The Collected Stories of Richard Yates (68 page)

“Well, but don't you see, you're talking about
stealing,”
Robert Blaine said. “What I meant was—”

But O'Grady interrupted him, and O'Grady's voice was stronger. “Reminds me one time in the Army, when we first hit Le Havre.” O'Grady folded his big arms across his bathrobe. He loved to talk about times in the Army. “You guys ever been to Le Havre? Well, ask anybody that was there, they'll tell you it was one lousy town. I mean it was all bombed to hell, for one thing, and most of the part that wasn't bombed was off-limits, but the main thing was the way the people treated you. I mean, they just didn't have no damn use for GIs, I don't care
how
nice you treated them. So anyway, these three of my buddies and me go into this little gin mill, a real beat-up little place, and hell, we're just off the boat;
we
don't know how the people are. So we order a couple cognacs and the bartender gives us this real dirty look, just like this—” and O'Grady made an unpleasant face. O'Grady had hit Le Havre a year after the war, on his way to the Army of Occupation, and this had been his first night overseas, a burly adolescent with PX overseas cap cocked to the eyebrow, his eyes narrowed at foreigners. (Maybe the war
was
over, but weren't they headed for sure trouble with the Russians in Germany? Hadn't the captain said, “You men are still soldiers in every sense of the word”?)

“Well, he brings the drinks, puts 'em down, grabs our dough and takes off to the rear of the bar where these other frogs were sitting. So, you know, what the hell, we got kind of sore. I mean, we couldn't see no goddamn frog bartender treating us like shit, you know what I mean? So this buddy of mine, guy named Sitko, he says, ‘Come over here, Jack.'” O'Grady's eyes grew cold, recalling Sitko's face. “He says, ‘You compree English?' Guy says yes, a little, and old Sitko says, ‘Whadda you got against Americans?' Guy says he don't understand—you know, ‘no compree' or some damn thing—and old Sitko says, ‘You compree all right, Buster, don't gimme that. Whadda you got against Americans?' Guy still makes out like he don't understand, see, and Sitko's really getting sore, but we tell him, ‘Forget it, Sitko. The guy don't understand, leave him alone.' So we go on drinking, you know, couple more rounds, and old Sitko don't say anything, but he's getting madder all the time. Drunker he gets the madder he gets. So finally we're ready to leave, and Sitko says let's buy a bottle, take it back to camp. So we call the bartender back and ask him how much for a bottle. He shakes his head, says no, he can't sell no bottles. Well, that did it, far as old Sitko's concerned. He waits until the bartender goes away again, and then he ducks under the bar—there's this little gate like in the top of the bar, see, right where we're standing—and he grabs a bottle off the shelf and hands it out to this other guy, Hawkins, and says, ‘Hold this for me, Hawk.' Then he hands one out to me and comes out with a couple more in his hands—clean as a whistle; those frogs never saw a thing. So we each of us had a bottle—oh Jesus, I forget what-all we had; cognac, we had that, and what's the name of that other stuff? Calvados—we had some of that too, and some other kind of stuff besides. So we shoved the bottles up inside our battle jackets and we're just leaving, almost to the door, when one of the frogs catches on. He starts yelling and pointing, and then they all come after us, but by that time we're out in the street, going like hell.”

Jones giggled, rubbing his palms together and pressing them between his thighs. “You get away?”

“Oh, yeah, we got away all right—finally.” O'Grady's face showed he had suddenly decided to amend the story—either because a full retreat seemed unmanly in the telling, or simply to make it last longer. “But just outside the door I dropped my damn bottle—didn't break, just fell on the sidewalk, and I hadda stop and pick it up.”

“Oh Jesus,” Jones said.

“So here I am bending over, picking up the damn bottle, and this big frog comes up behind me. I just straightened up and swung around, holding the bottle by the neck, and let him have it right across the side of the head. Didn't break that time either—don't ask me
what
it did to that bastard's head, but I think he was out cold—and I took off again. Never ran so fast in my life.”

“Ha-ha
goddamn
,” Jones said. “I bet you guys had a party
that
night, huh?”

“Boy, you ain't kidding,” O'Grady said.

