Some Came Running

stop.

BOOK ONE

THE INVESTMENT

CHAPTER 1

OF course, he knew the town when the bus slowed coming into it. He had known it nineteen years ago when he left it, and he would know it again nineteen years from now, if he should ever happen to come back a second time. A man’s home town, the one where he was born and raised, was always special. It was as if secretly all those years your senses themselves had banded together on their own and memorized everything about it so thoroughly that they remembered them even when you didnt. Even with the things you did remember, your senses kept remembering them first a split second sooner and startling you. And it didnt matter whether you loved the thing or hated it. He shifted a little in his seat, suddenly selfconscious of the man beside him. Your senses didnt feel. They just remembered. He looked out again.

The long S curve wound across a little rise and then dropped to the little wooded creek and crossed a bridge, before it became a brick street and began to climb the long hill between the houses. He looked out upon the estate of the town’s richest doctor, nestled in the arm of the first curve. Further west behind it were the well-treed grounds of the little denominational college. A mile off east were the thin stacks of the Sternutol Chemical. Then the bus went on around the second curve through the woods and crossed the bridge, still slowing.

Parkman! the driver called.

It had been visible off across the flat sand prairies of the Southern Illinois landscape long before they ever got there. He had even known beforehand the exact spot where it would become visible. The last rise which when you topped it out onto the flat, suddenly there it was, miles away yet, its trees that hid the houses rising slowly up the sides of the hill that was crowned with the county courthouse, the whole an island in the middle of its gray sea of winter farmland, and on the left five miles away the thick woods of the Wabash River bottoms. Under the November sky, it had made him think of El Greco’s View of Toledo, and he had had that same devilish weird unearthly feeling of foreboding. Suddenly he had thought that The Greek must have really hated that town. Or else feared it.

The driver stopped using his brake and ground the bus on up the mile long hill toward town, Dave watching the houses along North Main Street and remembering most of them. If he hadnt got drunk yesterday in Chicago with that bunch of guys hed been discharged with, he would never have come back here. Sober now, he knew it was a damn fool thing to do. He never should have come back, not after the way hed left, he felt bad, a deep depression.

When the bus stopped, he got his issue overcoat and canvas furlough satchel off the rack and followed the driver down into the cold air outside and set the furlough satchel on the wet bricks.

He was here, and he was staying. Across the square of the town with the courthouse of the county seat in its center a light November snow was falling and melting. It had wet everything, streets sidewalks lampposts, storefronts, and the echelon of parked cars with Illinois plates alongside of which the bus had pulled up in the street. At a distance under the low gray of the early afternoon sky the wind blew the invisible snow in invisible patterns against the lighted windows of the courthouse offices.

Dave’s heart knocked suddenly against the backs of his eyes and he wanted to laugh. No man his age had a right to be this excited over anything except a woman.

The immaculate bus driver had put on black gloves and was squatting in front of the baggage compartment in the side. Across the square two cars started up, exhaling their white winter exhausts, and backed out and pulled away.

Watching them, the whole feel of winter Illinois in a small town flooded back over Dave and he grinned like a man about to explode a stink bomb in a crowded hall of enemies. When he had left Parkman Illinois nineteen years ago, it had been under very unsavory circumstances: As a senior in high school he got a girl from down in the country pregnant and ran off with a carnival upon the advice of his family. That had been in 1928, and he was 17. Now he was 36, and it was 1947. A long loop of years … a long loop of living … lay scattered in between. None of his relatives knew he was coming. It wasnt hard to imagine the furor it was going to create.

Hirsh, David L., the driver said, reading the stencil on the bulging B-4 bag he had dragged out to the edge of the baggage hole.

Thats me, Dave said. He turned back from the townscape, still savoring the malices he would activate, and hung the overcoat over his left arm carefully so the bottle in the pocket would not fall out.

The driver swung the big bag to the pavement. Ive only got four of these things this trip, he said with wry complaint.

Lots of guys coming home, Dave grinned. He took the bag and set it with the furlough satchel. The driver, watching him, began to laugh.

That was sure some little farewell speech you made those other soljerboys just before we left Chicago.

Well, they came to see me off. I had to tell them something.

You told them. I just wish my wife could of heard that little bit about kickin the 4Fs out of their beds. That war was hard on us bus drivers, too.

I bet it was also hard on bus drivers’ wives, Dave said.

The driver laughed arrogantly and pushed back his cap with a thumb and put the backs of his palm soiled gloves immaculately on his hips. You know, I was born and raised about fifteen miles from here myself, he said.

Where?

West Lancaster. It was a muddy little community, weathering away on the river bank beside a discontinued ferry.

Sure. I know West Lancaster. Dave hadnt heard the words in years.

You dont see me going back, the driver offered. He looked around him at the square of business houses and grinned. I know these towns. No bars. No burlyque. No nightclubs. No racetracks. He bent down again at the luggage compartment in the side. You cant even buy whiskey, except in a package. Gimme Chicago.

They still sell beer, Dave said, looking at the sign over a tavern. He kept his face deadpan: And theres always the church socials.

The driver looked up, his face pained. Jesus God! You mean they still have those?

Dave laughed, looking again around the square with its business houses.

Well, you can always learn to play golf, the driver said, bending his head again to the compartment. Parkman’s got a snazzy Country Club.

My brother’s a wheel in the Country Club, Dave said.

The driver didnt hear it. But then, Dave didnt really care. Perhaps he hadnt even said it to the driver, perhaps hed said it to himself. Or to the town.

