The Laughing Matter (10 page)

“What's that?” Red asked Cody Bone. “What's a moron?”

“Whatever it is,” Cody said, “it's going to be what I am, because I'm not going to try to stand on
my
head.”

“Can't you do it?” Red said. “I can. You saw me, didn't you?”

“I saw you all right,” Cody said. “I suppose I could do it if I wanted to, but I think I'd rather be a moron.”

“Then, that's what I'd rather be, too,” Red said.

He ran around in front of Fanny, bent down to be near her head, and said, “We're
all
morons, except you, Fanny.”

“I know,” Fanny said.

Everybody sat on the lawn around Fanny. After a moment, Walz sat up to go on drinking, and everybody felt deeply thankful for Fanny, still standing on her head.

He was in the house to get another bottle of Scotch when the telephone bell rang.

“I'm at the airport,” Dade said. “Is there any way we could meet here? I'll tell you why. There's a plane back in an hour and a half, and I've got to take it. Is my car back yet?”

“No, Dade.”

“Could you borrow a car?”

“Warren Walz and his family are here,” Evan said, “and Cody Bone and his son.”

“Could Bart lend you his car?”

“I think so. I'll be there as soon as possible.”

He got the bottle, took it out to the table, opened it, poured fresh drinks for all who were drinking Scotch, then said, “A friend of mine's at the airport for an hour and a half. It's only half-past nine. I wonder if I could borrow a car and drive in? I won't be long.”

“Who is it?” Red said. He stood in front of his father.

“Milton Schweitzer,” Evan said. “You remember him, Red. He's with me at Stanford.”

“Take my car,” Bart said.

“May I?”

“Sure.”

“I won't be long,” Evan said.

“I want to go with you,” Red said. He seemed almost in a panic. He ran to Swan. “I want to go with my father,” he said. “Mama, don't you say I can't go!”

“You can go, Red,” he heard Swan say.

“I want to go, too,” Eva said, running to Swan.

“You can go, too, Eva.”

“No, darling,” Evan said. “You stay here. I won't be long.”

“No, Papa!” the girl said. “I want to go!”

“No, darling.”

“Papa!” the girl cried when he walked off.

Bart walked with him to the car.

“It takes a moment to get the hang of the old rattletrap,” he said, “but I'm sure you'll get it soon enough.”

“Papa! Take me. Take me, too!” he heard Eva cry when he started the car.

“You can take her, too, Evan, if you want to,” he heard Swan say.

The girl stood beside Bart, looking up at her father. When the car began to move the girl burst into tears, and ran after the car.

“What does he want?” Red said.

“He just wants to talk to me,” Evan said.

“Why?” Red said. “What's he want to talk about?”

“We're in the same department at Stanford. We're old friends.”

“Are
you friends, Papa?”

“Of course we're friends. You sound scared. What are you scared of?”

“I don't know,” Red said.

He drove swiftly, wondering why his son had been so eager to go with him, why he seemed so scared. He drove two miles in silence, but as the car plunged down the highway he began to go over the last few minutes: his own absurd lie, answering his son's question with the first name that had come to mind, Milton Schweitzer, who had come to Stanford to teach playwrighting the semester after Evan had gone there to teach the novel. Just as Evan had had no real success as a novelist, Schweitzer had had none as a playwright. He'd had two plays on Broadway, both flops, and two others that hadn't gotten farther than Boston or Philadelphia. He was Evan's own age, or a little older. He was a New Yorker by birth, and he'd gone to Columbia.

He didn't think it would do not to say something more to Red, but he was a little afraid to. He was a little afraid of everything now; of the car ahead, which he was sure he
would be able to pass as easily as he'd passed all the others on the way, but he was a little afraid of it just the same. It was moving very slowly, and a driver of a slow car can suddenly do anything. He can suddenly make a left turn in front of a swiftly passing car. This one didn't, though, and he passed it quickly. He saw an old man and his wife going along about twenty-five miles an hour in a car that was about twenty-five years old, on their way home after a visit with friends, most likely. He was a little afraid of the car that was moving toward him now, but the two cars drew abreast, made the swift sound cars moving in opposite directions make when they meet, and then all he had to be afraid of was Bart's car. It was not a new car, the tires might not be what they ought to be. At seventy miles an hour a blowout might not be a simple thing to put up with.

