Welcome to the Monkey House: The Special Edition (8 page)

“I’m awfully busy, Newt,” she said. “The wedding is only a week away.”

“If we go for a walk,” he said, “it will make you rosy. It will make you a rosy bride.” He turned the pages of the magazine. “A rosy bride like her—like her—like her,” he said, showing her rosy brides.

Catharine turned rosy, thinking about rosy brides.

“That will be my present to Henry Stewart Chasens,” said Newt. “By taking you for a walk, I’ll be giving him a rosy bride.”

“You know his name?” said Catharine.

“Mother wrote,” he said. “From Pittsburgh?”

“Yes,” she said. “You’d like him.”

“Maybe,” he said.

“Can—can you come to the wedding, Newt?” she said.

“That I doubt,” he said.

“Your furlough isn’t for long enough?” she said.

“Furlough?” said Newt. He was studying a two-page ad for flat silver. “I’m not on furlough,” he said.

“Oh?” she said.

“I’m what they call A.W.O.L.,” said Newt.

“Oh, Newt! You’re not!” she said.

“Sure I am,” he said, still looking at the magazine.

“Why, Newt?” she said.

“I had to find out what your silver pattern is,” he said. He read names of silver patterns from the magazine. “Albemarle? Heather?” he said. “Legend? Rambler Rose?” He looked up, smiled. “I plan to give you and your husband a spoon,” he said.

“Newt, Newt—tell me really,” she said.

“I want to go for a walk,” he said.

She wrung her hands in sisterly anguish. “Oh, Newt—you’re fooling me about being A.W.O.L.,” she said.

Newt imitated a police siren softly, raised his eyebrows.

“Where—where from?” she said.

“Fort Bragg,” he said.

“North Carolina?” she said.

“That’s right,” he said. “Near Fayetteville—where Scarlett O’Hara went to school.”

“How did you get here, Newt?” she said.

He raised his thumb, jerked it in a hitchhike gesture. “Two days,” he said.

“Does your mother know?” she said.

“I didn’t come to see my mother,” he told her.

“Who did you come to see?” she said.

“You,” he said.

“Why me?” she said.

“Because I love you,” he said. “Now can we take a walk?” he said. “One foot in front of the other—through leaves, over bridges——”

·    ·    ·

They were taking the walk now, were in a woods with a brown-leaf floor.

Catharine was angry and rattled, close to tears. “Newt,” she said, “this is absolutely crazy.”

“How so?” said Newt.

“What a crazy time to tell me you love me,” she said. “You never talked that way before.” She stopped walking.

“Let’s keep walking,” he said.

“No,” she said. “So far, no farther. I shouldn’t have come out with you at all,” she said.

“You did,” he said.

“To get you out of the house,” she said. “If somebody walked in and heard you talking to me that way, a week before the wedding——”

“What would they think?” he said.

“They’d think you were crazy,” she said.

“Why?” he said.

Catharine took a deep breath, made a speech. “Let me say that I’m deeply honored by this crazy thing you’ve done,” she said. “I can’t believe you’re really A.W.O.L., but maybe you are. I can’t believe you really love me, but maybe you do. But——”

“I do,” said Newt.

“Well, I’m deeply honored,” said Catharine, “and I’m very fond of you as a friend, Newt, extremely fond—but it’s just too late.” She took a step away from him. “You’ve never even kissed me,” she said, and she protected herself with her hands. “I don’t mean you should do it now. I just mean this is all so unexpected. I haven’t got the remotest idea of how to respond.”

“Just walk some more,” he said. “Have a nice time.”

They started walking again.

“How did you expect me to react?” she said.

“How would I know what to expect?” he said. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Did you think I would throw myself into your arms?” she said.

“Maybe,” he said.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she said.

“I’m not disappointed,” he said. “I wasn’t counting on it. This is very nice, just walking.”

Catharine stopped again. “You know what happens next?” she said.

“Nope,” he said.

“We shake hands,” she said. “We shake hands and part friends,” she said. “That’s what happens next.”

Newt nodded. “All right,” he said. “Remember me from time to time. Remember how much I loved you.”

Involuntarily, Catharine burst into tears. She turned her back to Newt, looked into the infinite colonnade of the woods.

