The Laughing Corpse by Laurell K. Hamilton

Chapter 2
I had forgotten I was still wearing it. "Yes," I said.
"Are you a policewoman?"
"No." "Kasey Markowitz, you ask too many questions." Her mother herded her past me with a harried smile.
"Sorry about that, Anita."
"I don't mind," I said. Sometime later I was standing on a little raised platform in front of a nearly perfect circle of mirrors. With the matching pink high heels the dress was the right length at least. It also had little puff sleeves and was an off-the-shoulder look. The dress showed almost every scar I had.
The newest scar was still pink and healing on my right forearm. But it was just a knife wound. They're neat, clean things compared to my other scars. My collarbone and left arm have both been broken. A vampire bit through them, tore at me like a dog with a piece of meat. There's also the cross-shaped burn mark on my left forearm. Some inventive human vampire slaves thought it was amusing. I didn't.
I looked like Frankenstein's bride goes to the prom. Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad, but Mrs. Cassidy thought it was. She thought the scars would distract people from the dress, the wedding party, the bride.
But Catherine, the bride herself, didn't agree. She thought I deserved to be in the wedding, because we were such good friends. I was paying good money to be publicly humiliated. We must be good friends.
Mrs. Cassidy handed me a pair of long pink satin gloves. I pulled them on, wiggling my fingers deep into the tiny holes. I've never liked gloves. They make me feel like I'm touching the world through a curtain.
But the bright pink things did hide my arms. Scars all gone. What a good girl. Right.
The woman fluffed out the satiny skirt, glancing into the mirror. "It will do, I think." She stood, tapping one long, painted fingernail against her lipsticked mouth. "I believe I have come up with something to hide that, uh . . . well . . ." She made vague hand motions towards me.
"My collarbone scar?" I said.
"Yes." She sounded relieved.
It occurred to me for the first time that Mrs. Cassidy had never once said the word "scar." As if it were dirty, or rude. I smiled at myself in the ring of mirrors. Laughter caught at the back of my throat.
Mrs. Cassidy held up something made of pink ribbon and fake orange blossoms. The laughter died.
"What is that?" I asked.
"This," she said, stepping towards me, "is the solution to our problem."
"All right, but what is it?"
"Well, it is a collar, a decoration."
"It goes around my neck?"
"Yes."

The Laughing Corpse by Laurell K. Hamilton

Chapter 2
I also wouldn't have chosen the bridal dresses Catherine picked out, but it was my own fault that I hadn't been around when the vote was taken. I worked too much and I hated to shop. So, I ended up plunking down $120 plus tax on a pink taffeta evening gown. It looked like it had run away from a junior high prom.
I walked into the air-conditioned hush of the bridal shop, high heels sinking into a carpet so pale grey it was nearly white. Mrs. Cassidy, the manager, saw me come in. Her smile faltered for just a moment before she got it under control. She smiled at me, brave Mrs. Cassidy.
I smiled back, not looking forward to the next hour.
Mrs. Cassidy was somewhere between forty and fifty, trim figure, red hair so dark it was almost brown.
The hair was tied in a French knot like Grace Kelly used to wear. She pushed her gold wire-framed glasses more securely on her nose and said, "Ms. Blake, here for the final fitting, I see."
"I hope it's the final fitting," I said.
"Well, we have been working on the . . . problem. I think we've come up with something." There was a
small room in back of the desk. It was filled with racks of plastic-covered dresses. Mrs. Cassidy pulled
mine out from between two identical pink dresses.
She led the way to the dressing rooms with the dress draped over her arms. Her spine was very straight.
She was gearing for another battle. I didn't have to gear up, I was always ready for battle. But arguing with Mrs. Cassidy about alterations to a formal beat the heck out of arguing with Tommy and Bruno. It could have gone very badly, but it hadn't. Gaynor had called them off, for today, he had said.
What did that mean exactly? It was probably self-explanatory. I had left Bert at the office still shaken from his close encounter. He didn't deal with the messy end of the business. The violent end. No, I did that, or Manny, or Jamison, or Charles. We, the animators of Animators, Inc, we did the dirty work.
Bert stayed in his nice safe office and sent clients and trouble our way. Until today.
Mrs. Cassidy hung the dress on a hook inside one of the dressing stalls and went away. Before I could
go inside, another stall opened, and Kasey, Catherine's flower girl, stepped out. She was eight, and she
was glowering. Her mother followed behind her, still in her business suit.Elizabeth(call me Elsie)
Markowitz was tall, slender, black-haired, olive skinned, and a lawyer. She worked with Catherine and was also in the wedding.
Kasey looked like a smaller, softer version of her mother.
The child spotted me first and said, "Hi, Anita. Isn't this dress dumb-looking?"
"Now, Kasey," Elsie said, "it's a beautiful dress. All those nice pink ruffles."
The dress looked like a petunia on steroids to me. I stripped off my jacket and started moving into my own dressing room before I had to give my opinion out loud.
"Is that a real gun?" Kasey asked.

