If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll
probably want to know is where I was born, an what my lousy childhood was
like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all
that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it,
if you want to know the truth.
* * *
Where I want to start telling is the day I left Pencey Prep.
Pencey Prep is this school that's in Agerstown, Pennsylvania. You probably
heard of it. You've probably seen the ads, anyway. They advertise in about
a thousand magazines, always showing some hotshot guy on a horse jumping
over a fence. Like as if all you ever did at Pencey was play polo all the
time. I never even once saw a horse anywhere near the place. And
underneath the guy on the horse's picture, it always says: "Since 1888 we
have been molding boys into splendid, clear-thinking young men." Strictly
for the birds. They don't do any damn more molding at Pencey than they do
at any other school. And I didn't know anybody there that was splendid and
clear-thinking and all. Maybe two guys. If that many. And they probably
came to Pencey that way.
* * *
"I flunked you in history because you knew absolutely nothing."
"I know that, sir. Boy, I know it. You couldn't help it."
"Absolutely nothing," he said over again. That's something that
drives me crazy. When people say something twice that way, after you admit
it the first time. Then he said it three times. "But absolutely nothing.
I doubt very much if you opened your textbook even once the whole term.
Did you? Tell the truth, boy."
"Well, I sort of glanced through it a couple of times," I told
him. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. He was mad about history.
"You glanced through it, eh?" he said--very sarcastic. "Your, ah,
exam paper is over there on top of my chiffonier. On top of the pile.
Bring it here, please."
It was a very dirty trick, but I went over and brought it over to
him--I didn't have any alternative or anything. Then I sat down on his
cement bed again. Boy, you can't imagine how sorry I was getting that I'd
stopped by to say good-by to him. He started handling my exam paper like
it was a turd or something. "We studied the Egyptians from November 4th to
December 2nd," he said. "You chose to write about them for the optional
essay question. Would you care to hear what you had to say?"
"No, sir, not very much," I said.
He read it anyway, though. You can't stop a teacher when they want
to do something. They just do it.
"The Egyptians were an ancient race of Caucasians residing in one
of the northern sections of Africa. The latter as we all know is the
largest continent in the Eastern Hemisphere."
I had to sit there and listen to that crap. It certainly was a
dirty trick.
"The Egyptians are extremely interesting to us today for various
reasons. Modern science would still like to know what the secret
ingredients were that the Egyptians used when they wrapped up dead people
so that their faces would not rot for innumerable centuries. This
interesting riddle is still quite a challenge to modern science in the
twentieth century."
He stopped reading and put my paper down. I was beginning to sort
of hate him. "Your essay, shall we say, ends there," he said in this very
sarcastic voice. You wouldn't think such an old guy would be so sarcastic
and all. "However, you dropped me a little note, at the bottom of the
page," he said.
"I know I did," I said. I said it very fast because I wanted to
stop him before he started reading that out loud. But you couldn't stop
him. He was hot as a firecracker.
DEAR MR. SPENCER [he read out loud]. That is all I know about
the Egyptians. I can't seem to get very interested in them
although your lectures are very interesting. It is all right
with me if you flunk me though as I am flunking everything
else except English anyway.
Respectfully yours, HOLDEN CAULFIELD.
He put my goddam paper down then and looked at me like he'd just
beaten hell out of me in ping-pong or something. I don't think I'll ever
forgive him for reading me that crap out loud. I wouldn't've read it out
loud to him if he'd written it--I really wouldn't. In the first place, I'd
only written that damn note so that he wouldn't feel too bad about
flunking me.
"Do you blame me for flunking you, boy?" he said.
"No, sir! I certainly don't," I said. I wished to hell he'd stop
calling me "boy" all the time.
He tried chucking my exam paper on the bed when he was through
with it. Only, he missed again, naturally. I had to get up again and pick
it up and put it on top of the Atlantic Monthly. It's boring to do that
every two minutes.
* * *
"Who belongsa this?" Ackley said. He was holding my roommate's
knee supporter up to show me. That guy Ackley'd pick up anything. He'd
even pick up your jock strap or something. I told him it was Stradlater's.
So he chucked it on Stradlater's bed. He got it off Stradlater's
chiffonier, so he chucked it on the bed. He came over and sat down on the
arm of Stradlater's chair. He never sat down in a chair. Just always on
the arm. "Where the hellja get that hat?" he said.
"New York."
"How much?"
"A buck."
"You got robbed." He started cleaning his goddam fingernails with
the end of a match. He was always cleaning his fingernails. It was funny,
in a way. His teeth were always mossy-looking, and his ears were always
dirty as hell, but he was always cleaning his fingernails. I guess he
thought that made him a very neat guy. He took another look at my hat
while he was cleaning them. "Up home we wear a hat like that to shoot deer
in, for Chrissake," he said. "That's a deer shooting hat."
"Like hell it is." I took it off and looked at it. I sort of
closed one eye, like I was taking aim at it. "This is a people shooting
hat," I said. "I shoot people in this hat."
* * *
"Hey," I said. "Don't tell her I got kicked out, willya?"
"Okay."
That was one good thing about Stradlater. You didn't have to
explain every goddam little thing with him, the way you had to do with
Ackley. Mostly, I guess, because he wasn't too interested. That's really
why. Ackley, it was different. Ackley was a very nosy bastard.
* * *
We always had the same meal on Saturday nights at Pencey. It was
supposed to be a big deal, because they gave you steak. I'll bet a
thousand bucks the reason they did that was because a lot of guys' parents
came up to school on Sunday, and old Thurmer probably figured everybody's
mother would ask their darling boy what he had for dinner last night, and
he'd say, "Steak." What a racket. You should've seen the steaks. They were
these little hard, dry jobs that you could hardly even cut. You always
got these very lumpy mashed potatoes on steak night, and for dessert you
got Brown Betty, which nobody ate, except maybe the little kids in the
lower school that didn't know any better--and guys like Ackley that ate
everything.
* * *
The thing was, I couldn't think of a room or a house or anything
to describe the way Stradlater said he had to have. I'm not too crazy
about describing rooms and houses anyway. So what I did, I wrote about my
brother Allie's baseball mitt. It was a very descriptive subject. It
really was. My brother Allie had this left-handed fielder's mitt. He was
left-handed. The thing that was descriptive about it, though, was that he
had poems written all over the fingers and the pocket and everywhere. In
green ink. He wrote them on it so that he'd have something to read when he
was in the field and nobody was up at bat. He's dead now. He got leukemia
and died when we were up in Maine, on July 18, 1946. You'd have liked him.