“What does that mean?” said Newt.

“Rage!” said Catharine. She clenched her hands. “You have no right——”

“I had to find out,” he said.

“If I’d loved you,” she said, “I would have let you know before now.”

“You would?” he said.

“Yes,” she said. She faced him, looked up at him, her face quite red. “You would have known,” she said.

“How?” he said.

“You would have seen it,” she said. “Women aren’t very clever at hiding it.”

Newt looked closely at Catharine’s face now. To her consternation, she realized that what she had said was true, that a woman couldn’t hide love.

Newt was seeing love now.

And he did what he had to do. He kissed her.

·    ·    ·

“You’re hell to get along with!” she said when Newt let her go.

“I am?” said Newt.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she said.

“You didn’t like it?” he said.

“What did you expect,” she said—“wild, abandoned passion?”

“I keep telling you,” he said, “I never know what’s going to happen next.”

“We say good-by,” she said.

He frowned slightly. “All right,” he said.

She made another speech. “I’m not sorry we kissed,” she said. “That was sweet. We should have kissed, we’ve been so close. I’ll always remember you, Newt, and good luck.”

“You too,” he said.

“Thank you, Newt,” she said.

“Thirty days,” he said.

“What?” she said.

“Thirty days in the stockade,” he said—“that’s what one kiss will cost me.”

“I—I’m sorry,” she said, “but I didn’t ask you to go A.W.O.L.”

“I know,” he said.

“You certainly don’t deserve any hero’s reward for doing something as foolish as that,” she said.

“Must be nice to be a hero,” said Newt. “Is Henry Stewart Chasens a hero?”

“He might be, if he got the chance,” said Catharine. She noted uneasily that they had begun to walk again. The farewell had been forgotten.

“You really love him?” he said.

“Certainly I love him!” she said hotly. “I wouldn’t marry him if I didn’t love him!”

“What’s good about him?” said Newt.

“Honestly!” she cried, stopping again. “Do you have any idea how offensive you’re being? Many, many, many things are good about Henry! Yes,” she said, “and many, many, many things are probably bad too. But that isn’t any of your business. I love Henry, and I don’t have to argue his merits with you!”

“Sorry,” said Newt.

“Honestly!” said Catharine.

Newt kissed her again. He kissed her again because she wanted him to.

·    ·    ·

They were now in a large orchard.

“How did we get so far from home, Newt?” said Catharine.

“One foot in front of the other—through leaves, over bridges,” said Newt.

“They add up—the steps,” she said.

Bells rang in the tower of the school for the blind nearby.

“School for the blind,” said Newt.

“School for the blind,” said Catharine. She shook her head in drowsy wonder. “I’ve got to go back now,” she said.

“Say good-by,” said Newt.

“Every time I do,” said Catharine, “I seem to get kissed.”

Newt sat down on the close-cropped grass under an apple tree. “Sit down,” he said.

“No,” she said.

“I won’t touch you,” he said.

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

She sat down under another tree, twenty feet away from him. She closed her eyes.

“Dream of Henry Stewart Chasens,” he said.

“What?” she said.

“Dream of your wonderful husband-to-be,” he said.

“All right, I will,” she said. She closed her eyes tighter, caught glimpses of her husband-to-be.

Newt yawned.

The bees were humming in the trees, and Catharine almost fell asleep. When she opened her eyes she saw that Newt really was asleep.

He began to snore softly.

Catharine let Newt sleep for an hour, and while he slept she adored him with all her heart.

The shadows of the apple trees grew to the east. The bells in the tower of the school for the blind rang again.

“Chick-a-dee-dee-dee,”
went a chickadee.

Somewhere far away an automobile starter nagged and failed, nagged and failed, fell still.

Catharine came out from under her tree, knelt by Newt.

“Newt?” she said.

“H’m?” he said. He opened his eyes.

“Late,” she said.

“Hello, Catharine,” he said.

“Hello, Newt,” she said.

“I love you,” he said.

“I know,” she said.

“Too late,” he said.

“Too late,” she said.

He stood, stretched groaningly. “A very nice walk,” he said.

“I thought so,” she said.