The Laughing Corpse by Laurell K. Hamilton (Chapter 2)

Chapter 2
The bridal shop was just off 70 West inSt. Peters. It was called The Maiden Voyage. Cute. There was a
pizza place on one side of it and a beauty salon on the other. It was called Full Dark Beauty Salon. The
windows were blacked out, outlined in bloodred neon. You could get your hair and nails done by a vampire, if you wanted to.
Vampirism had only been legal for two years in theUnited States of America. We were still the only country in the world where it was legal. Don't ask me; I didn't vote for it. There was even a movement to give the vamps the vote. Taxation without representation and all that.
Two years ago if a vampire bothered someone I just went out and staked the son of a bitch. Now I had to get a court order of execution. Without it, I was up on murder charges, if I was caught. I longed for the good old days.
There was a blond mannequin in the wedding shop window wearing enough white lace to drown in. I am
not a big fan of lace, or seed pearls, or sequins. Especially not sequins. I had gone out with Catherine twice to help her look for a wedding gown. It didn't take long to realize I was no help. I didn't like any of them.
Catherine was a very good friend or I wouldn't have been here at all. She told me if I ever got married I'd change my mind. Surely being in love doesn't cause you to lose your sense of good taste. If I ever buy a gown with sequins on it, someone just shoot me.

The Laughing Corpse by Laurell K. Hamilton

Chapter 1
I nodded. "We have no proof. You didn't even tell us who you wanted raised from the dead, or why."
"It would be your word against mine," he said.
"And I'm sure you have friends in high places." I smiled when I said it.
His smile widened, dimpling his fat little cheeks. "Of course."
I turned my back on Tommy and his gun. Bert followed. We walked outside into the blistering summer heat. Bert looked a little shaken. I felt almost friendly towards him. It was nice to know that Bert had limits, something he wouldn't do, even for a million dollars.
"Would they really have shot us?" he asked. His voice sounded matter-of-fact, firmer than the slightly
glassy look in his eyes. Tough Bert. He unlocked the trunk without being asked.
"With Harold Gaynor's name in our appointment book and in the computer?" I got my gun out and slipped on the holster rig. "Not knowing who we'd mentioned this trip to?" I shook my head. "Too risky."
"Then why did you pretend to have a gun?" He looked me straight in the eyes as he asked, and for the first time I saw uncertainty in his face. Ol' money bags needed a comforting word, but I was fresh out.
"Because, Bert, I could have been wrong."