The driver had his head in the baggage compartment. Dave was still looking off across the town. It was curious, that association of golf and his brother Frank in his mind. Out on the West Coast where he had been living when he was drafted, there were almost as many golf courses as golfers; and he never passed one that it wasnt immediately Frank he thought of first. Dear Frank, Dear Brother Frank the little breadwinner, Brother Frank the family father. Brother Frank the jeweler. Across the square on the east side he could see the building. He couldnt read the words painted on the two plateglass windows, but he knew what they said, in their gold-and-black jeweler’s script: FRANK HIRSH, JEWELER and FRANK HIRSH’S JEWELRY STORE. The building had not changed any in nineteen years, and neither had the business block it was a part of, and they would not be changed either, the words, and the window displays would still be arranged carefully with that racial trait of Germanic thoroughness that was as natural to the Hirshes as their ball-like heads and blocky bodies. Only now there would be clerks, instead of just Frank and his wife Agnes. Brother Frank would probably be in the back in the office, right now smooching around with his office girl. As he watched from across the square, a woman in a coat with a fur collar went inside. Dave had worked there all through high school. It was hard to believe.

The bus driver had pulled two big bundles of magazines to the lip of the opening. Well, I had best get on with my chores, he said. Ive already got your checks. Youre loose.

Its too bad you dont get off duty here, Dave said suddenly. You and me would throw a party. Ive got plenty of money.

If his voice was harsh the driver didnt notice. Well I aint, he said. And these people want to get on down the road. He pulled off his black gloves and touched up his tie. Then he put the gloves back on and picked up the bundles. But you ever get back up to Chi look me up the Randolph Street Station. Name’s O’Donnell. He carried the bundles across the sidewalk and inside where probably a woman worked, holding them carefully away from his slick lady-slaughterer’s uniform.

Dave watched him go in under the sign over the store front that read PARKMAN NEWS AGENCY; on the window was painted another sign BUS STATION PARKMAN ILLINOIS. The place was both. It had been both nineteen years ago, too.

He turned back to his bags, wishing momentarily that they could have gone on talking. But when he asked himself why or what about, there wasnt any answer. Why did he do it? things like that offer to the driver. He didnt know. But he always did. Half angry, he picked up his bags and started down the street to the hotel.

It would have ruined all his plans for a triumph that he had worked out so carefully on the way down and he would have gone right ahead and done it anyway just like that. All around him the town lay spread out seemingly quiet and peaceful under the winter sky. He grinned. He was not fooled. Behind this misleading facade telephones still lurked, bells poised and waiting. The whole town would know he was here before suppertime.

The Hotel Francis Parkman was Parkman’s finest. There were two others. But The Parkman—named after the same historian and author of The Oregon Trail whom the founding fathers had chosen to name their town for in 1850—was the only one that had a kitchen and dining room. It was where all the corporation executives and other visiting dignitaries stayed when they came to town and Dave Hirsh was not going to stay anywhere else either. The cold wind touched its tongue of melting snow grains to the store fronts as he passed.

In the lobby it was warm and easeful, after outside. A luxurious wood fire was burning brightly in the old style marble fireplace and three men in suits and ties and one carefully dressed woman sat in deep chairs near it. When the people talked they didnt look at each other but stared out the big window at the weather as if fascinated by it.

Dave felt his chest swelling with excitement as he set his bags down. It was the first time in some months that he had been vain about his uniform. A uniform was like anything else, when you were around where everyone else had the same thing it didnt mean nearly as much to you.

The clerk left his work and came to the register. He was a chubby blond young man in a suit that looked too big for him. There was a Purple Heart button in his lapel and a glass eye in his face.

Yes, sir? With his good eye he scanned Dave’s ribbons.

I want the best room in the house, Dave said. He had been aware of the four loungers eyeing him. Now he could feel their gazes converge upon him like four columns of infantry.

Yes, sir, the clerk said. We have a corner suite of two rooms. Thats our best.

Ill take it, Dave said.

Yes, sir. If you will just register, please. He turned the card holder and pushed it forward, while the glass eye continued to stare out of his chubby face like a bright blue marble pressed into a piepan of dough. Price is ten dollars.

Dave printed his name carefully. He wanted to be sure everyone could read it. Under it he put his old address in North Hollywood.

Then he looked up and found himself staring into the cold reserve of the clerk’s glass eye. Time seemed to hang. Then the clerk blinked. This seemingly unnatural act, a direct violation of the laws of motion of inanimate bodies, while freeing him, shocked him like a blow from a fist, he felt the eyelid should have clicked. Or at least made a grating noise. Momentarily, the soldier in him re-asserted itself. Christ what a way to get it. In the eyes.

Have the boy bring my bags up, will you? he said.

Ill bring them, sir, the clerk said. Our bellboy isnt home from school yet. He turned the register and read the card. Hirsh? he said politely. We have a Mr Frank Hirsh in our town. Who owns the jewelry store.

Yes, I know, Dave said, again aware of the loungers. Im his brother.

It meant nothing to the clerk. But Dave was sure it meant something to the four loungers. You could almost feel it, in the air. He started for the back of the lobby, where the stairs were.

Just a minute, Mr Hirsh, and Ill show you the way, the clerk said. I know the way, Dave said, not stopping, I was born and raised here.

It was all just exactly like he had played it out in his mind. Except for that damned glass eye. It was almost occult, how like it was. Sometimes there had been just two loungers, sometimes six or seven. But there were always loungers. He had thought about it a lot, this homecoming, in a lot of different places—with the carnival and the circuses he worked for, later on on the bum, still later when he lived with his sister Francine, who was Frank’s twin, in North Hollywood.

At the top of the stairs he looked back and saw the clerk struggling up with the heavy B-4 bag and the satchel. He had completely forgotten all about him. He ran back down the stairs and held out his hand for the small bag.

Here, give me that.