He was two years younger than I was, but he was about fifty times as
intelligent. He was terrifically intelligent. His teachers were always
writing letters to my mother, telling her what a pleasure it was having a
boy like Allie in their class. And they weren't just shooting the crap.
They really meant it. But it wasn't just that he was the most intelligent
member in the family. He was also the nicest, in lots of ways. He never
got mad at anybody. People with red hair are supposed to get mad very
easily, but Allie never did, and he had very red hair. I'll tell you what
kind of red hair he had. I started playing golf when I was only ten years
old. I remember once, the summer I was around twelve, teeing off and all,
and having a hunch that if I turned around all of a sudden, I'd see Allie.
So I did, and sure enough, he was sitting on his bike outside the
fence--there was this fence that went all around the course--and he was
sitting there, about a hundred and fifty yards behind me, watching me tee
off. That's the kind of red hair he had. God, he was a nice kid, though.
He used to laugh so hard at something he thought of at the dinner table
that he just about fell off his chair. I was only thirteen, and they were
going to have me psychoanalyzed and all, because I broke all the windows
in the garage. I don't blame them. I really don't. I slept in the garage
the night he died, and I broke all the goddam windows with my fist, just
for the hell of it. I even tried to break all the windows on the station
wagon we had that summer, but my hand was already broken and everything by
that time, and I couldn't do it. It was a very stupid thing to do, I'll
admit, but I hardly didn't even know I was doing it, and you didn't know
Allie. My hand still hurts me once in a while when it rains and all, and I
can't make a real fist any more--not a tight one, I mean--but outside of
that I don't care much. I mean I'm not going to be a goddam surgeon or a
violinist or anything anyway.
* * *
All of a sudden, this lady got on at Trenton and sat down next to
me. Practically the whole car was empty, because it was pretty late and
all, but she sat down next to me, instead of an empty seat, because she
had this big bag with her and I was sitting in the front seat. She stuck
the bag right out in the middle of the aisle, where the conductor and
everybody could trip over it. She had these orchids on, like she'd just
been to a big party or something. She was around forty or forty-five, I
guess, but she was very good looking. Women kill me. They really do. I
don't mean I'm oversexed or anything like that--although I am quite sexy.
I just like them, I mean. They're always leaving their goddam bags out in
the middle of the aisle. Anyway, we were sitting there, and all of a
sudden she said to me, "Excuse me, but isn't that a Pencey Prep sticker?"
She was looking up at my suitcases, up on the rack."Yes, it is," I said.
She was right. I did have a goddam Pencey sticker on one of my Gladstones.
Very corny, I'll admit.
"Oh, do you go to Pencey?" she said. She had a nice voice. A nice
telephone voice, mostly. She should've carried a goddam telephone around
with her.
"Yes, I do," I said.
"Oh, how lovely! Perhaps you know my son, then, Ernest Morrow? He
goes to Pencey.""Yes, I do. He's in my class."
Her son was doubtless the biggest bastard that ever went to
Pencey, in the whole crumby history of the school. He was always going
down the corridor, after he'd had a shower, snapping his soggy old wet
towel at people's asses. That's exactly the kind of a guy he was.
"Oh, how nice!" the lady said. But not corny. She was just nice
and all. "I must tell Ernest we met," she said. "May I ask your name,
dear?"
"Rudolf Schmidt," I told her. I didn't feel like giving her my
whole life history. Rudolf Schmidt was the name of the janitor of our
dorm.
"Do you like Pencey?" she asked me.
"Pencey? It's not too bad. It's not paradise or anything, but it's
as good as most schools. Some of the faculty are pretty conscientious."
"Ernest just adores it."
"I know he does," I said. Then I started shooting the old crap
around a little bit. "He adapts himself very well to things. He really
does. I mean he really knows how to adapt himself."
"Do you think so?" she asked me. She sounded interested as hell.
"Ernest? Sure," I said. Then I watched her take off her gloves.
Boy, was she lousy with rocks.
"I just broke a nail, getting out of a cab," she said. She looked
up at me and sort of smiled. She had a terrifically nice smile. She really
did. Most people have hardly any smile at all, or a lousy one. "Ernest's
father and I sometimes worry about him," she said. "We sometimes feel he's
not a terribly good mixer."
"How do you mean?"
"Well. He's a very sensitive boy. He's really never been a
terribly good mixer with other boys. Perhaps he takes things a little more
seriously than he should at his age."
Sensitive. That killed me. That guy Morrow was about as sensitive
as a goddam toilet seat.
* * *
While I was changing my shirt, I damn near gave my kid sister
Phoebe a buzz, though. I certainly felt like talking to her on the phone.
Somebody with sense and all. But I couldn't take a chance on giving her a
buzz, because she was only a little kid and she wouldn't have been up, let
alone anywhere near the phone. I thought of maybe hanging up if my parents
answered, but that wouldn't've worked, either. They'd know it was me. My
mother always knows it's me. She's psychic. But I certainly wouldn't have
minded shooting the crap with old Phoebe for a while.
You should see her. You never saw a little kid so pretty and smart
in your whole life. She's really smart. I mean she's had all A's ever
since she started school. As a matter of fact, I'm the only dumb one in
the family. My brother D.B.'s a writer and all, and my brother Allie, the
one that died, that I told you about, was a wizard. I'm the only really
dumb one. But you ought to see old Phoebe. She has this sort of red hair,
a little bit like Allie's was, that's very short in the summertime. In the
summertime, she sticks it behind her ears. She has nice, pretty little
ears. In the wintertime, it's pretty long, though. Sometimes my mother
braids it and sometimes she doesn't. It's really nice, though. She's only
ten. She's quite skinny, like me, but nice skinny. Roller-skate skinny. I
watched her once from the window when she was crossing over Fifth Avenue
to go to the park, and that's what she is, roller-skate skinny. You'd like
her. I mean if you tell old Phoebe something, she knows exactly what the
hell you're talking about. I mean you can even take her anywhere with you.
If you take her to a lousy movie, for instance, she knows it's a lousy
movie. If you take her to a pretty good movie, she knows it's a pretty
good movie. D.B. and I took her to see this French movie, The Baker's
Wife, with Raimu in it. It killed her. Her favorite is The 39 Steps,
though, with Robert Donat. She knows the whole goddam movie by heart,
because I've taken her to see it about ten times. When old Donat comes up
to this Scotch farmhouse, for instance, when he's running away from the
cops and all, Phoebe'll say right out loud in the movie--right when the
Scotch guy in the picture says it--"Can you eat the herring?" She knows
all the talk by heart. And when this professor in the picture, that's
really a German spy, sticks up his little finger with part of the middle
joint missing, to show Robert Donat, old Phoebe beats him to it--she holds
up her little finger at me in the dark, right in front of my face. She's
all right. You'd like her. The only trouble is, she's a little too
affectionate sometimes. She's very emotional, for a child. She really is.
