The Laughing Matter (22 page)

“I'd like to take them both,” Evan said.

“Sure,” Dade said.

Evan Nazarenus took the book and put it in one pocket. He took the gun and put it in the other.

They went into Gladding and Starch and looked at Swan again. There was no music, no flowers, just the open casket in the private room.

“Whoever she was,” Dade said, “she was beautiful.”

“She's dead,” Evan said.

“Yes,” Dade said. “The best a man can do is find a mother for his children. You found the best for yours.”

He turned to the young Gladding, and nodded. The man put the cover over the casket. The casket was carried to the hearse, and Evan followed the hearse to the cemetery.

The casket was lowered, and everybody went off.

His brother, standing beside him, fell upon him suddenly, so heavily that Evan was almost unable not to fall, too. He hugged his brother, holding him up, then quickly dragged him to the car.

“For God's sake, Dade.”

He stretched him out in the back seat, and began to drive back.

When he reached the driveway, he saw Dr. Altoun sitting on the steps of the front porch.

The man hurried to the car.

They got him into the house and onto his bed, the doctor working swiftly. He found a needle, pierced the flesh near the heart, pressed the fluid out of the tube into the flesh.

The man put his cheek to Dade's nose and mouth.

“You're working too hard,” Evan said in their language at last. “He's dead. He died in the cemetery.”

The man turned and looked at Evan. His eyes very nearly wept, then grew hard and swift.

“I shot him,” Evan said.

“I know,” the man said. “Now let me think a moment. You must attend the inquiry,” he said at last. “That is the only thing you can do. Yes, you
did
shoot him. It was an accident, as you know. You would not kill your own brother. You were sitting and talking, cleaning the gun. It went off. It was an accident.”

“I shot him,” Evan said. “It was not an accident. I killed my wife, too. My brother helped me kill her. I was mad. I shot him. He's dead. I do not want to go to the inquiry.”

“You must go,” the man said, “for your children.”

“My children are dead,” Evan said. “I can do nothing for the dead.”

“They are in the back yard with Mary Koury,” the man said. “Please think of your children. If you go away, it will be taken for a sign of guilt which will be most difficult to disprove. I will help you. I am of your family.”

“I wish no help,” Evan said. He took his brother's hands and held them a long time. “I'm sorry, Dade,” he said.

He brought the money from the top drawer of Dade's bureau and handed it to the man.

“For you, Doctor Altoun,” he said. “For Mary Koury. For my son and my daughter.”

He left the house, got in his brother's car, and drove off, the man standing on the porch.

Dr. Altoun returned to the room and sat there a long time, trying to think. He got up at last, and went to the back yard and spoke to the woman.

“Let them not understand,” he said. “Their mother is buried. Let it be said that she is away on a visit with her mother and father. Their father's brother is dead. Let it be said that he is asleep. I will lock the door of his room for this night. Their father is mad with grief. He is gone. He cannot help. He will not be helped. Let them not understand their mother is dead, their father is mad, their father's brother is dead. I will spend the night, waiting for the return of their father. If he does not return by morning you must take them to your home and keep them. I will help you. If their father returns, I will help him. They are there in the vineyard at play. Let them not understand of death and madness. You are a mother. You will do this.”

“Yes,” the woman said.

Dr. Altoun walked slowly along the row of vines to where they were sitting in the shade of a vine.

“Hi,” Red said.

“Who is it?” Eva said.

“Doctor Altoun, Eva.”

The man plucked a bunch of Red Emperors from a vine and began to eat them, looking at the children. Each of them was strong, alive, alone, and so real as to hurt even a man who was every day in the presence of pain and death.

“Did you come to talk to us?” Eva said.

“I came to
see
you,” the man said.

“Do you see us?”

“Yes.”

“What do you see?”

“A brother and a sister.”

“No,” Eva said. “A king and a queen.”

(King Love, Queen Beauty? he thought.)

“Which king, which queen?” the doctor said.

