good. If we talk to her too much, she begins to cry, and it is terrible when she cries. Jo has no sympathy for her; she has the idea, apparently, that Shannon is putting on and she gets pretty sarcastic. But Mack seems to know what it is all about. He is becoming as silent and distraught as she, and he seldom leaves her for more than a few minutes. When she sits, he sits, as close as he can get to her. And when she starts looking, he looks with her.

  It is an eerie thing to see these two tots wandering from room to room, eyes vacant, hands tightly clasped. Roberta says if it doesn’t stop pretty soon, she won’t be able to stand it. But she is so afraid I think she will hold in a while longer.

  We’re being as quiet as we know how. I said that already, I know, but we don’t know of anything else to do and it is a comfort to know—to keep thinking—that we are doing something.

  But Shannon isn’t any better, and the thing is getting ahold of Mack. I’ve stopped using the typewriter. I’ve stopped drinking, almost. We don’t even keep a light on after nine o’clock.

  But—well.…

  Yesterday we had a letter from Marge. I’ll give you the letter. It’ll explain about Pop, and Marge, too.

  Dear Mama & Frankie & Jimmie, Roberta & Kids:

  Thought I’d better drop you a line before you thought I was dead. Tell Roberta I will write her a long letter just as soon as I get around to it. (Mom, does she still fuss at Jimmie? I think what they both need is a vacation. I was reading the other day about two people like that who took a vacation from each other, and when they went back together they were happier than ever. I’ll try to think of the magazine and send it to you. What do you think? Maybe I hadn’t better.)

  Mrs. Pinny was here. You remember her. She always wore that footie little green hat that made her look like one of Robin Hood’s men. And she stayed and she stayed, and Walter came home and he was so unreasonable about everything as if it was my fault that she came in and I hadn’t got supper. Anyway, he came home early. And I was terribly upset. I don’t know what makes him act like that. You know he’s superintendent of all the stores here now, and he had a nice raise and he should be feeling awful good. But he’s just as cranky as some old bear. I told him he was simply going to have to snap out of it or I was utterly through with him. He never takes me to a dance or anything, and everyone’s talking about it.

  The other night he brought a boy home from one of the stores, his name is Johnnie, and he’s real tall and has dark hair, and he’s a marvelous dancer. I tried to get Walter to dance with me, but he said he was too tired, so Johnnie did. After while Walter wanted to go to bed and he said it would be all right for Johnnie and me to go out and dance some place. Johnnie kind of hung back, but Walter insisted, and we finally went. He’s a marvelous dancer. He said he was going to come back again tonight, and if he doesn’t I’m going to m
ake Walter call him up. He had kind of a hard time with Pop last night and he was pretty mad about it. But I told him it would just do him good to think about someone but himself for a change and it will. I guess if I can look after Pop all day he can do it for a few hours at night.

  I told you that I’d gone and got Pop, didn’t I? I’m sure I did. As soon as I received your last letter, I got out the car—my car, I mean; Walter has a new Pontiac coupe he uses himself—and I went right up there and got him. Mama, I don’t think there is anything wrong with Pop. I charged a new suit of clothes for him and got him fixed up a little, and he looks just like he always did.

  Now, Pop’s not a bit of trouble, Mama, and we’re delighted to have him. But I think you’d better write him a long letter about certain things. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but you could do it. I think you ought to tell him to go to church and read the Bible because they have got him in the habit of swearing a lot at that place he was in. I don’t mind myself a bit, but Walter is always bringing someone home to dinner and I think it makes him mad to have Pop swearing so much. I told him that Pop never used to swear, and that it was just that place he had been in, but he simply refuses to understand.

  I wish you would tell Pop about using the bathroom, too, Mama. I can’t get him to do it. I guess he got so much in the habit of being out in the country when he was drilling oil wells that he doesn’t think about other people being around. I don’t think he sees very well, either. He usually goes out on the porch and does it, or if he has to—if he has to do something besides pee he uses the shrubs in the front yard. The other day I got out in the yard and stood a few feet away from him and waved my hands so that he could see that I could see him, but he kept right on. I think the whole trouble is that Pop is just forgetful.