I can manage it, the clerk said coldly.

Dave took it anyway.

The clerk shrugged.

Again, Dave felt that reasonless fear for his own eyes. I dont want you to strain yourself on that thing, he joked.

A man can stuff everythin but a ten room house in one of these things, the clerk countered.

This war has ruptured a lot of redcaps, Dave said. What if the VA had to pay them compensation?

Do you want the country to go broke, the clerk countered, but he did not laugh. He was apparently used to this trick of people having to make conversation with him. He led the way on down the hall. Here we go, Mr Hirsh, he said, opening the door. The bedroom is on in here. He carted the big B-4 bag into it. Dave could hear him hanging it up on the closet door.

He disposed of his overcoat and got the bottle out of it. He had it open in his hand when the boy came back in, staring unconcernedly with the bright blue eye. It was the first undistracted look Dave had got at it and it made him want to wince. It was a botched up job, even for the Army.

How about a drink after all that exertion? he said, holding it out. He tossed a half dollar on the daybed.

The clerk pocketed it. I didnt hear you. Sure. I can awys use a drink.

When he spoke this time Dave detected the accent he had been trying to put his finger on. He handed him the open bottle. Youre not from around here, are you? Where you from, Jersey?

Yeah, Jersey City. He did not quite say Joisey.

We had a bunch of Jersey boys in my outfit, Dave said. Whats your name?

Barker. Freddy Barker. I was station down at George Field near Vincennes and married a girl from here. Came back out here after I got discharge.

He took a sparing drink from the bottle and made as if to hand it back, but Dave made a gesture for him to have another. Instead, the clerk set it gently on the end table.

Thanks for the drink, he said. Is there anything else I can get you right now, Mr Hirsh?

Yes, there is. As a matter of fact, Dave said. He opened his left blouse pocket. Id like to have some ice. And Ive got a bank draft here for fifty-five hundred dollars that Id like for you to take over to the Second National Bank and deposit for me.

There was just a second’s pause. Why you want me to deposit it for you?

Because I dont want to go over there myself, Dave said. And while youre gone, pick me up a couple bottles of whiskey.

Okay. The clerk was looking at him curiously with his good eye. The other, as always, was aloof and cold. Its got to be signed, doesnt it?

Dave nodded and got out his pen. Ill sign it right now. Itll be worth a couple of bucks to you to get it in before the bank closes.

Ill do it right away.

Dave handed him the check and a $20 bill. Instead of whiskey, why dont you get me a fifth of Gordon’s gin and a bottle of Noilly Prat vermouth.

I doubt if anybodyll have that kind.

Okay, then just get the whiskey. Any good blend.

The clerk nodded. Thats a lot of money to trust a stranger with, he said.

I know, cant you see how worried I look?

The clerk grinned, a little, a lop sided weird grin because his left eye did not join in and grin with the rest of him.

You said the Second National, didnt you? he asked. A checking account?

Thats right. Dont you want another drink?

Yes. Ill take one. He picked the bottle up off the table. Your brother Frank is a member of the Board at the other bank, isnt he? he said. At the Cray County Bank?

I believe he is, Dave said. The young clerk drank the raw whiskey easily. Then he folded the check and bill and put them in his jacket pocket. When he got up the expression of his good eye was as veiled as that of the glass one. Ill get this done for you right away, Mr Hirsh.

Have another drink before you go if you want, Dave said.

If I have another drink, Ill wind up spendin the afternoon here, the clerk said. There was no humor in his face. He went to the door.

Ill bring you back a deposit slip, he said.

Dave sat still a moment or two, thinking about the clerk. He liked him. But then he liked most everybody. But he hadnt handled him right. He got up and walked over to the window, taking the bottle with him. But he did not drink, and a big arrogant grin spread over his face. He was thinking about the faces of the people in the bank, when they saw his name on that check. And he was thinking about his brother Frank’s face, when he heard about it, which he would soon enough.

Down below him Freddy came out from under the hotel marquee in a topcoat now but bareheaded in the spitting snow. Dave watched him cross the street diagonally and go up the other side to the square.

Standing at the window, for a moment he forgot the town. He seemed to go back into the Army. You didnt get over it all at once. And the one eyed clerk had brought out a singularly strong emotion in him. He had just finished spending four years of his life with boys like that. They called him Pop. And they brought their troubles to him. They believed that, being nearly thirty-five, he by rights ought to know more about life than they did. He had wound up as a sort of elected father of the outfit, and now he missed that. Wherever they were now. All scattered out. A lot of them dead. And a lot of them crippled too, like Freddy.

It seemed that in the last few years the cripples had become a normal part of everyday life, a steady stream of them, rolling back from over both seas, hardly anyone even noticed them any more. He was suddenly reminded of Falstaff’s speech about the maimed and crippled rabble, that had come home with him, from the Continental Wars.

It must have been a lot like this in Rome, too, during her great days of world leadership. Except now the government bought them cars which the tax payers paid for. Well, civilization had advanced a lot. The only thing was he, Dave, had about got to the place where he didnt much give a damn about civilization any more. Except of course for the comforts. Thats what kept us all going wasnt it: the comforts.

Sometimes, and increasingly the past year and a half that hed served with the Occupation Army in Germany, Dave got the feeling he was living in a dying age. It was the same feeling he got when he listened to Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring, a picture not of the birth of the world but the death, and the now primitive tribes that sang hauntingly of the former greatness of their people and put the rusted gun and the wrecked auto upon their stone altars and worshipped them as gods because they no longer knew how to operate them.

Along roads and streets no longer plainly marked, amongst courthouses and buildings turned into grass grown piles of masonry, filled with the rotting records of an entire civilization, gone.