Something else she does, she writes books all the time. Only, she doesn't
finish them. They're all about some kid named Hazel Weatherfield--only old
Phoebe spells it "Hazle." Old Hazle Weatherfield is a girl detective.
She's supposed to be an orphan, but her old man keeps showing up. Her old
man's always a "tall attractive gentleman about 20 years of age." That
kills me. Old Phoebe. I swear to God you'd like her. She was smart even
when she was a very tiny little kid. When she was a very tiny little kid,
I and Allie used to take her to the park with us, especially on Sundays.
Allie had this sailboat he used to like to fool around with on Sundays,
and we used to take old Phoebe with us. She'd wear white gloves and walk
right between us, like a lady and all. And when Allie and I were having
some conversation about things in general, old Phoebe'd be listening.
Sometimes you'd forget she was around, because she was such a little kid,
but she'd let you know. She'd interrupt you all the time. She'd give Allie
or I a push or something, and say, "Who? Who said that? Bobby or the
lady?" And we'd tell her who said it, and she'd say, "Oh," and go right on
listening and all. She killed Allie, too. I mean he liked her, too. She's
ten now, and not such a tiny little kid any more, but she still kills
everybody--everybody with any sense, anyway.
* * *
But I'm crazy. I swear to God I am. About halfway to the bathroom,
I sort of started pretending I had a bullet in my guts. Old 'Maurice had
plugged me. Now I was on the way to the bathroom to get a good shot of
bourbon or something to steady my nerves and help me really go into
action. I pictured myself coming out of the goddam bathroom, dressed and
all, with my automatic in my pocket, and staggering around a little bit.
Then I'd walk downstairs, instead of using the elevator. I'd hold onto the
banister and all, with this blood trickling out of the side of my mouth a
little at a time. What I'd do, I'd walk down a few floors--holding onto my
guts, blood leaking all over the place-- and then I'd ring the elevator
bell. As soon as old Maurice opened the doors, he'd see me with the
automatic in my hand and he'd start screaming at me, in this very
high-pitched, yellow-belly voice, to leave him alone. But I'd plug him
anyway. Six shots right through his fat hairy belly. Then I'd throw my
automatic down the elevator shaft--after I'd wiped off all the finger
prints and all. Then I'd crawl back to my room and call up Jane and have
her come over and bandage up my guts. I pictured her holding a cigarette
for me to smoke while I was bleeding and all.
The goddam movies. They can ruin you. I'm not kidding.
* * *
When I got there, though, I didn't see her around anywhere. There
were a few kids around, skating and all, and two boys were playing Flys Up
with a soft ball, but no Phoebe. I saw one kid about her age, though,
sitting on a bench all by herself, tightening her skate. I thought maybe
she might know Phoebe and could tell me where she was or something, so I
went over and sat down next to her and asked her, "Do you know Phoebe
Caulfield, by any chance?"
"Who?" she said. All she had on was jeans and about twenty
sweaters. You could tell her mother made them for her, because they were
lumpy as hell.
"Phoebe Caulfield. She lives on Seventy-first Street. She's in
the fourth grade, over at--"
"You know Phoebe?"
"Yeah, I'm her brother. You know where she is?"
"She's in Miss Callon's class, isn't she?" the kid said.
"I don't know. Yes, I think she is."
"She's prob'ly in the museum, then. We went last Saturday," the kid said.
"Which museum?" I asked her.
She shrugged her shoulders, sort of. "I don't know," she said.
"The museum."
"I know, but the one where the pictures are, or the one where the
Indians are?" "The one where the Indians."
"Thanks a lot," I said. I got up and started to go, but then I
suddenly remembered it was Sunday. "This is Sunday," I told the kid.
She looked up at me. "Oh. Then she isn't."
She was having a helluva time tightening her skate. She didn't
have any gloves on or anything and her hands were all red and cold. I gave
her a hand with it. Boy, I hadn't had a skate key in my hand for years. It
didn't feel funny, though. You could put a skate key in my hand fifty
years from now, in pitch dark, and I'd still know what it is. She thanked
me and all when I had it tightened for her. She was a very nice, polite
little kid. God, I love it when a kid's nice and polite when you tighten
their skate for them or something. Most kids are. They really are. I asked
her if she'd care to have a hot chocolate or something with me, but she
said no, thank you. She said she had to meet her friend. Kids always have
to meet their friend. That kills me.
* * *
"Well, I don't exactly hate it. You always have to--"
"Well, I hate it. Boy, do I hate it," I said. "But it isn't just
that. It's everything. I hate living in New York and all. Taxicabs, and
Madison Avenue buses, with the drivers and all always yelling at you to
get out at the rear door, and being introduced to phony guys that call the
Lunts angels, and going up and down in elevators when you just want to go
outside, and guys fitting your pants all the time at Brooks, and people
always--"
"Don't shout, please," old Sally said. Which was very funny,
because I wasn't even shouting.
"Take cars," I said. I said it in this very quiet voice. "Take
most people, they're crazy about cars. They worry if they get a little
scratch on them, and they're always talking about how many miles they get
to a gallon, and if they get a brand-new car already they start thinking
about trading it in for one that's even newer. I don't even like old cars.
I mean they don't even interest me. I'd rather have a goddam horse. A
horse is at least human, for God's sake. A horse you can at least--""I
don't know what you're even talking about," old Sally said. "You jump from
one--"
* * *
Girls. You never know what they're going to think. I once got this
girl Roberta Walsh's roommate a date with a friend of mine. His name was
Bob Robinson and he really had an inferiority complex. You could tell he
was very ashamed of his parents and all, because they said "he don't" and
"she don't" and stuff like that and they weren't very wealthy. But he
wasn't a bastard or anything. He was a very nice guy. But this Roberta
Walsh's roommate didn't like him at all. She told Roberta he was too
conceited--and the reason she thought he was conceited was because he
happened to mention to her that he was captain of the debating team. A
little thing like that, and she thought he was conceited! The trouble with
girls is, if they like a boy, no matter how big a bastard he is, they'll
say he has an inferiority complex, and if they don't like him, no matter
how nice a guy he is, or how big an inferiority complex he has, they'll
say he's conceited. Even smart girls do it.