The Laughing Corpse by Laurell K. Hamilton

Chapter 1
"I'm not an assassin, Gaynor," I said.
"That ain't what I heard," Tommy of the blond hair said.
I glanced at him. His eyes were still as empty as a doll's. "I don't kill people for money."
"You kill vampires for money," he said.
"Legal execution, and I don't do it for the money," I said.
Tommy shook his head and moved away from the wall. "I hear you like staking vampires. And you aren't too careful about who you have to kill to get to 'em."
"My informants tell me you have killed humans before, Ms. Blake," Gaynor said.
"Only in self-defense, Gaynor. I don't do murder."
Bert was standing now. "I think it is time to leave."
Bruno stood in one fluid movement, big dark hands loose and half-cupped at his sides. I was betting on some kind of martial arts.
Tommy was standing away from the wall. His sport jacket was pushed back to expose his gun, like an old-time gunfighter. It was a .357 Magnum. It would make a very big hole.
I just stood there, staring at them. What else could I do? I might be able to do something with Bruno,
but Tommy had a gun. I didn't. It sort of ended the argument.
They were treating me like I was a very dangerous person. At five-three I am not imposing. Raise the dead, kill a few vampires, and people start considering you one of the monsters. Sometimes it hurt. But now . . . it had possibilities. "Do you really think I came in here unarmed?" I asked. My voice sounded very matter-of-fact. Bruno looked at Tommy. He sort of shrugged. "I didn't pat her down." Bruno snorted.
"She ain't wearing a gun, though," Tommy said.
"Want to bet your life on it?" I said. I smiled when I said it, and slid my hand, very slowly, towards my
back. Make them think I had a hip holster at the small of my back. Tommy shifted, flexing his hand near his gun. If he went for it, we were going to die. I was going to come back and haunt Bert.
Gaynor said, "No. No need for anyone to die here today, Ms. Blake."
"No," I said, "no need at all." I swallowed my pulse back into my throat and eased my hand away from my imaginary gun. Tommy eased away from his real one. Goody for us.
Gaynor smiled again, like a pleasant beardless Santa. "You of course understand that telling the police would be useless."

The Laughing Corpse by Laurell K. Hamilton

Chapter 1
Bert grabbed my arm. "Anita, sit down, please."
I stared at his hand until he let go of me. His charming mask slipped, showing me the anger underneath,
then he was all pleasant business again. "Anita. It is a generous payment."
"The white goat is a euphemism, Bert. It means a human sacrifice."
My boss glanced at Gaynor, then back to me. He knew me well enough to believe me, but he didn't want to. "I don't understand," he said.
"The older the zombie the bigger the death needed to raise it. After a few centuries the only death 'big
enough' is a human sacrifice," I said.
Gaynor wasn't smiling anymore. He was watching me out of dark eyes. Cicely was still looking pleasant,
almost smiling. Was there anyone home behind those so blue eyes? "Do you really want to talk about murder in front of Cicely?" I asked.
Gaynor beamed at me, always a bad sign. "She can't understand a word we say. Cicely's deaf."
I stared at him, and he nodded. She looked at me with pleasant eyes. We were talking of human
sacrifice and she didn't even know it. If she could read lips, she was hiding it very well. I guess even the handicapped, um, physically challenged, can fall into bad company, but it seemed wrong.

The Laughing Corpse by Laurell K. Hamilton

Chapter 1
She was tall, leggy, blond, with cornflower-blue eyes. The dress, if it was a dress, was rose-colored and
silky. It clung to her body the way it was supposed to, hiding what decency demanded, but leaving very
little to the imagination. Long pale legs were stuffed into pink spike heels, no hose. She stalked across the
carpet, and every man in the room watched her. And she knew it.
She threw back her head and laughed, but no sound came out. Her face brightened, her lips moved,
eyes sparkled, but in absolute silence, like someone had turned the sound off. She leaned one hip against
Harold Gaynor, one hand on his shoulder. He encircled her waist, and the movement raised the already
short dress another inch.
Could she sit down in the dress without flashing the room? Naw.
"This is Cicely," he said. She smiled brilliantly at Bert, that little soundless laugh making her eyes sparkle.
She looked at me and her eyes faltered, the smile slipped. For a second uncertainty filled her eyes.
Gaynor patted her hip. The smile flamed back into place. She nodded graciously to both of us.