And in Germany it was not hard to believe it completely. Here it was a little harder.

At such times, it was not too difficult to believe that a man of his own years if he learned to throw a knife and taught himself the intricacies of archery he could plan ahead upon someday making himself Chief of the Wabash Valley, or even Chief of All Illinois.

Except the man was always too lazy. And he wasnt getting any younger either. He was getting noticeably older, in fact. Getting bald and until the Army took him and worked it off him had been getting rounder with the unhealthy fat of eating and drinking too much. The comforts. It appeared to be a toss up, which would outlast the other, he thought, the world or the man.

But either way the man would lose. Lose the bodies of women, lose the physical health, lose the witty intelligence, lose all the great loves the man might have had.

That seemed to be what the emotional progression always ended up at. All his life, he thought, he had been afraid of getting syphilis. Well, it was a wild, weird, melancholy thing, when it took him, and the only thing to do was wear it out. Probably thinking about all the cripples was what had brought it on.

Still holding the bottle, he left the window and went into the bedroom to the closet and from one of the sidepockets of the B-4 bag fished out his books. There were five, all Viking Portables. FITZGERALD, HEMINGWAY, FAULKNER, STEINBECK, WOLFE—the five major influences his sister Francine had called them. She had sent them to him in Europe one by one as they came out.

Dave grinned. Sister Francine. It was her address he had put on the hotel register. It was she he had been living with—and largely off of—in Hollywood when he got drafted. She was a good old gal but she just couldnt get over being an English teacher it had given her an abnormal love for literature she had to feel that what she did was important.

Well, a lot of people labored under that self delusion. He grinned derisively at the five major influences, the biggest mark of his time spent with her—what was it? eleven, almost twelve years. Off and on.

Nevertheless, the sight of the five books there on the dresser, their pages swelled with too much reading, their covers warped from too many barracks bags, really touched him deeply. He had dragged them half way across Europe, they had seen a lot of country with him.

Affectionately, he arranged them between hotel water glasses for bookends and then, still holding the bottle from which he had not drunk yet, went back into the other room to the windows. Freddy was just coming back around the corner carrying a paper sack. Dave watched him go in under the marquee, feeling a strange sense of loss for that imposed fatherhood he had suffered in the 3615th QM Gasoline Supply Company. When the knock came on the door he went over and opened it.

The clerk set the ice bowl down on the table and immediately reached for his pocket.

They didnt give me a deposit slip. They wrote it down in a bank book. Its in the slot.

He looked at Dave questioningly.

Dave nodded and went through the motions of opening the checkbook and checking the amount because he knew that was what the other wanted. Freddy appeared satisfied and handed him his change.

I had to get the whiskey, he said.

Thats fine, Dave said, and handed him back a five dollar bill.

Thanks, the clerk said. He stuck it in his pocket.

Do you want another drink? Dave said.

Well, I might have just one. His face was already liquor-flushed, and he did not look like a tough ex vet any more. Nowhere, that is, except for that one icily dispassionate, bright blue old soldier’s eye that some Army doctor had stuck in his face by way of replacement.

Hes just a kid, Dave thought with surprise. Hes no more of a tough ex vet than I am.

That air kind of hit me outside, Freddy said, picking up the bottle and studying it. Say, do you know Ned Roberts, the Second National cashier?

Ned Roberts? Dave said. Ned Roberts. Yeah. Sure. He was two years ahead of me in school. Is he their cashier?

Freddy nodded. He remembered you.

He did, hunh?

He looked funny, Freddy said. It was clear he knew there was something a little out of the ordinary that he was not in on. I couldnt tell if he was surprised because it was you, or if he was surprised because it was that much money.

Dave grinned. Probably both. Maybe he was thinking about my brother on the board of the other bank.

The clerk nodded, indifferent. But he was looking at Dave curiously. You know, Ive lived in this town almost four years, and I still dont know anything about it, he said. Its a funny kind of town.

Not so funny, Dave said. Probably not much like Jersey City though.

No. Not much. Well, Ill see you later, Freddy said. He went to the door, and then turned back, his face closed up tight like a poker player making a big raise. Mind if I ask you something?

No. Shoot.

You was in the QM. He nodded at Dave’s shoulderpatch.

Dave nodded. 3615th QM Gas Supply Company. I was Company Medic.

If you was in the QM, howd you get that Combat Infantryman’s Badge? He nodded again, at the emblem of the Kentucky rifle on its blue field with the silver wreath around it.

My outfit fought as Infantry during the Bulge, Dave said. They gave it to us by Division Special Order. We were up there gassing tanks, when the breakthrough came.

That was a rough go, Freddy said.

I didnt get it in any Army store, Dave smiled, if thats what youre thinking.

Well, the clerk said, thanks for them drinks. It sounded awkward, as if he felt he had gotten out of line.

What were you in? Dave said. Infantry?

No. Air Corps, Freddy said. But my brother was. He got his in the Huertgen Forest. He went, his last sentence hanging in the air, an awkward attempt at explanation, embarrassed.

Dave mixed himself a whiskey and water and sat down in the chair of the desk which had been placed in the corner between the windows. Tilting it back on two legs he looked out the side window up the street to the square.

It was such a funny thing, about soldiers. Funny, in a way that made you want to cry. Everybody always assumed the other guy had had it tougher than he did. The men in Europe thought the men in the Pacific had it tougher because of the jungle. The men in the Pacific thought the men in Europe had it tougher because of the firepower. And it carried right on down the line.

Its like some kind of a mass male guilt psychosis, he thought. Nobody thinks he has as much guts as he should, and the man who only lost one hand drops his eyes before the man who lost them both.