* * *
After the movie was over, I started walking down to the Wicker
Bar, where I was supposed to meet old Carl Luce, and while I walked I sort
of thought about war and all. Those war movies always do that to me. I
don't think I could stand it if I had to go to war. I really couldn't. It
wouldn't be too bad if they'd just take you out and shoot you or
something, but you have to stay in the Army so goddam long. That's the
whole trouble. My brother D.B. was in the Army for four goddam years. He
was in the war, too--he landed on D-Day and all--but I really think he
hated the Army worse than the war. I was practically a child at the time,
but I remember when he used to come home on furlough and all, all he did
was lie on his bed, practically. He hardly ever even came in the living
room. Later, when he went overseas and was in the war and all, he didn't
get wounded or anything and he didn't have to shoot anybody. All he had to
do was drive some cowboy general around all day in a command car. He once
told Allie and I that if he'd had to shoot anybody, he wouldn't've known
which direction to shoot in. He said the Army was practically as full of
bastards as the Nazis were. I remember Allie once asked him wasn't it sort
of good that he was in the war because he was a writer and it gave him a
lot to write about and all. He made Allie go get his baseball mitt and
then he asked him who was the best war poet, Rupert Brooke or Emily
Dickinson. Allie said Emily Dickinson. I don't know too much about it
myself, because I don't read much poetry, but I do know it'd drive me
crazy if I had to be in the Army and be with a bunch of guys like Ackley
and Stradlater and old Maurice all the time, marching with them and all. I
was in the Boy Scouts once, for about a week, and I couldn't even stand
looking at the back of the guy's neck in front of me. They kept telling
you to look at the back of the guy's neck in front of you. I swear if
there's ever another war, they better just take me out and stick me in
front of a firing squad. I wouldn't object. What gets me about D.B.,
though, he hated the war so much, and yet he got me to read this book A
Farewell to Arms last summer. He said it was so terrific. That's what I
can't understand. It had this guy in it named Lieutenant Henry that was
supposed to be a nice guy and all. I don't see how D.B. could hate the
Army and war and all so much and still like a phony like that. I mean, for
instance, I don't see how he could like a phony book like that and still
like that one by Ring Lardner, or that other one he's so crazy about, The
Great Gatsby. D.B. got sore when I said that, and said I was too young and
all to appreciate it, but I don't think so. I told him I liked Ring
Lardner and The Great Gatsby and all. I did, too. I was crazy about The
Great Gatsby. Old Gatsby. Old sport. That killed me. Anyway, I'm sort of
glad they've got the atomic bomb invented. If there's ever another war,
I'm going to sit right the hell on top of it. I'll volunteer for it, I
swear to God I will.
* * *
Then something terrible happened just as I got in the park. I
dropped old Phoebe's record. It broke-into about fifty pieces. It was in a
big envelope and all, but it broke anyway. I damn near cried, it made me
feel so terrible, but all I did was, I took the pieces out of the envelope
and put them in my coat pocket. They weren't any good for anything, but I
didn't feel like just throwing them away. Then I went in the park. Boy,
was it dark.
I've lived in New York all my life, and I know Central Park like
the back of my hand, because I used to roller-skate there all the time and
ride my bike when I was a kid, but I had the most terrific trouble finding
that lagoon that night. I knew right where it was--it was right near
Central Park South and all--but I still couldn't find it. I must've been
drunker than I thought. I kept walking and walking, and it kept getting
darker and darker and spookier and spookier. I didn't see one person the
whole time I was in the park. I'm just as glad. I probably would've jumped
about a mile if I had. Then, finally, I found it. What it was, it was
partly frozen and partly not frozen. But I didn't see any ducks around. I
walked all around the whole damn lake--I damn near fell in once, in
fact--but I didn't see a single duck. I thought maybe if there were any
around, they might be asleep or something near the edge of the water, near
the grass and all. That's how I nearly fell in. But I couldn't find any.
Finally I sat down on this bench, where it wasn't so goddam dark.
Boy, I was still shivering like a bastard, and the back of my hair, even
though I had my hunting hat on, was sort of full of little hunks of ice.
That worried me. I thought probably I'd get pneumonia and die. I started
picturing millions of jerks coming to my funeral and all. My grandfather
from Detroit, that keeps calling out the numbers of the streets when you
ride on a goddam bus with him, and my aunts--I have about fifty aunts--and
all my lousy cousins. What a mob'd be there. They all came when Allie
died, the whole goddam stupid bunch of them. I have this one stupid aunt
with halitosis that kept saying how peaceful he looked lying there, D.B.
told me. I wasn't there. I was still in the hospital. I had to go to the
hospital and all after I hurt my hand. Anyway, I kept worrying that I was
getting pneumonia, with all those hunks of ice in my hair, and that I was
going to die. I felt sorry as hell for my mother and father. Especially my
mother, because she still isn't over my brother Allie yet. I kept
picturing her not knowing what to do with all my suits and athletic
equipment and all. The only good thing, I knew she wouldn't let old Phoebe
come to my goddam funeral because she was only a little kid. That was the
only good part. Then I thought about the whole bunch of them sticking me
in a goddam cemetery and all, with my name on this tombstone and all.
Surrounded by dead guys. Boy, when you're dead, they really fix you up. I
hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in
the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery.
People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday,
and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.
When the weather's nice, my parents go out quite frequently and
stick a bunch of flowers on old Allie's grave. I went with them a couple
of times, but I cut it out. In the first place, I certainly don't enjoy
seeing him in that crazy cemetery. Surrounded by dead guys and tombstones
and all. It wasn't too bad when the sun was out, but twice--twice--we were
there when it started to rain. It was awful. It rained on his lousy
tombstone, and it rained on the grass on his stomach. It rained all over
the place. All the visitors that were visiting the cemetery started
running like hell over to their cars. That's what nearly drove me crazy.
All the visitors could get in their cars and turn on their radios and all
and then go someplace nice for dinner--everybody except Allie. I couldn't
stand it. I know it's only his body and all that's in the cemetery, and
his soul's in Heaven and all that crap, but I couldn't stand it anyway. I
just wish he wasn't there. You didn't know him. If you'd known him, you'd
know what I mean. It's not too bad when the sun's out, but the sun only
comes out when it feels like coming out.
After a while, just to get my mind off getting pneumonia and all, I
took out my dough and tried to count it in the lousy light from the street
lamp. All I had was three singles and five quarters and a nickel
left--boy, I spent a fortune since I left Pencey. Then what I did, I went
down near the lagoon and I sort of skipped the quarters and the nickel
across it, where it wasn't frozen. I don't know why I did it, but I did
it. I guess I thought it'd take my mind off getting pneumonia and dying.
It didn't, though.
I started thinking how old Phoebe would feel if I got pneumonia
and died. It was a childish way to think, but I couldn't stop myself.