The Laughing Corpse by Laurell K. Hamilton

Chapter 1
"Mr. Vaughn and Ms. Blake, how nice of you to drive out." His voice went with his face, pleasant, damn
near amiable.
A slender black man sat in one of the leather chairs. He was over six feet tall, exactly how much over
was hard to tell. He was slumped down, long legs stretched out in front of him with the ankles crossed.
His legs were taller than I was. His brown eyes watched me as if he were trying to memorize me and
would be graded later.
The blond bodyguard went to lean against the bookcases. He couldn't quite cross his arms, jacket too
tight, muscles too big. You really shouldn't lean against a wall and try to look tough unless you can cross
your arms. Ruins the effect.
Mr. Gaynor said, "You've met Tommy." He motioned towards the sitting bodyguard. "That's Bruno."
"Is that your real name or just a nickname?" I asked, looking straight into Bruno's eyes.
He shifted just a little in his chair. "Real name."
I smiled.
"Why?" he asked.

The Laughing Corpse by Laurell K. Hamilton

Chapter 1
Bert opened the trunk of his nearly brand-new Volvo. I was already taking off the jacket. He stood in front of me, hiding me from the house. God forbid that they should see me hiding a gun in the trunk. What would they do, lock the doors and scream for help?
I folded the holster straps around the gun and laid it in the clean trunk. It smelled like new car, plastic and faintly unreal. Bert shut the trunk, and I stared at it as if I could still see the gun. "Are you coming?" he asked. "Yeah," I said. I didn't like leaving my gun behind, for any reason. Was that a bad sign? Bert motioned for me to come on. I did, walking carefully over the gravel in my high-heeled black pumps. Women may get to wear lots of
pretty colors, but men get the comfortable shoes. Bert was staring at the door, smile already set on his face. It was his best professional smile, dripping with sincerity. His pale grey eyes sparkled with good cheer. It was a mask. He could put it on and off like a light switch. He'd wear the same smile if you confessed to killing your own mother. As long as you wanted to pay to have her raised from the dead.
The door opened, and I knew Bert had been wrong about me not needing a gun. The man was maybe five-eight, but the orange polo shirt he wore strained over his chest. The black sport jacket seemed too small, as if when he moved the seams would split, like an insect's skin that had been outgrown. Black acid-washed jeans showed off a small waist, so he looked like someone had pinched him in the middle while the clay was still wet. His hair was very blond. He looked at us silently. His eyes were empty, dead as a doll's. I caught a glimpse of shoulder holster under the sport jacket and resisted an urge to kick Bert
in the shins.
Either my boss didn't notice the gun or he ignored it. "Hello, I'm Bert Vaughn and this is my associate, Anita Blake. I believe Mr. Gaynor is expecting us." Bert smiled at him charmingly.
The bodyguard—what else could he be—moved away from the door. Bert took that for an invitation and walked inside. I followed, not at all sure I wanted to. Harold Gaynor was a very rich man. Maybe he needed a bodyguard. Maybe people had threatened him. Or maybe he was one of those men who have enough money to keep hired muscle around whether they need it or not. Or maybe something else was going on. Something that needed guns and muscle, and men with dead, emotionless eyes. Not a cheery thought.
The air-conditioning was on too high and the sweat gelled instantly. We followed the bodyguard down a long central hall that was paneled in dark, expensive-looking wood. The hall runner looked oriental and was probably handmade.
Heavy wooden doors were set in the right-hand wall. The bodyguard opened the doors and again stood to one side while we walked through. The room was a library, but I was betting no one ever read any of the books. The place was ceiling to floor in dark wood bookcases. There was even a second level of books and shelves reached by an elegant sweep of narrow staircase. All the books were hardcover, all the same size, colors muted and collected together like a collage. The furniture was, of course, red leather with brass buttons worked into it.
A man sat near the far wall. He smiled when we came in. He was a large man with a pleasant round face, double-chinned. He was sitting in an electric wheelchair, with a small plaid blanket over his lap,
hiding his legs.