He and Freddy had just made the same mistake, about each other. Now Freddy thought he had it tough. Well, ordinarily—except that he had been coming home to Parkman—he didnt wear them, any of them, (his Purple Heart was purely a technicality) But that could become a pose, too.

Except for the Combat Infantry Badge. That he was truly proud of. But why? Because he had never been Infantry, of course.

Will we ever get free of it all? Will we ever live it down? and get far enough away from it so we will be able to digest it? He doubted it. And then the next war would come along, with its crop of cripples, and oust us from our place we are reluctant to give up.

From the window he could see, up the street in the corner of the courthouse yard, the Cray County Honor Roll. With the war over almost two years, it was beginning to flake its paint just like all the rest. The Scoreboard, he thought. In another year theyd take it down. Moved by a sudden impulse, he wanted suddenly to walk back up town and see if his name was on it, although he already knew it wasnt. He had been drafted from Hollywood.

Curious, wasnt it? that though youd lived in Hollywood eleven years you would still give your home address as Parkman Illinois? That was the reason he had been discharged in Chicago.

And so now he was here, who had never had any real intention of ever coming back. By a series of snap decisions made on the spur of the moment. And yet all leading in the same direction. Well, he would give it a week. It wasnt worth any more than that.

Suddenly he grinned with a sly heavy levity. So old Ned Roberts was Cashier of the Second National Bank. Prissy little old Ned.

At the same time he was wondering why he had ever convinced himself into coming back here. It would only make for unpleasantness, and basically he was not a man who liked unpleasantness.

Well, a week was all he was going to give it.

CHAPTER 2

HE sat there for perhaps twenty minutes. Once he got up to go and mix himself another drink. Then he came back and watched the wet scene of the town from the window. What he planned to do was wait until he was sure Brother Frank had had plenty of time to find out the news. Then he was going to call him at the store. Right now the phones were probably ringing all over the town, or would be before long. He wanted to give Frank plenty of time to stew and worry over his reputation, the son of a bitch.

That was what he planned. But when he finally got up again, just as he went across the room to mix himself a third drink, his own phone rang shrilly.

It was so unexpected he jumped. Who in hell in Parkman Illinois would be calling him? He couldnt think of a soul. He was so surprised as the phone continued ringing that he almost didnt answer it.

Hello, Dave, the voice said.

Who is this?

The phone laughed heartily in his hand. Hes been away so long he dont even recognize his own brother.

Who. Frank? There were, as a matter of fact, three other brothers, one in Milwaukee, one in New York, one in St. Louis. The one in New York he had not even bothered to call when he was there.

You got any other brothers in Parkman? the voice said.

No, Dave said, Well, what do you want?

Why I just this minute found out you were in town.

You did, hunh?

Ned Roberts at the Second National called me.

I just got in this afternoon, Dave said.

But why didnt you let us know ahead of time you were comin’?

I just decided to come on the spur of the moment.

You could have called long distance, the voice said.

I never thought about it.

Yes, and thats a fine way to act, after three years in Europe.

Dave could feel himself grinning a little, stiffly. Well, I wasnt sure youd want to see me, Frank.

Not want to see you! the phone said. Listen, what are you doin’ tonight? Why dont you come out to the house for dinner?

Well, Dave said. What for?

We wont have nothin’ special, because Agnes didnt know you were comin’ the phone said. But you can take potluck with us. I know Agnes and little Dawn will be excited to see you. There was a pause, How about it?

Well, Frank, I—

Good, the phone said. Ill pick you up.

God damn it I cant! Dave burst out.

Nonsense! Why cant you? Of course you can. I tell you what. Its only three now. I cant possibly get away from the store but we close at five thirty in winter. Ill be over for you soon as we close.

Dave grinned. I could just as easy come down past the store.

No, no, Ill pick you up. Dont want you havin’ to walk in this weather.

Oh, I dont mind coming by the store at all, Frank.

Wont hear of it. Pick you up right the hotel. Better yet, why dont you just move on out here with us? We got plenty room.

What!

I said, move in with us.

No, Dave said sharply. I mean thanks, Frank, but Im all settled in here now. Anyway, Im only in town for a week.

Is that all? the voice said. Youll wanta stay longer’n that. Anyway you could spend the week with us.

No! Dave said.

Well, all right, the phone said. But youre sure welcome, Dave, you know that.

Sure, he said, sure.

Ill pick you up at five thirty.

All right, he said, vaguely feeling he had won a point.

As soon as he had hung up, he began to think of all the things he could have said. He could have said sorry Frank Ive got another dinner date tonight. Or he could have said not from the way you wrote to Francie you didnt want to see me Frank. He hadnt really won a point at all, about moving in, Frank had just donated him that to insure the other.

What he should have done was not accepted.

Dave lit a cigarette. His hands were trembling. You wouldnt think it would have bothered him that much. He smoked deeply. Gradually it sorted itself all out.

In the first exchange he had come off a good bit less than second best. He hadnt even finished. Even in his fondest hopes of success he had not anticipated so much success that it would make Frank call him first. That was the first mistake. And was why Frank had called of course, instead of waiting to be called. And then when he had him off balance, he hit him with this unexpected invitation to dinner. It stole the offensive right out from under him. And Dave had not only been outsmarted, but completely out-generaled too.

