Some Came Running (145 page)

He had tried to get ’Bama to go with him; after all, Janie had worked for them; but the big gambler only sneered and said funerals were the last thing he wanted to think about. So when Dave got out of the church, not feeling that he had accomplished anything at all in going, he chugged his little Plymouth back home where ’Bama was sitting up with a bottle, and joined him. It seemed to be all either one of them was doing anymore; and in fact, or so ’Bama said—not without a certain bitter enjoyment—they had reached the point in their gambling where they were now losing distinctly more than they were winning, which meant, of course, that now they were living off their capital.
His
capital, ’Bama’s capital, Dave added to himself silently when ’Bama told him.

He had been doing pretty well, Dave had thought; until he learned about Gwen. He might not be turning out as much work, but he was still at least turning out
some
work. In spite of ’Bama’s illness and breakup; and in spite of the gnawing difficulty with Gwen, which he could not figure out the reason for. After that time, he had taken the new story “The Peons” over to them and found her changed, and the ensuing blowup he had, when he had talked to Bob, he had settled down into an unhappy but at least somewhat productive routine. And in fact, he had been working quite hard for over a month before he went to Israel again—because he wanted to take a decent batch of manuscript over there. And then, just a few days before Janie’s death, he had driven over there with the manuscript—and found out from Bob that she was gone! And had been gone for nearly a month. It threw him completely. He had thought he was doing so good the last month and a half.

It was during that month and a half, when he was settled down into this at least somewhat productive routine, in spite of the heavier drinking and worrying he was doing, that his sister, Francine, visited him. It was just a day or two after young Dawnie’s wedding, that he had not been invited to. When he saw her standing there on the porch, he recognized her and, simultaneously, did not recognize her. Everything about her looked enough like her, like Francine, to convince him that it was her; but at the same time, nothing about her looked like the Francine he had known on the Coast before the war. Her face, always rather sharp in contrast to the ballheaded, blocky Hirshes, was even sharper now. And her slim figure did not look so much slim now as bony. Her breasts, never too outstanding, as it were, had fallen even more so with the three quick babies she had had, only one of whom, the oldest, Dave had ever seen.

“Well, aren’t you going to ask me in?” she grinned.

Dave did, and the very next thing she said was, naturally, that he had put on an awful lot of weight since she had last seen him. “You’re turning into a regular butterball,” she smiled. And then, after she had flung her arms around him, she stepped back and exclaimed: “God! You smell like a regular brewery. You’re not trying to write drunk, are you?”

“No,” Dave said, smiling. “That’s from last night. I never could write drunk.”

“Well, I should hope not,” Francine smiled. “Well, now show me all around your place here. I want to know what kind of life you’re living. God, it’s been a long time, Davie, hasn’t it?”

He showed her all around the house, explaining how he and ’Bama had taken it together, and then they sat down with a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. ’Bama was gone, down to the farm, so he could not introduce her to him.

“I read your story in the New Living Literature semiannual,” Francine beamed at him; “the story was just simply magnificent. Where did you ever get the idea for it?”

“Well, a part of it happened, sort of,” Dave said, “on a trip me and ’Bama made to Florida.”

“Well, it’s just simply splendid!” Francine said. Dave, who had entirely forgot about “The Confederate” in the press of more recent worries, was at a total loss as to what to say.

“I always knew,” Francine grinned, “that you were the one who had the real talent. You had more talent than the rest of the bunch all put together.”

It was strange to him, to suddenly be thinking again after all this time of all the places, and all the people, that had congregated around this woman who was his sister back out there in Hollywood so long ago. Harriet Bowman! he thought suddenly, and wanted to laugh. Who married a lawyer! And Kenny McKeean, and Old George Blanca, Francine’s lover, and big old Herman Daniel, dead now in the war. Naturally, now, the two of them, sitting here after having gone such diverse ways the last seven years and a war apart, naturally they fell at once to talking about the old times, and the old people, and the old places. It seemed to Dave as though all this had happened to another person named Dave Hirsh, not himself. He wondered if Francine felt that way, too? Apparently, she did not.