She'd feel pretty bad if something like that happened. She likes me a lot.
I mean she's quite fond of me. She really is. Anyway, I couldn't get that
off my mind, so finally what I figured I'd do, I figured I'd better sneak
home and see her, in case I died and all. I had my door key with me and
all, and I figured what I'd do, I'd sneak in the apartment, very quiet and
all, and just sort of chew the fat with her for a while. The only thing
that worried me was our front door. It creaks like a bastard. It's a
pretty old apartment house, and the superintendent's a lazy bastard, and
everything creaks and squeaks. I was afraid my parents might hear me
sneaking in. But I decided I'd try it anyhow.
* * *
Finally, after about an hour, I got to old Phoebe's room. She
wasn't there, though. I forgot about that. I forgot she always sleeps in
D.B.'s room when he's away in Hollywood or some place. She likes it
because it's the biggest room in the house. Also because it has this big
old madman desk in it that D.B. bought off some lady alcoholic in
Philadelphia, and this big, gigantic bed that's about ten miles wide and
ten miles long. I don't know where he bought that bed. Anyway, old Phoebe
likes to sleep in D.B.'s room when he's away, and he lets her. You ought
to see her doing her homework or something at that crazy desk. It's almost
as big as the bed. You can hardly see her when she's doing her homework.
That's the kind of stuff she likes, though. She doesn't like her own room
because it's too little, she says. She says she likes to spread out. That
kills me. What's old Phoebe got to spread out? Nothing.Anyway, I went
into D.B.'s room quiet as hell, and turned on the lamp on the desk. Old
Phoebe didn't even wake up. When the light was on and all, I sort of
looked at her for a while. She was laying there asleep, with her face sort
of on the side of the pillow. She had her mouth way open. It's funny. You
take adults, they look lousy when they're asleep and they have their
mouths way open, but kids don't. Kids look all right. They can even have
spit all over the pillow and they still look all right.
I went around the room, very quiet and all, looking at stuff for a
while. I felt swell, for a change. I didn't even feel like I was getting
pneumonia or anything any more. I just felt good, for a change. Old
Phoebe's clothes were on this chair right next to the bed. She's very
neat, for a child. I mean she doesn't just throw her stuff around, like
some kids. She's no slob. She had the jacket to this tan suit my mother
bought her in Canada hung up on the back of the chair. Then her blouse and
stuff were on the seat. Her shoes and socks were on the floor, right
underneath the chair, right next to each other. I never saw the shoes
before. They were new. They were these dark brown loafers, sort of like
this pair I have, and they went swell with that suit my mother bought her
in Canada. My mother dresses her nice. She really does. My mother has
terrific taste in some things. She's no good at buying ice skates or
anything like that, but clothes, she's perfect. I mean Phoebe always has
some dress on that can kill you. You take most little kids, even if their
parents are wealthy and all, they usually have some terrible dress on. I
wish you could see old Phoebe in that suit my mother bought her in Canada.
I'm not kidding.
I sat down on old D.B.'s desk and looked at the stuff on it. It
was mostly Phoebe's stuff, from school and all. Mostly books. The one on
top was called Arithmetic Is Fun! I sort of opened the first page and took
a look at it. This is what old Phoebe had on it:
PHOEBE WEATHERFIELD CAULFIELD
4B-1
That killed me. Her middle name is Josephine, for God's sake, not
Weatherfield. She doesn't like it, though. Every time I see her she's got
a new middle name for herself.
The book underneath the arithmetic was a geography, and the book
under the geography was a speller. She's very good in spelling. She's very
good in all her subjects, but she's best in spelling. Then, under the
speller, there were a bunch of notebooks. She has about five thousand
notebooks. You never saw a kid with so many notebooks. I opened the one on
top and looked at the first page. It had on it:
Bernice meet me at recess I have something
very very important to tell you.
That was all there was on that page. The next one had on it:
Why has south eastern Alaska so many caning factories?
Because theres so much salmon
Why has it valuable forests?
because it has the right climate.
What has our government done to make
life easier for the alaskan eskimos?
look it up for tomorrow!!!
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield
Phoebe W. Caulfield
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield, Esq.
Please pass to Shirley!!!!
Shirley you said you were sagitarius
but your only taurus bring your skates
when you come over to my house
I sat there on D.B.'s desk and read the whole notebook. It didn't
take me long, and I can read that kind of stuff, some kid's notebook,
Phoebe's or anybody's, all day and all night long. Kid's notebooks kill
me. Then I lit another cigarette--it was my last one. I must've smoked
about three cartons that day. Then, finally, I woke her up. I mean I
couldn't sit there on that desk for the rest of my life, and besides, I
was afraid my parents might barge in on me all of a sudden and I wanted to
at least say hello to her before they did. So I woke her up.
She wakes up very easily. I mean you don't have to yell at her or
anything. All you have to do, practically, is sit down on the bed and
say, "Wake up, Phoebe," and bingo, she's awake.
"Holden!" she said right away. She put her arms around my neck and
all. She's very affectionate. I mean she's quite affectionate, for a
child. Sometimes she's even too affectionate. I sort of gave her a kiss,
and she said, "Whenja get home?" She was glad as hell to see me. You could
tell.
"Not so loud. Just now. How are ya anyway?"
"I'm fine. Did you get my letter? I wrote you a five-page--"
"Yeah--not so loud. Thanks."
She wrote me this letter. I didn't get a chance to answer it,
though. It was all about this play she was in in school. She told me not
to make any dates or anything for Friday so that I could come see it.
"How's the play?" I asked her. "What'd you say the name of it was?"
"'A Christmas Pageant for Americans.' It stinks, but I'm Benedict
Arnold. I have practically the biggest part," she said. Boy, was she
wide-awake. She gets very excited when she tells you that stuff. "It
starts out when I'm dying. This ghost comes in on Christmas Eve and asks
me if I'm ashamed and everything. You know. For betraying my country and
everything. Are you coming to it?" She was sitting way the hell up in the
bed and all. "That's what I wrote you about. Are you?"
"Sure I'm coming. Certainly I'm coming."
"Daddy can't come. He has to fly to California," she said. Boy, was
she wide-awake. It only takes her about two seconds to get wide-awake. She
was sitting--sort of kneeling--way up in bed, and she was holding my
goddam hand. "Listen. Mother said you'd be home Wednesday," she said.
"She said Wednesday."
"I got out early. Not so loud. You'll wake everybody up."
"What time is it? They won't be home till very late, Mother said.
They went to a party in Norwalk, Connecticut," old Phoebe said. "Guess
what I did this afternoon! What movie I saw. Guess!"