  Now, Mama, when you write him don’t let on that I said anything, and don’t say anything that will hurt his feelings. He’s very sensitive. Just tell him to be sure and use the toilet. There’s one right next to the telephone, downstairs, and there’s another one upstairs right off the south bedroom. I believe that if you can make Pop understand that he’s supposed to use them he will do so. I’d talk to him, but it’s been so long since I was around him much that I hardly know how to any more.

  I’m sending you a box of stuff. Nothing much, but I hope you can use it. They got in some imported Canadian hams at the No. 1 store the other day, and you ought to eat more meat, Mama, so I got one. Also put in some cigarettes and candy and other stuff because the box was too big and I had to fill it up, anyway.

  Well, Walter just called and said he couldn’t come home, so I guess I won’t get to go out after all. I don’t know why he does things like that. I think I’ll just have Johnnie come over here, anyway, and Pop can watch us because he enjoys music and dancing as much as anyone else.

  Now, write soon, Mama. And you too Frankie and Jimmie. I won’t ask Roberta to write because I still owe her a letter. But I am going to write real soon. Would have before this, but it seems like I just can’t get anything done. Love,

  Marge

  P.S. Don’t bother to write Pop. He doesn’t seem to be able to read any more.

  When I finished that letter I said, “Mom, is that girl completely crazy?”

  “What’s the matter with Marge?” asked Mom, beginning to bristle. “It looks to me like she’s doing all right. She’s taking care of Pop. She’s always been good to us. She’s the only member I can think of, offhand, that ever remembered my birthday.”

  “I remembered it, Mom,” said Roberta, “a good many times. It always worked out, though, that we had some old note or something to pay off at the same time.”

  “But look, Mom,” I said. “You know Walter isn’t going to put up with this. The last time I saw him he was getting pretty fed up, and Pop wasn’t around then.”

  “I guess Marge can handle him,” said Mom.

  Frankie, when she came home, saw things my way. “Jimmie’s right, Mom. You’d better write her to take Pop back.”

  “They don’t want him back.”

  “They’ll have to take him, anyway. They’ve got to keep him a little while until we can make some arrangements.”

  “What arrangements? I don’t know of any.”

  “Well—until Jimmie sells a story.”

  “And when will that be? He’s not written a line all week.”

  “Now Christ Almighty!” I said. “Why throw that up to me? You know why I haven’t written. What do you want me to do? Sit out in the gutter and type?”

  “Keep your voice down,” said Roberta sharply.

  “Well, what do you want me to do?” I repeated.

  “Nothing,” said Mom. “Absolutely nothing. But don’t get in the way of people who are doing something.”

  She got up and plodded out, and Frankie told me not to pay any attention to her—she was just upset. I was pretty hurt. Marge, to the best of my knowledge, never contributed a dime of cash money to the family in her life. But, through her faculty for remembering Mother’s Day and her habit of waking you up in the middle of the night to ask if you’re sleeping well, she seems to be, in Mom’s eyes, the trunk of the tree.

  Mind, I’m not jealous of Marge, although she always got the best of everything when it was available. Long after Pop had more money than he knew what to do with, I carried a paper route, and worked for Western Union, and caddied, because Pop thought that a job—any kind of a lousy goddamned job—“gave character to a boy.” And while I was doing that, Marge was taking lessons on the violin at rates up to thirty-five dollars an hour. And she hated the violin, and I loved it.…

  I used to get her instrument out of its case, and run the scales, and saw out things like “Home Sweet Home” and “Turkey in the Straw”; and I guess it was pretty awful. And Pop would fidget, and after while he’d ask me if I didn’t have some work to do. Or he’d dismiss me with: “That’s good. Now let’s hear you play, Marge.”

  I wanted to be a violinist. At least, I wanted to get away from jobs where people snubbed and swore at you. I wanted never to have to ask any one for money. I wanted attention, and admiration, and the chance to express myself. I started to write. You could get a pencil and a piece of paper anywhere.