“King him and queen me,” Eva said. “Didn't you know? He's the king and I'm the queen. It's true, isn't it, Red?”

“Yes,” Red said. He looked at the man earnestly, so earnestly it hurt the man. “It
is
true,” he said. “King Red, Queen Eva. You believe us, don't you?”

“Yes,? the man said.

“King of the Vineyard,” Red said. He reached up, plucked a bunch of grapes from the vine, handed them to Eva, then plucked a bunch for himself, and they began to eat the grapes. “King of the Vineyard, Queen of the Vine,” Red said.

“No, Red,” the girl said. “King of the Vineyard, Queen of the
King.”
She turned to the man. “Isn't that right?”

“Is it right?” Red asked earnestly.

“What do
you
think?” the man said.

“It
seems
right,” Red said.

“It
is
right,” Eva said. “Isn't it?” she said to the man.

“Yes, it is,” he said, and turned to go.

“Don't go,” Red said.

“Yes, don't go,” Eva said. “Let's talk some more.”

“I'd love to,” the man said, “but I've got some things to do. We'll talk another time.”

He turned and walked back to the house.

The boy took a green leaf from the vine and held it out to the girl.

He then let earth sift through his fingers, after which he took by the tail a horned toad he had captured an hour ago, picking it out of the cigar box into which he had put it with a bunch of grapes. He held it up, its small legs swimming, then put it back in the box.

“He's alive,” Red said. “He's alive and he's mine.” He looked into the box at the horned toad. “But he won't eat the grapes.”

“Why?” Eva said.

“I guess he doesn't like Red Emperors.”

“What does he like? Muscats? Malagas?”

“No,” Red laughed. “He doesn't like
any
kind of grapes. He likes dirt.”

“Then give him some,” Eva said. “Poor little—— What's his name, Red?”

“Horny toad.”

“Poor little horny toad,” Eva said. “Give him some dirt.”

Red put some dirt into the cigar box.

“Do you want him?” he said to his sister.

“Yes, Red, I want him very much.”

Red picked up the box and handed it to her.

“All right,” he said. “He's yours.”

“Forever, Red?”

“I don't know how long they last,” Red said, “but you can have him as long as they do.”

The girl lifted the lid of the box, looked at the horned toad, then said, “Poor little—— What's his name?”

“Horny toad, Eva!”

“Horny toad,” Eva said. “What shall I do with him? Smash him?” She nodded gayly several times.

“No,” Red said. “He's all—he's all fixed up that way. You don't want to spoil the way he's fixed up, all the nice horns.”

“What, then?” Eva said. “Shall I give him a little bath?” She thought a moment, then said, “No, I know what.”

“What?”

“I'll give him to Mama. For her birthday.”

“When is Mama's birthday?” Red said.

“Day after tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Day before yesterday?”

“No!”

“When, then?”

“The day she was
born
, Eva. Don't you even know what birthday means?”

“What does it mean?”

“It means the day you were born.”

“And then,” Eva said, “you get born again every time it's your birthday?”

“No.”

“You get dead, then, every time it's your birthday?”

“No, Eva! Birth! Day! The day you were born. You don't get dead on your
birthday!”

“When, then?” Eva said. “On your deadth day?”

“Deadth day?”
Red laughed.

The woman, who had been such an adventure to them, came down the row of vines, singing a slow song in the language.

She looked down at them, her eyes loving them.

“Now, King Red,” she said. “Now, Queen Eva. We gonna have it nice bath. Then we gonna have it nice supper. Then I gonna tell it nice story.”

“What kind of a story?” Eva said.

“I gonna tell it true story, Queen Eva.”

“Did it happen to you, Mary?” Red said.

“This story happen to—who you think?”

“Who?” Red said.

“You
, King Red! You, Queen Eva!”

“But we know what happened to
us,”
Red said. “Don't we, Eva?”

“We know every bit of it,” Eva said. “I was there, Mary. And Red was there. Everybody saw us. We saw them. That's what happened.”