He was a little afraid of the way Red had needed to speak about Milton Schweitzer, too.

“It's not Milton Schweitzer,” he said at last.

“What, Papa?”

“I just said it was Milton Schweitzer because I didn't want anybody to know who it is I'm really going to see.”

“Who is it?”

“Dade. My brother.”

“Why did you say Milton Schweitzer, then?”

“I didn't want anybody to know I'm going to see my brother.”

“Why?” Red said. “Why didn't you want anybody to know? Why are you driving so fast?”

He brought the car down to sixty, then fifty, then forty, and finally thirty. He did it because he
needed
to. He was a little too keyed up to be driving that fast. He was going
too fast inside, too. He needed to go as slowly as possible.

“Red,” Evan said. “Listen to me a minute, will you?” (He'll understand when I tell him this is something I can't talk about. I know he will.) “Red,” he said. (No, he couldn't. He'd better get
himself
straightened out. He'd better do it for his son, he'd better do it quick.) “Red,” he said. “Your father's had a few to drink. You saw Warren Walz try to stand on his head. It was because
he'd
had a few to drink. It doesn't mean anything. Everything's fine. Nothing's the matter. It's just that when a man has a few to drink it seems as if something's the matter with everything. Dade will be glad to see you.”

“Why did you say
Milton Schweitzer?”
Red said. “Why didn't you say Dade?”

“I've had a few to drink,” Evan said, trying to speak cheerfully. “It's nothing. You're not scared any more, are you?”

“I don't understand,” Red said. “Do you
like
Milton Schweitzer?”

“Of course I like Milton Schweitzer.”

“I hate him,” Red said.

“Why?” Evan said. (There's no use performing for Red. There's no use trying to pretend nothing's the matter. He knows. I can't protect him.)

“Do you remember when you asked if I liked Warren Walz?”

“Yes, Red. It was only yesterday.”

“And you asked
why
I liked Cody Bone?”

“Yes, Red.”

“And I said I just liked Cody Bone, but I didn't know why. Well, I even like Warren Walz now. I liked him
especially
when he tried to stand on his head. But I
don't
like Milton Schweitzer. I hate him.” He waited a moment, then said, “And I know why, too.”

“Why, Red?” He was past pretending cheerfulness. His voice was hushed.

“Mama said she was going to take Eva and me to the circus,” Red said. “We got ready. Then she called Mabel, and Mabel took us. We didn't want to go with Mabel. I didn't know why Mama changed her mind. I didn't like the circus with Mabel.” He stopped.

“Why should you hate Milton Schweitzer because of
that?”
Evan said.

“Well, Papa, don't you understand?” Red said. “When we got back from the circus he was visiting us.

“Then another time Mama promised to take us for a picnic to the campus. To that place where we had a picnic once, and so much fun. She made all the sandwiches and we were all ready to go, and then again she called Mabel, and Mabel took us to the picnic.”

“When was that?”

“When you went to make the money for the car,” Red said. “When are we going to
get
the car?”

“I don't know,” Evan said. He was helpless now. He had to know. “When you got home after the picnic,” he said, “how was Mama?”

“All right, I guess,” Red said. “But I was mad at her. I was mad at
him
, too. I get mad sometimes, too. When I came into the house and saw him, I didn't stop. I went straight through to the back yard, because I was so mad. I just said, ‘Why don't you stay in your own house?' And
I went out into the back yard. Eva stayed in with Mama and him.”

“Why didn't you tell me before, Red?”

“Why?”
the boy said. “I don't know. I forgot, I guess. He didn't come to our house any more after that. Did you want me to tell you I talked that way? I felt ashamed. I didn't
want
to talk that way. I just couldn't help it.”