Robert Blaine had squirmed fretfully throughout the story, clearly annoyed. Now he propped himself up on one elbow and glowered at them. “Hell,” he said, “you guys are talking about
stealing
. Hell, if you want to talk about stealing, that's different.
I'll
tell you a story.
I'll
tell you a story about stealing. In Chicago, back in the Depression. Lost my job on the
Tribune
just before Christmas. Little woman sitting at home with the kid—I was married then, see. Didn't work at it very hard, but I was; had a three- or four-year-old kid—and here I am out of a job at Christmas. Went off on about a four-day drunk, ended up in some hotel with this model I used to run around with, girl named Irene. Beautiful girl. Tall, long legs, looked like a million dollars.”

O'Grady's eyes flicked at Jones in a quick smile of disbelief, but Jones was listening attentively, and Blaine didn't stop his flat-voiced monotone long enough to notice it. It seemed almost that he couldn't stop, that the talking was a kind of convulsion, a bloodless hemorrhage.

“She said, ‘Robert, you've got to pull yourself together; do you know what day this is?' Turns out it was Christmas Eve. I said, ‘Don't worry, honey.' Said, ‘Come on, we got some shopping to do.' Checked out of the hotel—she had to pay the bill; I was flat broke by that time—and I grabbed a cab and took her to Marshall Field's. She kept saying, ‘I don't understand, Robert. What's the idea?' Got to Marshall Field's, took her inside and started walking around the women's accessories department, pulling her along by the hand. Found a nice woman's handbag—I don't know, lizard-skin or something, about twenty-five bucks. Said to Irene, ‘Think the little woman'd like this?' She said, ‘Well certainly, but you can't afford anything like that.' I said, ‘Here, hold on to it.' Handed her the bag and pulled her along through the crowd. Went to the toy department, picked up this big teddy bear, said, ‘Irene, think Bobby'd like this?' She said, ‘You can't
do
this, Robert.' Said, ‘Why not? Doing it, aren't I?' Handed her the teddy bear and we took off. Teddy bear was small enough so she could hold it under her coat, see, she had this big fur coat—and we went all over the store that way. Got a couple more things for my kid, and then she said, ‘We've got to get out of here, Robert.' Said, ‘Not until we buy something for
you,
baby.' Took her to the blouse department, got this beautiful pure-silk blouse off the counter, just her size, and then we walked out the front door and into a cab. Took Irene back to her place, borrowed a couple bucks from her so I could pay off the driver, and then I rode home. Irene couldn't get over it. Kept saying, ‘Nobody but you could do a thing like that, Robert.'” He began to laugh noiselessly, his eyes gleaming.

“Well,” Jones said chuckling, twisting his fingers. “Just shows you what a man can get away with.”

But Blaine was not finished. “Dutiful husband and father,” he said. “Coming home with gifts the day before Christmas. In a taxicab—” He laughed again, and it was an effort for him to pull his lips back over the grin of his yellow teeth in order to speak. “That's the way I used to do things.” He sank back on his pillow and fell silent, breathing hard, while Jones and O'Grady tried to think of something to say.

At last O'Grady said, “Well—”

Blaine interrupted him. “And that's not all I stole,” he said. “That's not all I stole. Stole damn near everything I had in those days.” His face was sober again now, his eyes glazed, and as he spoke his fingers crept inside the pajama top to explore the scars. “Christ, I even stole Irene! Her husband made better than fifty thousand a year; she took off to New York with me and we lived off his dough for six months. Me, I didn't have anything. Only she thought I had everything. Probably still does. Took a big wad of his dough and came to New York with me. I didn't have anything. She thought I had everything. Thought I was a genius. Thought I was going to be another Sherwood Anderson. Probably still does.”

“Well, that's life, I guess,” Jones said vaguely, and then both he and O'Grady became aware that Blaine was in some difficulty. His eyes had closed, and he was swallowing repeatedly—they could tell it by the bobbing of his sharp Adam's apple—and they could see the flannel of his pajama top move with each beat of his heart. His breathing was shallow and irregular.

For some moments O'Grady stared at him, wide-eyed, until Jones signaled it was time to leave by backing his wheelchair up and turning it around. Anxiously, O'Grady slipped off the bed and came over to wheel the chair for him.