  Oddly enough, I sold the first thing I wrote, a sketch about a golf game; but it was a very long time between that first story and the second. And, although I never gave up writing, I kept at it largely from habit. Pop went broke and his was the irremediable brokeness of a man past fifty who has never worked for other people. I had to distinguish myself and support the family at the same time. And even at fifteen, a high-school freshman, I knew I wasn’t going to do it by writing.

  I got a job as a bellhop in the largest hotel in town. They didn’t want me because I was so tall—they didn’t have a uniform that would fit me. But I kept going down, standing around the lobby and looking wistful; and I dug up an old pair of blue serge pants and had some braid sewed on them. And, finally, when one of the night boys was careless enough to get himself arrested for pandering, they put me on.

  My hours were from ten at night until seven in the morning. I went to high school from eight-thirty until three-thirty. I didn’t think I could do it, at first. I wasn’t even sure that it was worth the effort. You see I thought that a bellboy was supposed to carry icewater and baggage to the rooms. And my first month I barely made expenses.

  When I found out about the other things, it made me a little sick. But I didn’t know what to do then, any more than I do now; I didn’t see any other way out. We needed money, and this, apparently, was the only way of getting it. I began to get.

  Mom wasn’t very worldly-wise, and I’m pretty sure she really did not know how those thick rolls of ones and fives and tens were produced. Pop—well, Pop knew. And he came to despise me for it. But he didn’t do anything about it. He didn’t produce any money himself.

  Well, I drank. “Give the bellhop a drink” was party etiquette in those Prohibition days. Most of the stuff was p
oison, but after a few drinks I began to forget my shame and my fear of exposure and arrest, and I could concentrate on the all-important business of making money. I bolstered myself with other things also. I bought Society Brand suits and twenty-dollar Borsalinos and Florsheim shoes. And I bought a snappy Dort coupe. But nothing took the place of drink. Some of the “boys”—they ranged up to forty-five in age—sniffed cocaine; and I tried it several times. But I always preferred liquor.

  In my second year I was sick in bed for six weeks. I was delirious most of the time, and I burned and froze by turns. The doctors called it malaria. It was beyond their ken, I guess, that a sixteen-year-old boy could be suffering from alcoholism.

  The ’twenty-nine boom was building up, then, and it cost me a hundred dollars to buy my job back, plus two dollars and a half a night to work. And I had to go after the money harder than ever. In my fourth year I broke down completely—tuberculosis, alcoholism, nervous exhaustion.

  Marge was engaged to Walter then, and our home had to be maintained. And I’m sure—I have to be sure—that the family didn’t know how sick I was. I struck out by myself. I got drunk in Mineral Wells and lost the little money I had, and I suppose I would have got a stiff jail sentence if they hadn’t been afraid I’d die on them. As it was—

  I’m a little blank on a lot of things. But I wound up, eventually, as a night watchman on a pipeline that was being built from Iraan to the Gulf. On the night that my high-school class graduated I was seated on a generator, far out on the Texas plains, and on the ground below me a huge rattlesnake listened raptly as I screamed and cursed and raved at him.

  I’d never been particularly afraid of crawling things before. But after that, after those two years, a roach or an ant made me cringe, and, if I was not on guard, scream.

  I had no rest from them, you see. While I tossed on my cot in camp, during the day, they were with me—the ones that were worse than the real ones. They ringed me in, the rattlers, the tarantulas—the great black-and-white tarantulas as large as saucers and with fur like rabbits—the ten-inch centipedes, the scorpions, the vinegarroons, and gilas. I say they ringed me in; everywhere I looked they were there, at my head, my sides, and feet. And then, before I could leap over them, always before I could leap over them—the thing happened to me ten thousand times, a dozen times in a day, but I could never bring myself to leap until it was too late—then, then, as I say, another ring would come up to reinforce the first. It would climb and slide and crawl on top of the first ring. And then another ring would climb and crawl and slide on top of it. And then there would be another and another and another and ANOTHER! ANOTHER! ANOTHER!