Suddenly Dave laughed. It was a deep throaty laugh of sheer pleasure. By God, you had to hand it to the little son of a bitch. It was no fluke that he had run all the other jewelry stores in town out of business except two, and relegated these to the position of tolerated competitors. It had been so long since Dave had listened to that flat voice with its twanging nasal Midwest drawl with all the Gs so conspicuously missing. He had almost forgotten what it was like. The little lying cheating mean no-good bastard he thought happily and with a kind of tumultuous tight-lipped rancor. Maybe it was because Frank had always been the father in the family, from the time the old man had run off when Dave was in grade school. The authority. Maybe it was because it was Frank who had suggested—suggested? ordered!—him to run off with that carnival when he got that girl pregnant. He had given him five dollars. Five lousy dollars. Anyway the others never seemed to mean anything. And that included Francine; though he oughtnt to say that, and felt guilty because he did. After all shed done for him. But they none of them meant anything. One way or the other. Except Frank, he thought malevolently, the son of a bitch.

Dave looked at his watch. It was silly for his hands to be trembling. He was glad he had saved back a clean, pressed pair of o.d.’s and some clean shirts. He poured himself a quick drink and went to lay them out. At least he had gotten out of moving in with them in their house.

Who you kidding? he asked himself. He never had any intention of you moving in with them. What you should have said was sure Ill pack and be right out. That would have scared the living daylights out of him. Agnes would flay him alive.

When he had laid out the clothes, he walked back into the living room. But suddenly he could no longer stand the thought of spending two and a half hours in this hotel room.

Anyway, he was hungry. A guy should eat, shouldnt he?

He looked at the overcoat and decided not to take it. What he wanted was some cold air on him. It was far too hot in here, all of a sudden, and his face felt flushed. There was a beertavern-restaurant half a block up the street toward the square, he remembered. He looked in the mirror to see if his ribbons were on straight.

—and suddenly for no reason he was thinking of Harriet Bowman. Miss Harriet Bowman of Greater Los Angeles. Only now she was married. To of all things a goddam lawyer. Promising young attorney. And to not ever have laid her even! He looked in the mirror. Oh Harriet Bowman if only you knew now what you missed. I wouldnt care so much. It would make me feel much better. Who the hell gives a damn about marriage? Anger helped combat the sickness in his belly. What the hell had started him thinking about her? Maybe it was looking at himself in the mirror. He didnt much like what he saw. But it looked a lot better than it did four years ago, when the Army took him.

Buttoning up his collar and tightening his tie, he went out and locked the door behind him.

Outside the hotel it was still drizzling snow, but it was beginning to slack off a little. He stood under the marquee a few moments, breathing the cold wet air. Up the street in the same block as the bus station was the beer tavern. It was named Ciro’s. He remembered it from his youth, but the name had been different then. The neon of its sign shone bright red and green, inviting in the gray afternoon, but now that he was outside he didnt feel much like going there. After a moment of indecisiveness, he walked up to it slowly through the dropping snow.

A tall gray headed long nosed man was behind the marble top bar cleaning the sinks, as he went up to it. Back in one corner was a griddle and a glass topped contraption for cooking hot dogs. On one wall hung the Anhauser-Busch reproduction of Custer’s last stand. A home made crayon picture of one of those big old fashioned beer goblets was scotch taped to the backbar with the words HAVE A SCHOONER! under it. The gray headed man listened dourly to his order for two hot dogs and a schooner and went back to fix it.

The place had been re-furnitured since hed seen it last, but that hadnt changed it any. Feeling suddenly excited, Dave upended the heavy schooner the man brought him and drained half of it. Then he took a big bite of one of the hot dogs. His mouth watered. He was suddenly enthusiastic, and genuinely hungry. Back at the hotel he hadnt been.

Except for three young men drinking beer in one of the booths there was nobody in the place. Dave caught them looking at him. One wore a natty light gray suit and pearl semi-Western-style hat. The other two wore their old Army clothes. Quiet seemed to ooze into the place from the walls. The three young men looked as if they might have been out all night and just gotten in and were now tranquilizing themselves over a beer before starting out again tonight.

Dave caught them looking at him again, and when he ordered his second schooner the one in the suit and hat said something to the others and got up and came walking lazily over to him at the bar, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Tall, thin, sway-backed, with a hanging belly due more to the abnormal curve of his spine than to paunch, setting his feet down with that same slow jerky lift and drop a horse has in its hind legs. He stopped in front of him, languid, arrogant, insulting, and Dave tensed himself. Then carefully with the ball of his thumb the man pushed his hat back just exactly to his hairline exposing a widow’s peak. Only then did Dave realize that the man was ill at ease.

Hello, Miste’ Hirsh, he sneered. Welcome home. Behind the biting Hoosier nasality was a trace of Southern accent. Im ’Bama Dillert. He did not offer to shake hands.

Hi, Dave said, looking him over. He was well over six feet, with dark circled eyes in a pallid face. Maybe thirty-three. The suit, in spite of looking expensive, nevertheless managed because of its narrow cut to look smalltownish and countrified. It was badly wrinkled. Also he hadnt shaved today and his cuffs and collar were grubby. It looked like a real bender. But above all of this, seeming to disdain all of it, the pearl hat stood out like a living jewel. There was not a smudge on it, and above the narrow Western-style band its creases were sharp and distinct. It was obviously a Stetson.

How you like bein back in Parkman Illinoiz by now? he asked.

How did you know who I was? Dave said.

Hell, anybody could look at you and tell yore a Hirsh, the other grinned. Besides, I already heard you were in town.

Already?

News travels fast in this burg, the tall man sneered.

I know. But I didnt think it was that fast.

I happen to go by the bank. Why dont you come on over and sit with us? the tall man sneered. Apparently the sneer was ingrained. Seeing as how you dont know anybody.

Sure, Dave said. Why not?—Bring me two more hot dogs, he called to the gray headed man. He got his beer and followed the tall horse walking Southerner over to the booth.

Dave Hirsh meet Dewey Cole and Hubie Murson. You dont mind if I call you Dave? ’Bama Dillert said as they sat down.