He drove into the airport parking lot and stopped the car.

“Your uncle Dade's going to be glad to see you,” he said.

Dade looked tired. He looked so tired Red said to his father, “Is it Dade?” They went up to him, leaning against a counter, reading a book. He closed the book to look at the boy.

“Hello, Red,” he said. “You look fine. You look fine, boy.” He turned to his brother. “Do you know who he looks like? He looks like the old boy. Your grandfather, Red, Petrus Nazarenus. You look like
him.”
Dade looked at his brother again. “I thought even this would be better than nothing. I've got to take the plane back in an hour, though.”

Dade looked at the boy again, and this time smiled. He spoke in the language Red wished he could speak. The only word he said that Red understood was “Hey.” It was the first word of what Dade said. Hey, something or other in the unknown language, the words lively and hard and angry, but at the same time humorous, too.

Dade searched his brother's eyes and very quietly said a few more words in the language. Red heard his father reply in the language.

They moved to a far bench and sat down. Dade sat close to Red, and put his arm around him. Red's father sat on the other side of Red.

The brothers spoke in the language Red didn't understand. He didn't need to. He understood their voices. He understood Dade was Evan's brother.

“Speak softly,” Dade said. “Speak softly, for your son, who is my own father.”

“I speak softly,” Evan said. “What do I do, brother?”

Dade spoke in English to Red. “You are my father, Petrus Nazarenus.” He turned the boy's head toward him, and kissed him on the forehead. “If you get tired, if you want to walk around, if you want to look at the people, or go outside and look at the airplanes, we'll be here, we'll be seated here.”

Red turned and looked at his father. Evan saw the panic in his eyes again.

“I don't want to go,” he said.

“I
hoped
you wouldn't,” Dade said, “but I didn't know.”

He spoke in the language again.

“We need a lifetime to understand the very simplest thing,” Dade said. “We need two lifetimes to correct a small
error. We live an error every day and correct not one error in a lifetime. What do you do, my brother?
Whatever
you do, you
yourself
do nothing. Your doing is done
for
you. Whatever you do is right. If you hate, it is. If you kill, it is. Brother, if you love, it is right. If you love her who destroys you, it is right.” His tired eyes searched his brother's. “Brother,” he said, “do what you must, do what you will, it is right.”

“If I am husband to another man's woman,” Evan began to say.

“It is right,” Dade said quickly, his voice deeply tired.

“If I am father to another man's child,” Evan said.

“It is right,” Dade said.

“What do I do?” Evan said.

“Sleep?” Dade asked. “Is that it?”

“Sleep?” Evan said. “I can't sleep. There is no sleep left for me.”

“I long for my children,” Dade said. “To long is right. I wish to see them. To wish to see them is right. I do not see them. Not to see them is right.”

“Why, Dade?”

“It's a game,” Dade said. “The playing of a game is right. The game is this. Which will it be for myself? To be proud and to lose that which I love, or to be without pride, and soft, and to have softly that which I love? Each is right. Which will it be for myself? It will be to be proud, and to lose. And if they love me, want me, but cannot reach me, what will it be? It will be to be proud, and to have them reach me not. And if they perish for want of me, what will it be? It will be to be proud, and to learn that they have perished. Is this so? Is this a way to be? It is, my brother.”

“You're tired,” Evan said. “You're very tired. You must not take the airplane.”

“It's a game,” Dade said. “There it sits, waiting. It is there always. I require no excitements. I have
never
required them. The excitements of money, coming or going, I have never required. The game waits to excite, surprise, reward, belittle. It has never excited, surprised, rewarded, or belittled me. Do you understand, my brother?”

“No, Dade.”

“I will tell you, then,” Dade said. “Here.” He reached into his pocket, brought out rolled currency, and handed it to his brother. Red saw the stuff. He knew it was money, but he didn't understand the language. “This is the prize,” Dade said. “I have not slept because until the other players surrender I stay with the game. It is a silly game, with a silly prize, but it is right. What do you do? Go home, my brother.”