The Laughing Corpse by Laurell K. Hamilton

Chapter 1
"It was just a thought. The dead have no rights under law, Anita."
"Not yet."
It was wrong to raise the dead so they could slave for us. It was just wrong, but no one listens to me.
The government finally had to get into the act. There was a nationwide committee being formed of
animators and other experts. We were supposed to look into the working conditions of local zombies.
Working conditions. They didn't understand. You can't give a corpse nice working conditions. They
don't appreciate it anyway. Zombies may walk, even talk, but they are very, very dead.
Bert smiled indulgently at me. I fought an urge to pop him one right in his smug face, "I know you and
Charles are working on that committee," Bert said. "Going around to all the businesses and checking up
on the zombies. It makes great press for Animators, Inc."
"I don't do it for good press," I said.
"I know. You believe in your little cause."
"You're a condescending bastard," I said, smiling sweetly up at him.
He grinned at me. "I know."
I just shook my head; with Bert you can't really win an insult match. He doesn't give a damn what I think
of him, as long as I work for him.
My navy blue suit jacket was supposed to be summer weight but it was a lie. Sweat trickled down my
spine as soon as I stepped out of the car.
Bert turned to me, small eyes narrowing. His eyes lend themselves to suspicious squints. "You're still
wearing your gun," he said.
"The jacket hides it, Bert. Mr. Gaynor will never know." Sweat started collecting under the straps of my
shoulder holster. I could feel the silk blouse beginning to melt. I try not to wear silk and a shoulder rig at
the same time. The silk starts to look indented, wrinkling where the straps cross. The gun was a
Browning Hi-Power 9mm, and I liked having it near at hand.
"Come on, Anita. I don't think you'll need a gun in the middle of the afternoon, while visiting a client."
Bert's voice held that patronizing tone that people use on children. Now, little girl, you know this is for
your own good.
Bert didn't care about my well-being. He just didn't want to spook Gaynor. The man had already given
us a check for five thousand dollars. And that was just to drive out and talk to him. The implication was
that there was more money if we agreed to take his case. A lot of money. Bert was all excited about that
part. I was skeptical. After all, Bert didn't have to raise the corpse. I did.
The trouble was, Bert was probably right. I wouldn't need the gun in broad daylight. Probably. "All right,
open the trunk."

The Laughing Corpse by Laurell K. Hamilton

Chapter 1
Harold Gaynor's house sat in the middle of intense green lawn and the graceful sweep of trees. The house gleamed in the hot August sunshine. Bert Vaughn, my boss, parked the car on the crushed gravel of the driveway. The gravel was so white, it looked like handpicked rock salt. Somewhere out of sight the soft whir of sprinklers pattered. The grass was absolutely perfect in the middle of one of the worst droughts Missourihas had in over twenty years. Oh, well. I wasn't here to talk with Mr. Gaynor about water management. I was here to talk about raising the dead.
Not resurrection. I'm not that good. I mean zombies. The shambling dead. Rotting corpses. Night of the living dead. That kind of zombie. Though certainly less dramatic than Hollywood would ever put up on the screen. I am an animator. It's a job, that's all, like selling.
Animating had only been a licensed business for about five years. Before that it had just been an embarrassing curse, a religious experience, or a tourist attraction. It still is in parts ofNew Orleans, but here inSt. Louisit's a business. A profitable one, thanks in large part to my boss. He's a rascal, a scalawag, a rogue, but damn if he doesn't know how to make money. It's a good trait for a business manager.
Bert was six-three, a broad-shouldered, ex-college football player with the beginnings of a beer gut. The dark blue suit he wore was tailored so that the gut didn't show. For eight hundred dollars the suit should have hidden a herd of elephants. His white-blond hair was trimmed in a crew cut, back in style after all these years. A boater's tan made his pale hair and eyes dramatic with contrast.

Bert adjusted his blue and red striped tie, mopping a bead of sweat off his tanned forehead. "I heard on the news there's a movement there to use zombies in pesticide-contaminated fields. It would save lives."
"Zombies rot, Bert, there's no way to prevent that, and they don't stay smart enough long enough to be used as field labor."