She wanted to know all about the new book he was working on, and he told her about the new story “The Peons” which NLL had also bought, and she promised she would watch for it. She had changed. But he could not quite put his finger upon just how. Until finally, he rather inadvertently mentioned the fact that Gwen French was writing a critical book about their group they had had out there. But that was later.

First, Francine told him all about the wedding, and about how Frank had asked all the relatives not to go and see Dave until after it. Frank was really terribly incensed about Dave’s having gone back to using the old family name on his story.

“Yeah, he told me,” Dave said.

“Well, I told
him,”
Francine said sharply. “By God, I told him it was a petty filthy little trick not to invite you to the wedding.”

“I didn’t care whether I went anyway or not,” Dave said.

“But, of course, it didn’t do any good,” Francine went right on. “They keep a copy of the NLL anthology out on their coffee table, you know; with your story in it. That’s to show they have no hard feelings toward you.”

Dave grinned, but wished they could get onto something else.

“I don’t see how you can stand to live in this crappy little town,” Francine said. “If you really want to write, you ought to get out of it and go someplace where people are tolerant. This little jerkwater town is too inbred. Everybody knows too much about everybody else. Art simply can’t flourish in that kind of an atmosphere,” she said.

“Well, you know, I’ve kind of got so I like the old town,” Dave said. “I’d like to do a novel about my childhood next, while I’m still living here. And I have my own group of friends, you know.” He grinned. “Sort of the lower elements, you might say. You know?”

“Yes, Frank spoke about that, too,” Francine said. “Told all of us about how you run around with the town bums. And some fat whore you’re sleeping with.”

Dave flushed, both from anger and from a vivid memory of Ginnie Moorehead. “Well, it’s none of his business who I sleep with.”

“Exactly what I told him,” Francine said. “Told all of them. That’s really why none of the other relatives came to see you while they were in town. What Frank said to all of us. But, by God, I told him I was coming. I’d never have forgiven myself if I hadn’t got to see you.”

Dave nodded, feeling awkward, wanting only to get off the subject. Where was all the closeness, all the “spiritual rapport” he and Francine had used to have so long ago?

“Do you ever see Old George? George Blanca?” he asked, to get onto another topic.

The effect upon Francine was instantaneous. She preened. “Well, no,” she said, smiling perhaps a little smugly. “Not often, anyway. We don’t run in the same crowds anymore, you know. Charley and I have our own activities, you know. And Charley’s principal of the whole high school now. Which makes it just that much worse. Meetings, and fund-raisings, all that sort of stuff. And of course, George is a big-shot writer now—big-shot screenwriter—” Once again, she seemed to preen as she said: “I wonder what has happened to all of those great literary ambitions he used to talk about so much?” She shook her head, sadly. “Well, anyway, I have seen him once or twice, since the war. At cocktail parties out in Beverly Hills, that Charley and I just happened to get invited to. And, of course, George is married to that rich blonde wife of his, you know,” she said, and preened again. “And he is quite a big shot in the Industry, you know. Though, of course, he’s no real writer anymore.”

It was then that Dave told her about Gwen French and the critical book she was doing on the old group. Perhaps it was Francie’s remark about George being no real writer anymore. That fit right in with Gwen’s so ingenious theory about the sex part of it. He only really mentioned it in passing, and was intending to go on to something else.

But the effect upon Francine was as instantaneous as the mention of George Blanca had been; but in an entirely different way. Francine’s eyes narrowed, and her face got stiff, and she sat up straighter in her chair.

“What’s this?” she said. “What’s all this?”

Dave went back, a little startled, and told her more about it. How she was using Kenny McKeean and his Syrian dancer and his suicide, and Herman Daniel and how he went home to marry his high school sweetheart, and himself and—hunh-hunh—Harriet Bowman. She had not known about Harriet Bowman, of course, but she surmised her existence; he himself had told her all about it so she could use it. And, of course, George Blanca, and his love affairs: the Japanese waitress downtown, and the rich blonde girl he finally married. Francine knew about all of them. The whole thing, Gwen’s whole theory, lay in the love affairs, of course.

“And who’s doing all of this?” Francine said narrowly. “Who did you say was doing this?”