“This is other story,” Mary said. “This is love story. You get up now.”

They got up and began to walk with her out of the vineyard to the house.

“Is it sad?” Red said.

“Yes,” the woman said.

“Why?” Red said.

“It is true story, King Red, and
true
story is sad,” she said.

“What is a story?” Eva said. “What is
that?”

“A story is a true thing, Queen Eva,” the woman said.

She took their hands and squeezed them with love, and they knew it was love.

He would talk to the man. He wouldn't hate him. He wouldn't be angry, but he would take the man by the throat, very nearly stop his breathing, and then let him live, after all. He would then drive night and day until he reached Paterson. He would go to the house Petrus had made for his sons. We would walk through the streets of his boyhood. He would walk along the Passaic, as he had done more than thirty years ago, with Dade.

He was at the summit of Pacheco Pass between Los Banos and Gilroy at sundown, the car sailing swiftly around the
curves, the view of the deep valley of Hollister a magnificent but meaningless thing to see now.

He stopped the car a block from the man's house, walked there, and went upstairs to the door. He knocked softly, for he would not hate him, would not be angry. The door was opened by a girl who was probably no more than nineteen, a student in one of the man's classes, no doubt.

He gave the man's name.

“Oh,” the girl said. “Just a moment.” She went back into the apartment, and after a moment returned to the door. She had a copy of the town paper folded to something for him to read. He took the paper and read the item quickly.

“The poor man,” the girl said. “Did you know him?”

“Yes,” he said. He handed the paper back to the girl.

“We just moved in this morning,” the girl said. “They found his body last night. He'd been dead for some time, though. He must have been sick or crazy or something. The article says he was brilliant and had everything to live for. He left no note. I hope he wasn't related to you.”

He went down to the street, around the corner to his car, and drove to the house they had been trying to buy. He saw it when he turned the corner into their street. It wasn't much to see. At the door were four rolled newspapers, and the mailbox was full of mail. He unlocked the door and went in. In the hall he saw Eva's stuffed elephant, which she no longer cared for especially, and Red's two-wheeler, from which he had taken so many spills, getting up bruised and infuriated every time, but refusing to stop riding it. That was long ago, of course. Now, it was too small for him and Eva was trying to learn to ride it. He went through each
room of the house, then went out and locked the door behind him. He was about to go when he reached into the mailbox and removed everything in it. They were bills mainly, but he tore open one that was a letter. It was on six sheets of lined paper, without heading or salutation.

“A man had a friend,” he read. “Late one night his friend's wife telephoned him to say that she had taken an overdose of sleeping pills. He went there and she said she
had
wanted to die but didn't want to any more. She couldn't call a doctor because she didn't want anybody to know. Somehow she came around all right. She made him promise not to let her husband know. She said she was all right now. Several nights later, though, she called again. He decided he must telephone his friend, but she wept and begged him not to ruin the lives of her children. He couldn't understand her. He wanted to help his friend, but he was afraid it wouldn't help his friend to be told. He couldn't sleep, though, and the next day telephoned to find out if she was all right, if his friend's children were all right. She said he must go to her. They talked for hours while the children went off to the circus with the neighbor girl. A week later the neighbor girl took the children on a picnic. When the neighbor girl brought them home after the picnic the boy asked him why he didn't stay in his own house. He went home, packed a suitcase, and went to another town, so that she could not reach him. After a month he returned to his home, and several days later she telephoned from another city and said everything was all right again. He asked her to please take care of herself, take care of her family. He decided to return to his birthplace. He was packed and ready to take the train when he believed he must telephone
her and urge her to tell her husband about herself. The number didn't answer. When he got home to pick up his bags his friend telephoned. He had many things to tell his friend, but he didn't know how to begin to tell him, and his friend didn't want to hear him say anything. He decided to try to tell the things in writing, with decent love for her, for his friend, for the children. He wrote and wished them all decent life, decent love, decent truth, decent hope.”