Teddy by J. D. Salinger

Part 13
are and things like that . . . I guess, even before that, I'd get them to empty out
everything their parents and everybody ever told them. I mean even if their parents just
told them an elephant's big, I'd make them empty that out. An elephant's only big when
it's next to something else--a dog or a lady, for example." Teddy thought another
moment. "I wouldn't even tell them an elephant has a trunk. I might show them an
elephant, if I had one handy, but I'd let them just walk up to the elephant not knowing
anything more about it than the elephant knew about them. The same thing with grass,
and other things. I wouldn't even tell them grass is green. Colors are only names. I
mean if you tell them the grass is green, it makes them start expecting the grass to look
a certain way--your way--instead of some other way that may be just as good, and may
be much better . . . I don't know. I'd just make them vomit up every bit of the apple
their parents and everybody made them take a bite out of."
"There's no risk you'd be raising a little generation of ignoramuses?"
"Why? They wouldn't any more be ignoramuses than an elephant is. Or a bird is. Or a
tree is," Teddy said. "Just because something is a certain way, instead of just behaves a
certain way, doesn't mean it's an ignoramus."
"No?"
"No!" Teddy said. "Besides, if they wanted to learn all that other stuff--names and
colors and things--they could do it, if they felt like it, later on when they were older. But
I'd want them to begin with all the real ways of looking at things, not just the way all
the other apple-eaters look at things--that's what I mean." He came closer to Nicholson,
and extended his hand down to him. "I have to go now. Honestly. I've enjoyed--"
"Just one second-sit down a minute," Nicholson said. "Ever think you might like to do
something in research when you grow up? Medical research, or something of that kind?
It seems to me, with your mind, you might eventually--"

Teddy by J. D. Salinger

Part 12
Nicholson didn't say anything.
"I didn't tell them when they were actually going to die, though. That's a very false
rumor," Teddy said. "I could have, but I knew that in their hearts they really didn't want
to know. I mean I knew that even though they teach Religion and Philosophy and all,
they're still pretty afraid to die." Teddy sat, or reclined, in silence for a minute. "It's so
silly," he said. "All you do is get the heck out of your body when you die. My gosh,
everybody's done it thousands and thousands of times. Just because they don't
remember it doesn't mean they haven't done it. It's so silly."
"That may be. That may be," Nicholson said. "But the logical fact remains that no
matter how intelligently--"
"It's so silly," Teddy said again. "For example, I have a swimming lesson in about five
minutes. I could go downstairs to the pool, and there might not be any water in it. This
might be the day they change the water or something. What might happen, though, I
might walk up to the edge of it, just to have a look at the bottom, for instance, and my
sister might come up and sort of push me in. I could fracture my skull and die
instantaneously." Teddy looked at Nicholson. "That could happen," he said. "My sister's
only six, and she hasn't been a human being for very many lives, and she doesn't like
me very much. That could happen, all right. What would be so tragic about it, though?
What's there to be afraid of, I mean? I'd just be doing what I was supposed to do, that's
all, wouldn't I?"
Nicholson snorted mildly. "It might not be a tragedy from your point of view, but it
would certainly be a sad event for your mother and dad," he said "Ever consider that?"
"Yes, of course, I have," Teddy said. "But that's only because they have names and
emotions for everything that happens." He had been keeping his hands tucked under
his legs again. He took them out now, put his arms up on the armrests, and looked at
Nicholson. "You know Sven? The man that takes care of the gym?" he asked. He waited
till he got a nod from Nicholson. "Well, if Sven dreamed tonight that his dog died, he'd
have a very, very bad night's sleep, because he's very fond of that dog. But when he
woke up in the morning, everything would be all right. He'd know it was only a dream."
Nicholson nodded. "What's the point, exactly?"