"I don't know--Listen. Didn't they say what time they'd--"
"The Doctor," old Phoebe said. "It's a special movie they had at
the Lister Foundation. Just this one day they had it--today was the only
day. It was all about this doctor in Kentucky and everything that sticks a
blanket over this child's face that's a cripple and can't walk. Then they
send him to jail and everything. It was excellent."
"Listen a second. Didn't they say what time they'd--"
"He feels sorry for it, the doctor. That's why he sticks this
blanket over her face and everything and makes her suffocate. Then they
make him go to jail for life imprisonment, but this child that he stuck
the blanket over its head comes to visit him all the time and thanks him
for what he did. He was a mercy killer. Only, he knows he deserves to go
to jail because a doctor isn't supposed to take things away from God. This
girl in my class's mother took us. Alice Holmborg, She's my best friend.
She's the only girl in the whole--"
"Wait a second, willya?" I said. "I'm asking you a question. Did
they say what time they'd be back, or didn't they?"
"No, but not till very late. Daddy took the car and everything so
they wouldn't have to worry about trains. We have a radio in it now!
Except that Mother said nobody can play it when the car's in traffic."
I began to relax, sort of. I mean I finally quit worrying about
whether they'd catch me home or not. I figured the hell with it. If they
did, they did.
You should've seen old Phoebe. She had on these blue pajamas with
red elephants on the collars. Elephants knock her out.
"So it was a good picture, huh?" I said.
"Swell, except Alice had a cold, and her mother kept asking her
all the time if she felt grippy. Right in the middle of the picture.
Always in the middle of something important, her mother'd lean all over me
and everything and ask Alice if she felt grippy. It got on my nerves."
Then I told her about the record. "Listen, I bought you a record," I told
her. "Only I broke it on the way home." I took the pieces out of my coat
pocket and showed her. "I was plastered," I said.
"Gimme the pieces," she said. "I'm saving them." She took them
right out of my hand and then she put them in the drawer of the night
table. She kills me.
"D.B. coming home for Christmas?" I asked her.
"He may and he may not, Mother said. It all depends. He may have
to stay in Hollywood and write a picture about Annapolis."
"Annapolis, for God's sake!"
"It's a love story and everything. Guess who's going to be in it!
What movie star. Guess!"
"I'm not interested. Annapolis, for God's sake. What's D.B. know
about Annapolis, for God's sake? What's that got to do with the kind of
stories he writes?" I said. Boy, that stuff drives me crazy. That goddam
Hollywood. "What'd you do to your arm?" I asked her. I noticed she had
this big hunk of adhesive tape on her elbow. The reason I noticed it, her
pajamas didn't have any sleeves.
"This boy, Curtis Weintraub, that's in my class, pushed me while I
was going down the stairs in the park," she said. "Wanna see?" She started
taking the crazy adhesive tape off her arm.
"Leave it alone. Why'd he push you down the stairs?"
"I don't know. I think he hates me," old Phoebe said. "This other
girl and me, Selma Atterbury, put ink and stuff all over his windbreaker."
"That isn't nice. What are you--a child, for God's sake?"
"No, but every time I'm in the park, he follows me everywhere.
He's always following me. He gets on my nerves."
"He probably likes you. That's no reason to put ink all--"
"I don't want him to like me," she said. Then she started looking
at me funny. "Holden," she said, "how come you're not home Wednesday?"
"What?"
Boy, you have to watch her every minute. If you don't think she's
smart, you're mad.
"How come you're not home Wednesday?" she asked me. "You didn't
get kicked out or anything, did you?"
"I told you. They let us out early. They let the whole--"
"You did get kicked out! You did!" old Phoebe said. Then she hit
me on the leg with her fist. She gets very fisty when she feels like it.
"You did! Oh, Holden!" She had her hand on her mouth and all. She gets
very emotional, I swear to God. "Who said I got kicked out? Nobody said
I--"
"You did. You did," she said. Then she smacked me again with her
fist. If you don't think that hurts, you're crazy. "Daddy'll kill you!"
she said. Then she flopped on her stomach on the bed and put the goddam
pillow over her head. She does that quite frequently. She's a true madman
sometimes.
"Cut it out, now," I said. "Nobody's gonna kill me. Nobody's
gonna even--C'mon, Phoeb, take that goddam thing off your head. Nobody's
gonna kill me."
She wouldn't take it off, though. You can't make her do something
if she doesn't want to. All she kept saying was, "Daddy s gonna kill you."
You could hardly understand her with that goddam pillow over her head.
"Nobody's gonna kill me. Use your head. In the first place, I'm
going away. What I may do, I may get a job on a ranch or something for a
while. I know this guy whose grandfather's got a ranch in Colorado. I may
get a job out there," I said. "I'll keep in touch with you and all when
I'm gone, if I go. C'mon. Take that off your head. C'mon, hey, Phoeb.
Please. Please, willya?'
She wouldn't take it off, though I tried pulling it off, but
she's strong as hell. You get tired fighting with her. Boy, if she wants
to keep a pillow over her head, she keeps it. "Phoebe, please. C'mon outa
there," I kept saying. "C'mon, hey . . . Hey, Weatherfield. C'mon out."
She wouldn't come out, though. You can't even reason with her
sometimes. Finally, I got up and went out in the living room and got some
cigarettes out of the box on the table and stuck some in my pocket. I was
all out.
* * *
I'm not too sure old Phoebe knew what the hell I was talking
about. I mean she's only a little child and all. But she was listening, at
least. If somebody at least listens, it's not too bad.
* * *
"I got my damn bags at the station," I said. "Listen. You got any
dough, Phoeb? I'm practically broke."
"Just my Christmas dough. For presents and all. I haven't done any
shopping at all yet."
"Oh." I didn't want to take her Christmas dough.
"You want some?" she said.
"I don't want to take your Christmas dough."
"I can lend you some," she said. Then I heard her over at D.B.'s
desk, opening a million drawers and feeling around with her hand. It was
pitch-black, it was so dark in the room. "If you go away, you won't see me
in the play," she said. Her voice sounded funny when she said it.
"Yes, I will. I won't go way before that. You think I wanna miss
the play?" I said. "What I'll do, I'll probably stay at Mr. Antolini's
house till maybe Tuesday night. Then I'll come home. If I get a chance,
I'll phone ya."
"Here," old Phoebe said. She was trying to give me the dough, but
she couldn't find my hand.
"Where?"
She put the dough in my hand.
"Hey, I don't need all this," I said. "Just give me two bucks, is
all. No kidding--Here." I tried to give it back to her, but she wouldn't
take it.
"You can take it all. You can pay me back. Bring it to the play."