“Part company here?” he said.

“Where will you go?” she said.

“Hitch into town, turn myself in,” he said.

“Good luck,” she said.

“You, too,” he said. “Marry me, Catharine?”

“No,” she said.

He smiled, stared at her hard for a moment, then walked away quickly.

Catharine watched him grow smaller in the long perspective of shadows and trees, knew that if he stopped and turned now, if he called to her, she would run to him. She would have no choice.

Newt did stop. He did turn. He did call. “Catharine,” he called.

She ran to him, put her arms around him, could not speak.

(1960)

I
’M A SALESMAN
of good advice for rich people. I’m a contact man for an investment counseling firm. It’s a living, but not a whale of a one—or at least not now, when I’m just starting out. To qualify for the job, I had to buy a Homburg, a navy-blue overcoat; a double-breasted banker’s gray suit, black shoes, a regimental-stripe tie, half a dozen white shirts, half a dozen pairs of black socks and gray gloves.

When I call on a client, I come by cab, and I am sleek and clean and foursquare. I carry myself as though I’ve made a quiet killing on the stock market, and have come to call more as a public service than anything else. When I arrive in clean wool, with crackling certificates and confidential stock analyses in crisp Manila folders, the reaction—ideally and usually—is the same accorded a minister or physician. I am in charge, and everything is going to be just fine.

I deal mostly with old ladies—the meek, who by dint of cast-iron constitutions have inherited sizable portions of the earth. I thumb through the clients’ lists of securities, and relay our experts’ suggestions for ways of making their portfolios—or bonanzas or piles—thrive and increase. I can speak of tens of thousands of dollars without a catch in my throat, and look at a list of securities worth more than a hundred thousand with no more fuss than a judicious “Mmmmm, uh-huh.”

Since
I
don’t have a portfolio, my job is a little like being a hungry delivery boy for a candy store. But I never really felt
that way about it until Herbert Foster asked me to have a look at his finances.

He called one evening to say a friend had recommended me, and could I come out to talk business. I washed, shaved, dusted my shoes, put on my uniform, and made my grave arrival by cab.

People in my business—and maybe people in general—have an unsavory habit of sizing up a man’s house, car, and suit, and estimating his annual income. Herbert Foster was six thousand a year, or I’d never seen it. Understand, I have nothing against people in moderate circumstances, other than the crucial fact that I can’t make any money off them. It made me a little sore that Foster would take my time, when the most he had to play around with, I guessed, was no more than a few hundred dollars. Say it was a thousand: my take would be a dollar or two at best.

·    ·    ·

Anyway, there I was in the Fosters’ jerry-built postwar colonial with expansion attic. They had taken up a local furniture store on its offer of three rooms of furniture, including ashtrays, a humidor, and pictures for the wall, all for $199.99. Hell, I was there, and I figured I might as well go through with having a look at his pathetic problem.

“Nice place you have here, Mr. Foster,” I said. “And this is your charming wife?”

A skinny, shrewish-looking woman smiled up at me vacuously. She wore a faded housecoat figured with a fox-hunting scene. The print was at war with the slipcover of the chair, and I had to squint to separate her features from the clash about her. “A pleasure, Mrs. Foster,” I said. She was surrounded by underwear and socks to be mended, and Herbert said her name was Alma, which seemed entirely possible.

“And this is the young master,” I said. “Bright little chap. Believe he favors his father.” The two-year-old wiped his grubby hands on my trousers, snuffled, and padded off toward
the piano. He stationed himself at the upper end of the keyboard, and hammered on the highest note for one minute, then two, then three.

“Musical—like his father,” Alma said.

“You play, do you, Mr. Foster?”

“Classical,” Herbert said. I took my first good look at him. He was lightly built, with the round, freckled face and big teeth I usually associate with a show-off or wise guy. It was hard to believe that he had settled for so plain a wife, or that he could be as fond of family life as he seemed. It may have been that I only imagined a look of quiet desperation in his eyes.

“Shouldn’t you be getting on to your meeting, dear?” Herbert said.

“It was called off at the last minute.”

“Now, about your portfolio—” I began.

Herbert looked rattled. “How’s that?”

“Your portfolio—your securities.”