No, Dave said. Hi.

Hi, the other two said in unison. They were younger. They were all three drinking Griesedieck out of the bottle.

’Bama had leaned himself back into the corner easily, so he could face Dave beside him as well as the other two across. You seen Frank yet? he sneered.

Not yet, Dave said. I talked to him on the phone.

He ought to be right glad to see you, ’Bama grinned. Dont he look like Frank? he said. Yeah, Dewey Cole said, but thats no compliment in my book.

Dewey here use to caddy for Frank out the Country Club, ’Bama grinned.

He never did learn to play golf, Dewey said. He beat himself to death every day and he never did learn.

Frank aint learned nothin’ about it yet, Hubie Murson said as if he were an echo; he spoke in a naturally high complaining nasal from which the Gs were noticeably absent. Dewey gave him a disgusted look.

He always won his bets though, Dewey said. He made them give him enough strokes so he could win. Or he wouldnt bet.

’Bama laughed. Plays poker the same way. Only hes a good poker player.

Dewey apparently did not even hear him. He was looking hard at

Dave. I used to beat Frank’s scores all the time when I was caddyin out there, he said. I could do it again too in a week. But of course Im not a member of the Country Club. And I dont caddy any more.

No, now hes a plasterer, ’Bama said. Among other things. You know your old girl friend still lives down at New Lebanon, he grinned at Dave. New Lebanon. It was a country community, ten miles south of Parkman by a gravel road. Back here in Illinois they pronounced it Lebanon, New Lebanon.

Not my girl friend, Dave said. She never was.

If you seen her, buddy, youd double that, Dewey said.

"Yeah, matter fact, shes got seven kids now," Hubie Murson drawled.

’Bama laughed. Yeah. A very respectable lady now. If a little dowdy. She married one of them other two guys who were sleeping with her the same time you were. Did you know?

Yeah, I know, Dave said. Frank wrote my sister. I know all about it. So did they apparently. The pregnant girl, the departure, probably the carnival too. I wonder if they know about the goddamned five dollars too, he thought.

I spent four months with a carnival myself once, ’Bama grinned. I didnt much like it.

Neither did I, Dave said, wishing now he hadnt come over. The sense of anticipation ran down out of him as suddenly as it had come. Women. He was thinking about a woman all right, but not the one they thought. They had never heard of Harriet Bowman. To a goddam stinking lawyer! Hell, think about that German woman. Or that girl in—Well, you figured the whole town knew about it, didnt you?

What the helld you ever want to come back to this dump for? Dewey Cole said.

Oh—I got drunk up in Chicago, he said.

Well it was sure a loaded man’s idea all right, Dewey said. Dont you think?

What do you stay here for? Dave said.

Hell, I live here, Dewey said. He shrugged. Me and your brother Frank, we live here.

Well, I used to, Dave said.

Yeah, Dewey snorted.

Dave looked at him, thinking hed probably guessed right when he guessed theyd been out all night and were loafing getting ready for another.

What he saw was an incredibly handsome young man of twenty-four or -five, with curly black hair and beautiful long lashes over innocent blue eyes. It was a Midwest type that Dave remembered, slim and light, with that long narrow fine-boned skull that had come from England to Virginia to Kentucky to Illinois finally, and had taken many generations to develop. He was wearing an open GI shirt and an old field jacket with the collar up and which had had staff sergeant’s stripes daubed in black paint on the sleeves; and he was aware of Dave’s scrutiny and was staring back.

Hubie Murson was a chunky blond youth with a big blade-like nose, about that same age. He wore an Eisenhower jacket and khaki pants and combat boots.

There was that same quality about all of them, something not exactly dangerous, something that just gave the impression of dangerousness, the dangerousness in just living, which most of us managed to forget, some intangible proof of hard living and wild midnight revels and a complete lack of social responsibility, God damn the hindermost. That something, that quality, always attracted him.

The only way you could say it, he thought, was that the life they lived still had fist fights in it. Every town had a group like that, living on the fringes, always within the law, not criminal, but at the same time not respectable. A little wild. It always did attract him. Probably mainly because the respectables always bored the hell out of you, with their lies about themselves theyd convinced themselves of finally. Why shouldnt it attract you he thought miserably, youre one. She always said you were one, didnt she? He still wished he hadnt come over.

I take it apparently you guys dont think so much of Brother Frank, he said wryly.

For a moment Dewey Cole’s face looked almost startled. Then he said, I guess I been running on too much.

No more’n usual, Hubie Murson drawled.

Dewey gave him a dirty look. Frank’s all right, he said. Its just that he wants to be a goddam institution. He took a drink of his beer and grimaced. Yeah. An operator. Like old Wernz. He moved his head behind him, and Dave knew what he meant and looked out through the plateglass window at the Second National Bank building across the street, which Anton Wernz III, still living, had built back in 1924. There were two other store fronts with it, and the whole was labeled WERNZ BLOCK—1925 in concrete. It was Anton III’s only stab at competing with his father, Dave thought, with Old Anton II, now dead. Anton III just didnt have it. Probably because Anton II who made the money had managed to beat it out of him, before he died.

I guess everybody that aint, Dave said, wants to be an institution.

Not me, Dewey said.

Yore one already, Hubie grinned, in a kind of a way.

This pleased Dewey and he grinned, his light blue eyes flashing with a shy charm. It was impossible not to like him simply because he was so handsome. Look, he said to Dave. I apologize. I didnt mean to get onto your brother like that.

Thats all right, Dave said, as a matter of fact I guess Im inclined to agree with you; somewhat.

Well, what I said about Frank, that dont mean I got anything against you or your family, you know?

I didnt figure you did.