“Gwen French,” Dave said (and his heart contracted: Gwen, Gwen!). “Guinevere French. She teaches English at Parkman College here in town. You probably never knew her. But you must have known her father, Bob French: Professor French. The poet.”

“Yes, I knew Professor French,” Francine said. “I took English under him in high school. I’ve always thought he was a fine poet. And you say this is his daughter? And she’s writing all this up? For a
book?”

“Yeah,” Dave said, “you know. It’s one of those scholarly treatises English professors do. You know.”

“And am I in it?”

“Well, yeah. Sure. I told her all about you and George.”

“Then,” Francine said crisply; “then, she had better never print it. I’ll sue the life out of her. What do you mean!” she cried angrily; “telling her all of those things about me? My God! What do you think would happen to me? if a book like that got passed around where I live?”

“Well, I never thought about it,” Dave said. “I was just interested in her theory. Anyway, it’s all the truth.”

“Well, you better think again!” Francine said coldly, her eyes narrow. “Truth or not, she’ll have to prove it in a court of libel; and George would back me up. You and her better both think again. What do you think would happen to Charley’s job if all that old stuff got out
!
Or to my job? It would ruin both of us. I was young then, we all were. I’m a respectable married woman. What would my children think if all of this stuff came out? Well!” she said, and stared at Dave dangerously.

“Well, I didn’t think you’d feel that way about it, Francie,” Dave said, almost apologetically. “I thought you’d be proud of it. Of your association with the group. Her theory is that if George had stayed with you, he might have turned into a real writer. Hell, it—”

“I don’t give a damn what her theory is!” Francine said coldly. “I know my rights. I’m not going to have all that old stuff dragged up to ruin me. We were all young.”

“
You
weren’t so young,” Dave said.

“Well, I was younger than I am now. And I was in an entirely different position! I have my reputation to think of, today. And my children’s. And Charley: What about Charley? He doesn’t know anything about all of this.”

“You mean you never told him?”

“Hell, no! Are you a fool?” she said. “Well, you just tell them that the minute a book with anything about me in it hits the stands, they’re going to have a big fat libel suit on their hands! You just tell them!”

“Okay, okay. I’ll tell them,” Dave said. “Man, you sure have changed, Francie!”

“Of course, I’ve changed,” Francine said. “I’ve got responsibilities now!”

She did not stay long after that. And Dave was just as glad. She
was
changed. And not for the better, as far as he was concerned. She did manage to become warm again to her kid brother before she left. But she did not attempt to talk about the old times in Hollywood anymore. Just before she left, she went back once again to how stifling a town like Parkman was upon an artist’s work, and told him that any time he wanted he could come and stay with them back in North Hollywood.

“Everything’s on fire out there now,” she smiled. “The whole town’s ablaze with creative activity now, since the war. You really ought to get out of this crappy place and into the free air of real tolerance that a real city has.”

“All right, I will,” Dave said. What else was there to say?

After she left—it was almost noon—he mixed himself a drink and sat down with it sadly. Yes, she had changed. And he guessed he had changed, too. And Old George Blanca had changed. Everybody had changed, it seemed. It made him feel very sad, and not a little panicky. Where had it all gone? The old talk, the old rapport, the old fire and energy. Francine had become an opinionated, petty, pompous dilettante: a chaser after the arts. God! It was, of course, out of the question that he could
ever
go back out there again now.

There were times—during the six weeks between Old Jane Staley’s funeral and the Old Man’s—that he nevertheless contemplated doing just that. It would have been an out. Or rather, might have been, had he not seen Francine here in Parkman. But after the talk they had had, that avenue was closed to him forever now. All avenues were closed to him forever, it looked like. And anyway, in the dull stupor of constant semi-drunkenness that he existed in after he found out Gwen was gone, he would not have had the mental presence to even pack and go. He simply stagnated.

He had waited so that he might have a good-sized batch of manuscript to take with him to Israel. And all that time, she had already been gone. When he drove up into the crushed rock drive of the
Last Retreat,
and went in, and found only Bob there to greet him and learned why, it stunned him in a way that he had never felt in his life before. This was the end. The
real
end. At least there had been hope, slim as it was, as long as she was still there. But when Bob told him that she was gone, and perhaps for good—well, it just simply floored him.