"How much is it, for God's sake?"
"Eight dollars and eighty-five cents. Sixty-five cents. I spent
some."
Then, all of a sudden, I started to cry. I couldn't help it. I did
it so nobody could hear me, but I did it. It scared hell out of old Phoebe
when I started doing it, and she came over and tried to make me stop, but
once you get started, you can't just stop on a goddam dime. I was still
sitting on the edge of the bed when I did it, and she put her old arm
around my neck, and I put my arm around her, too, but I still couldn't
stop for a long time. I thought I was going to choke to death or
something. Boy, I scared hell out of poor old Phoebe. The damn window was
open and everything, and I could feel her shivering and all, because all
she had on was her pajamas. I tried to make her get back in bed, but she
wouldn't go. Finally I stopped. But it certainly took me a long, long
time. Then I finished buttoning my coat and all. I told her I'd keep in
touch with her. She told me I could sleep with her if I wanted to, but I
said no, that I'd better beat it, that Mr. Antolini was waiting for me and
all. Then I took my hunting hat out of my coat pocket and gave it to her.
She likes those kind of crazy hats. She didn't want to take it, but I made
her. I'll bet she slept with it on. She really likes those kind of hats.
Then I told her again I'd give her a buzz if I got a chance, and then I
left.
* * *
All of a sudden I looked at the clock in the checkroom and it was
twenty-five of one. I began to get scared that maybe that old lady in the
school had told that other lady not to give old Phoebe my message. I began
to get scared that maybe she'd told her to burn it or something. It really
scared hell out of me. I really wanted to see old Phoebe before I hit the
road. I mean I had her Christmas dough and all.
Finally, I saw her. I saw her through the glass part of the door.
The reason I saw her, she had my crazy hunting hat on--you could see that
hat about ten miles away. I went out the doors and started down these
stone stairs to meet her. The thing I couldn't understand, she had this
big suitcase with her. She was just coming across Fifth Avenue, and she
was dragging this goddam big suitcase with her. She could hardly drag it.
When I got up closer, I saw it was my old suitcase, the one I used to use
when I was at Whooton. I couldn't figure out what the hell she was doing
with it. "Hi," she said when she got up close. She was all out of breath
from that crazy suitcase.
"I thought maybe you weren't coming," I said. "What the hell's in
that bag? I don't need anything. I'm just going the way I am. I'm not
even taking the bags I got at the station. What the hellya got in there?"
She put the suitcase down. "My clothes," she said. "I'm going with
you. Can I? Okay?"
"What?" I said. I almost fell over when she said that. I swear to
God I did. I got sort of dizzy and I thought I was going to pass out or
something again.
"I took them down the back elevator so Charlene wouldn't see me.
It isn't heavy. All I have in it is two dresses and my moccasins and my
underwear and socks and some other things. Feel it. It isn't heavy. Feel
it once. . . Can't I go with you? Holden? Can't I? Please."
"No. Shut up."
I thought I was going to pass out cold. I mean I didn't mean to
tell her to shut up and all, but I thought I was going to pass out again.
"Why can't I? Please, Holden! I won't do anything-- I'll just go
with you, that's all! I won't even take my clothes with me if you don't
want me to--I'll just take my--"
"You can't take anything. Because you're not going. I'm going
alone. So shut up." "Please, Holden. Please let me go. I'll be very,
very, very--You won't even--" "You're not going. Now, shut up! Gimme that
bag," I said. I took the bag off her. I was almost all set to hit her, I
thought I was going to smack her for a second. I really did.
She started to cry.
"I thought you were supposed to be in a play at school and all I
thought you were supposed to be Benedict Arnold in that play and all," I
said. I said it very nasty. "Whuddaya want to do? Not be in the play, for
God's sake?" That made her cry even harder. I was glad. All of a sudden I
wanted her to cry till her eyes practically dropped out. I almost hated
her. I think I hated her most because she wouldn't be in that play any
more if she went away with me.
"Come on," I said. I started up the steps to the museum again. I
figured what I'd do was, I'd check the crazy suitcase she'd brought in the
checkroom, andy then she could get it again at three o'clock, after
school. I knew she couldn't take it back to school with her. "Come on,
now," I said.
She didn't go up the steps with me, though. She wouldn't come with
me. I went up anyway, though, and brought the bag in the checkroom and
checked it, and then I came down again. She was still standing there on
the sidewalk, but she turned her back on me when I came up to her. She can
do that. She can turn her back on you when she feels like it. "I'm not
going away anywhere. I changed my mind. So stop crying, and shut up," I
said. The funny part was, she wasn't even crying when I said that. I said
it anyway, though, "C'mon, now. I'll walk you back to school. C'mon, now.
You'll be late."
She wouldn't answer me or anything. I sort of tried to get hold of
her old hand, but she wouldn't let me. She kept turning around on me.
"Didja have your lunch? Ya had your lunch yet?" I asked her.
She wouldn't answer me. All she did was, she took off my red hunting
hat--the one I gave her--and practically chucked it right in my face. Then
she turned her back on me again. It nearly killed me, but I didn't say
anything. I just picked it up and stuck it in my coat pocket.
"Come on, hey. I'll walk you back to school," I said.
"I'm not going back to school."
I didn't know what to say when she said that. I just stood there
for a couple of minutes.
"You have to go back to school. You want to be in that play, don't
you? You want to be Benedict Arnold, don't you?"
"No."
"Sure you do. Certainly you do. C'mon, now, let's go," I said. "In
the first place, I'm not going away anywhere, I told you. I'm going home.
I'm going home as soon as you go back to school. First I'm gonna go down
to the station and get my bags, and then I'm gonna go straight--"
"I said I'm not going back to school. You can do what you want to
do, but I'm not going back to school," she said. "So shut up." It was the
first time she ever told me to shut up. It sounded terrible. God, it
sounded terrible. It sounded worse than swearing. She still wouldn't look
at me either, and every time I sort of put my hand on her shoulder or
something, she wouldn't let me.
"Listen, do you want to go for a walk?" I asked her. "Do you want
to take a walk down to the zoo? If I let you not go back to school this
afternoon and go for walk, will you cut out this crazy stuff?"
She wouldn't answer me, so I said it over again. "If I let you skip
school this afternoon and go for a little walk, will you cut out the crazy
stuff? Will you go back to school tomorrow like a good girl?"
"I may and I may not," she said. Then she ran right the hell across
the street, without even looking to see if any cars were coming. She's a
madman sometimes.