Well I dont, Dewey said, suddenly explosive, his eyes taking on a pugnacious glitter. Pride. And if I ever do, youll know it. Because Ill tell you.

Fair enough, Dave said, and looked up to see the gray headed bartender approaching. A pause developed. Everybody looked down at the table. The gray head carried hot dogs and another round of beers; but it was not just the two hot dogs Dave had ordered, it was a dozen. As far as Dave knew, nobody had solicited it. But the man set them down and started serving the beers and picking up the empties. Nobody said a single word until he had gone away. He didnt say a word either. Nobody paid him.

In the silence Dave became aware of the personality of the wet, cold afternoon making itself felt again. Like him, the others all seemed to be savoring it momentarily, but he suddenly felt more miserable anyway.

Dewey reached for a hot dog. So did the others. You know I can remember when you left town, Dewey said. He shifted a little in his seat. You dont know me, but I remember you. I was just a little kid at the time. But I can remember you from the high school football team.

Yeah, Dave said, we had the distinction of being the poorest team in Parkman’s history. I got kicked off my junior year.

Yes, I remember that, Dewey said, his eyes taking on a hateful glint of pleasure. You and a bunch of other guys, for drinking.

It like to broke Frank’s heart.

I bet it did. Frank the star punter, Dewey grinned again. I remember all about how you left town too.

Well I dont remember it, ’Bama grinned. Because I wasnt here then. But Ive been told about it enough goddam times.

Well, you havent been told about it as many times as I have, Dave said dryly.

It got a laugh from all of them, especially Dewey, and Dave supposed he ought to be enjoying it and taking some pride in his fame, but the only thing he could think of was to get away without hurting their feelings, away from everybody, off to himself and just sit completely alone and be miserable. All he wanted to do now was get away and inside his clothes his muscles were almost twitching with it. This, though he knew beforehand the moment he got away he would be aching to be where there were people.

It was strange, and almost horrifying, coming back here this way, and getting involved with all these personalities and subtle undercurrents that he was not wise to. If he had gotten on the Super Chief for LA like he originally planned, he wouldnt have even known they existed.

Have you seen your mother yet? Dewey asked.

No, he said, not yet.

Your old man’s still around town, too, Dewey said. He was grinning in that peculiar way people always grinned whenever they mentioned Dave’s father, who had run off and then come back. Dave had forgotten it completely, that way of grinning, living out on the West Coast, but now he remembered it again from his high school days except that now it no longer embarrassed him.

The old son of a bitch, he said with a grin. I havent seen him yet either.

Him and your mother still aint speakin, Dewey grinned.

Dave suddenly felt like laughing, but then thought better of it. Anyway, at that moment the outside door slammed open, and a stolid faced young man in civilian clothes and an Army Air Force fleece lined jacket burst into the place at a fast running walk. He headed straight for the booth, apparently in a great state of excitement, which didnt show at all on his broad flat face, only in his movements.

Dave noted ’Bama and the others were grinning at him.

Here comes another one, he thought, a little sickly. I wonder how many other personalities Im going to get involved with before I get away from this town.

CHAPTER 3

HOWDY, men, howdy, the newcomer said stolidly, stopping just at the edge of the booth. He seemed to deliberately not look at Dave. Below the Air Force jacket, which he wore proudly although he obviously was not old enough to have been in the war, he had on a loose cut expensive pair of gray covert trousers which were mud splashed and rolled up two turns to expose high heeled Western cowboy boots.

Hope you men havent drunk up all the brew. Im sure ready for my brews today, he said, and swept the heavy jacket off his back, hung it on the post, and slid into the already crowded booth beside Dewey Cole. Under the jacket he was wearing a fine wool Pendleton shirt.

Did real great today, man, he announced. Practically finished a chapter. He still did not look at Dave.

Hi, Wally, Dewey said. He elbowed Hubie. Move over.

Where? Hubie said.

Hello, Wally, ’Bama sneered. Dave Hirsh meet Wally Dennis. Wally’s writing a novel, he said. Hes a writer.

Is that right? Dave said politely.

Wally, for answer, looked up at him suddenly and stuck out his hand. It was as if he had just noticed Dave sitting there. He had a huge knot on his short nose, around which he seemed to be peering.

"Wallace Dennis. Wallace French Dennis, he said. For my mother."

He quite obviously was not old enough to be of beer-drinking age (21 in Illinois), but he couldnt very well have fudged in Parkman where the bartenders knew everybody. He must have worked some angle. His hair was cut very long, cat-musician style.

Hello, Wally, Dave grinned, taking the hand.

Wally pumped his hand, eyeing him. Know you, man, know you, he said in his flat voice, "knew you all along. D. Hirsh. Ive read your stuff. Some of its real cool. But it smacks a little too much of Saroyan."

Dave’s grin faded. He could feel consternation spreading all over him, making his stomach quiver. Panicky indignation followed upon its heels, making his whole head feel red.

Dewey had snapped his fingers. By god, now I know what it was. I knew there was something else about you. Youre a writer!

No Im not! Dave said stiffly. He could gladly have kicked the innocent Wally right square in the tail. Did you read the later stories and the novel? he asked him instead.

Wally nodded in his stolid way. Read it all, man. All the stories. Both novels. Later stuff’s better. —Hey, Jake! he called, bring me two brews one right after the other so they wont get warm!—Still too much Saroyan, he said. But better.

Im not a writer, Dave said to Dewey. "I just did some writing once.

Theres only one novel, he said to Wally. The first one dont count. Youre probably right. In the ’Thirties we all copied Saroyan, out on the West Coast. He was the only one who was selling.

He was still wanting to holler No! No! like a man confronted by his wife with his own damning nude