“See you later, Bob,” Jones called as they moved away, but Blaine made no reply. He didn't even open his eyes.

“Christ almighty,” O'Grady said in a hushed voice as soon as they had left the bed. “What's the
matter
with him?”

“Nerves,” Jones said with authority. “Happens to him quite often. Push me over to the nurse's office, will you, O'Grady? I'll just tell her about it; she'll probably want to check his pulse and whatnot.”

“Okay,” O'Grady said. “Whaddya mean by nerves, exactly?”

“Well, you know. He's pretty high-strung.”

Miss Berger was the nurse on duty, and she was laying out the evening medications when they stopped at the office door. She looked up, annoyed. “What do you want, Jones?”

“Just wanted to tell you Bob Blaine isn't feeling too good, Miss Berger. Thought you might want to have a look at him.”

“Who?”

“Blaine. Nerves are kind of acting up again. You know.”

She shook her head over the medications tray, clicking her tongue. “Oh, honestly, that Blaine.
Nerves,
for God's sake. Big baby, that's all he is.”

“I just thought I'd tell you.”

“All right, all right,” she said, without looking up. “I can't come now. He'll have to wait.”

Jones and O'Grady shrugged in unison, and O'Grady started the wheelchair up again.

“Where to now?”

“Oh, I don't know,” Jones said. “Might as well go lay down, I guess, take it easy for a while. What time's the movie tonight?”

EILEEN PUSHES THE
puff sleeve higher on her skinny arm but it slips down almost to her elbow again; the elastic cannot hold it. Aunt Billie buys all the dresses too big so she'll get more wear out of them. If Eileen pushes up both sleeves so that the cloth blouses properly, she can hold them there by keeping her arms pressed firmly against her sides. But as soon as she relaxes, the sleeves ease down again and hang limply, almost to her elbows. And the skirt, of course, is too long.

“Goodnight, Sister” . . . . . . . “Goodnight, Sister.”

The girls are filing out of the classroom and Eileen is near the end of the line. The nun, pale and rather sinister in her black robes, stands at the door with one of her white hands holding the other loosely at her waist. Eileen counts to herself: four more, three more, two more.

“Goodnight, Sister.”

“Goodnight, Frances.”

Now it is her turn. “Goodnight, Sister.”

“Goodnight, Eileen.”

And she hurries into the cool hallway that smells of pencils, threading her way between groups of little girls. She is taller than anyone in the fourth grade and has no friends. Some of the girls are afraid of her, and she accepts this with pride although she would rather be liked. But now she thinks only of getting outside and meeting her brother. The sun is blinding in the concrete school yard and she squints and makes a visor with both hands. Roger's group of boys is bunched by the corner of the building, and she picks him out. He is laughing and when he sees her he looks embarrassed. She starts toward the road, walking slowly so he can catch up. Above the chattering and shouting she hears him say, “See you guys,” and then she hears his shoes scuffling up behind her.

“Leen, will you take it easy? Why d'ya always have to be in such a big rush?”

“We'll miss the trolley.”

“Oh, miss the trolley. That ain't the only trolley.”

“Don't say ‘ain't.”

“Why?”

“Because you know better, that's why.”

“Aw, shut up.”

She probes the pocket of her dress, feels the warm, hard fifty-cent piece she found in the playground that morning. “Roger?”

“What.”

“Look what I found at recess.”

“Hey! Where'd ya find it?”

She senses the quick envy in his voice and decides to make the most of it. “Wouldn't you like to know?”

“Come
on
. Where'd ya find it?”

But she raises her eyebrows coyly and smiles a secret smile. They are waiting at the trolley stop now, and Roger lapses into sullenness. After a moment he says, “Know what Whitey an' Clark an' them were saying?”

There is a tightening in her chest. It will be something about her.

“They said you had so many freckles you couldn't hardly see the skin between 'em, and you might just as well be a darkie.”

“Think I care?” Then, after a pause, “I could tell you about some things
I
heard.” But she sees the flicker of worry in his face vanish as he becomes confident she is making it up. And she can't think of anything mean enough so she doesn't carry it through except to say, “But I won't, because it's not polite.”