I didn't follow her, though. I knew she'd follow me, so I started
walking downtown toward the zoo, on the park side of the street, and she
started walking downtown on the other goddam side of the street, She
wouldn't look over at me at all, but I could tell she was probably
watching me out of the corner of her crazy eye to see where I was going
and all. Anyway, we kept walking that way all the way to the zoo. The only
thing that bothered me was when a double-decker bus came along because
then I couldn't see across the street and I couldn't see where the hell
she was. But when we got to the zoo, I yelled over to her, "Phoebe! I'm
going in the zoo! C'mon, now!" She wouldn't look at me, but I could tell
she heard me, and when I started down the steps to the zoo I turned around
and saw she was crossing the street and following me and all.
There weren't too many people in the zoo because it was sort of a
lousy day, but there were a few around the sea lions' swimming pool and
all. I started to go by but old Phoebe stopped and made out she was
watching the sea lions getting fed--a guy was throwing fish at them--so I
went back. I figured it was a good chance to catch up with her and all. I
went up and sort of stood behind her and sort of put my hands on her
shoulders, but she bent her knees and slid out from me--she can certainly
be very snotty when she wants to. She kept standing there while the sea
lions were getting fed and I stood right behind her. I didn't put my hands
on her shoulders again or anything because if I had she really would've
beat it on me. Kids are funny. You have to watch what you're doing.
She wouldn't walk right next to me when we left the sea lions, but
she didn't walk too far away. She sort of walked on one side of the
sidewalk and I walked on the other side. It wasn't too gorgeous, but it
was better than having her walk about a mile away from me, like before. We
went up and watched the bears, on that little hill, for a while, but there
wasn't much to watch. Only one of the bears was out, the polar bear. The
other one, the brown one, was in his goddam cave and wouldn't come out.
All you could see was his rear end. There was a little kid standing next
to me, with a cowboy hat on practically over his ears, and he kept telling
his father, "Make him come out, Daddy. Make him come out." I looked at old
Phoebe, but she wouldn't laugh. You know kids when they're sore at you.
They won't laugh or anything.
After we left the bears, we left the zoo and crossed over this
little street in the park, and then we went through one of those little
tunnels that always smell from somebody's taking a leak. It was on the way
to the carrousel. Old Phoebe still wouldn't talk to me or anything, but
she was sort of walking next to me now. I took a hold of the belt at the
back of her coat, just for the hell of it, but she wouldn't let me. She
said, "Keep your hands to yourself, if you don't mind." She was still sore
at me. But not as sore as she was before. Anyway, we kept getting closer
and closer to the carrousel and you could start to hear that nutty music
it always plays. It was playing "Oh, Marie!" It played that same song
about fifty years ago when I was a little kid. That's one nice thing about
carrousels, they always play the same songs.
"I thought the carrousel was closed in the wintertime," old Phoebe
said. It was the first time she practically said anything. She probably
forgot she was supposed to be sore at me.
"Maybe because it's around Christmas," I said.
She didn't say anything when I said that. She probably remembered
she was supposed to be sore at me.
"Do you want to go for a ride on it?" I said. I knew she probably
did. When she was a tiny little kid, and Allie and D.B. and I used to go
to the park with her, she was mad about the carrousel. You couldn't get
her off the goddam thing.
"I'm too big." she said. I thought she wasn't going to answer me,
but she did. "No, you're not. Go on. I'll wait for ya. Go on," I said.
We were right there then. There were a few kids riding on it, mostly very
little kids, and a few parents were waiting around outside, sitting on the
benches and all. What I did was, I went up to the window where they sell
the tickets and bought old Phoebe a ticket. Then I gave it to her. She
was standing right next to me. "Here," I said. "Wait a second--take the
rest of your dough, too." I started giving her the rest of the dough she'd
lent me.
"You keep it. Keep it for me," she said. Then she said right
afterward--"Please."
That's depressing, when somebody says "please" to you. I mean if
it's Phoebe or somebody. That depressed the hell out of me. But I put the
dough back in my pocket. "Aren't you gonna ride, too?" she asked me. She
was looking at me sort of funny. You could tell she wasn't too sore at me
any more.
"Maybe I will the next time. I'll watch ya," I said. "Got your
ticket?"
"Yes."
"Go ahead, then--I'll be on this bench right over here. I'll watch
ya." I went over and sat down on this bench, and she went and got on the
carrousel. She walked all around it. I mean she walked once all the way
around it. Then she sat down on this big, brown, beat-up-looking old
horse. Then the carrousel started, and I watched her go around and around.
There were only about five or six other kids on the ride, and the song the
carrousel was playing was "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes." It was playing it
very jazzy and funny. All the kids kept trying to grab for the gold ring,
and so was old Phoebe, and I was sort of afraid she'd fall off the goddam
horse, but I didn't say anything or do anything. The thing with kids is,
if they want to grab the gold ring, you have to let them do it, and not
say anything. If they fall off they fall off, but it's bad if you say
anything to them.
When the ride was over she got off her horse and came over to me.
"You ride once, too, this time," she said.
"No, I'll just watch ya. I think I'll just watch," I said. I gave
her some more of her dough. "Here. Get some more tickets."
She took the dough off me. "I'm not mad at you any more," she
said.
"I know. Hurry up--the thing's gonna start again."
Then all of a sudden she gave me a kiss. Then she held her hand
out, and said, "It's raining. It's starting to rain."
"I know."
Then what she did--it damn near killed me--she reached in my coat
pocket and took out my red hunting hat and put it on my head.
"Don't you want it?" I said.
"You can wear it a while."
"Okay. Hurry up, though, now. You're gonna miss your ride. You
won't get your own horse or anything."
She kept hanging around, though.
"Did you mean it what you said? You really aren't going away
anywhere? Are you really going home afterwards?" she asked me.
"Yeah," I said. I meant it, too. I wasn't lying to her. I really
did go home afterwards. "Hurry up, now," I said. "The thing's starting."
She ran and bought her ticket and got back on the goddam carrousel
just in time. Then she walked all the way around it till she got her own
horse back. Then she got on it. She waved to me and I waved back.
Boy, it began to rain like a bastard. In buckets, I swear to God.
All the parents and mothers and everybody went over and stood right under
the roof of the carrousel, so they wouldn't get soaked to the skin or
anything, but I stuck around on the bench for quite a while. I got pretty
soaking wet, especially my neck and my pants. My hunting hat really gave
me quite a lot of protection, in a way; but I got soaked anyway. I didn't
care, though. I felt so damn happy all of sudden, the way old Phoebe kept
going around and around. I was damn near bawling, I felt so damn happy, if
you want to know the truth. I don't know why. It was just that she looked
so damn nice, the way she kept going around and around, in her blue coat
and all. God, I wish you could've been there.
* * *