Teddy by J. D. Salinger

Part 11
because it's an arm. In the first place, it has to have a name to distinguish it from other
objects. I mean you can't simply--"
"You're just being logical," Teddy said to him impassively.
"I'm just being what?" Nicholson asked, with a little excess of politeness.
"Logical. You're just giving me a regular, intelligent answer," Teddy said. "I was trying
to help you. You asked me how I get out of the finite dimensions when I feel like it. I
certainly don't use logic when I do it. Logic's the first thing you have to get rid of."
Nicholson removed a flake of tobacco from his tongue with his fingers.
"You know Adam?" Teddy asked him.
"Do I know who?"
"Adam. In the Bible."
Nicholson smiled. "Not personally," he said dryly.
Teddy hesitated. "Don't be angry with me," he said. "You asked me a question, and
I'm--"
"I'm not angry with you, for heaven's sake."
"Okay," Teddy said. He was sitting back in his chair, but his head was turned toward
Nicholson. "You know that apple Adam ate in the Garden of Eden, referred to in the
Bible?" he asked. "You know what was in that apple? Logic. Logic and intellectual stuff.
That was all that was in it. So--this is my point--what you have to do is vomit it up if
you want to see things as they really are. I mean if you vomit it up, then you won't have
any more trouble with blocks of wood and stuff. You won't see everything stopping off
all the time. And you'll know what your arm really is, if you're interested. Do you know
what I mean? Do you follow me?"

Teddy by J. D. Salinger

Part 10
forward, and stepped on his cigarette end. "As I understand it," he said, sitting back,
"you hold pretty firmly to the Vedantic theory of reincarnation."
"It isn't a theory, it's as much a part--"
"All right," Nicholson said quickly. He smiled, and gently raised the flats of his hands,
in a sort of ironic benediction. "We won't argue that point, for the moment. Let me
finish." He crossed his heavy, outstretched legs again. "From what I gather, you've
acquired certain information, through meditation, that's given you some conviction that
in your last incarnation you were a holy man in India, but more or less fell from Grace-"
"I wasn't a holy man," Teddy said. "I was just a person making very nice spiritual
advancement."
"All right--whatever it was," Nicholson said. "But the point is you feel that in your last
incarnation you more or less fell from Grace before final Illumination. Is that right, or
am I--"
"That's right," Teddy said. "I met a lady, and I sort of stopped meditating." He took his
arms down from the armrests, and tucked his hands, as if to keep them warm, under
his thighs. "I would have had to take another body and come back to earth again
anyway-I mean I wasn't so spiritually advanced that I could have died, if I hadn't met
that lady, and then gone straight to Brahma and never again have to come back to
earth. But I wouldn't have had to get incarnated in an American body if I hadn't met
that lady. I mean it's very hard to meditate and live a spiritual life in America. People
think you're a freak if you try to. My father thinks I'm a freak, in a way. And my
mother--well, she doesn't think it's good for me to think about God all the time. She
thinks it's bad for my health."

Teddy by J. D. Salinger

Part 9
Nicholson got his cigarette lit, with some difficulty, for there was a light breeze
blowing from the north. He sat back, and said, "I understand you left a pretty disturbed
bunch--"
" `Nothing in the voice of the cicada intimates how soon it will die,' " Teddy said
suddenly. "'Along this road goes no one, this autumn eve."'
"What was that?" Nicholson asked, smiling. "Say that again."
"Those are two Japanese poems. They're not full of a lot of emotional stuff," Teddy
said. He sat forward abruptly, tilted his head to the right, and gave his right ear a light
clap with his hand. "I still have some water in my ear from my swimming lesson
yesterday," he said. He gave his ear another couple of claps, then sat back, putting his
arms up on both armrests. It was, of course, a normal, adult-size deck chair, and he
looked distinctly small in it, but at the same time, he looked perfectly relaxed, even
serene.
"I understand you left a pretty disturbed bunch of pedants up at Boston," Nicholson
said, watching him. "After that last little set-to. The whole Leidekker examining group,
more or less, the way I understand it. I believe I told you I had rather a long chat with
Al Babcock last June. Same night, as, a matter of fact, I heard your tape played off."
"Yes, you did. You told me."
"I understand they were a pretty disturbed bunch," Nicholson pressed. "From What Al
told me, you all had quite a little lethal bull session late one night--the same night you
made that tape, I believe." He took a drag on his cigarette. "From what I gather, you
made some little predictions that disturbed the boys no end. Is that right?"
"I wish I knew why people think it's so important to be emotional," Teddy said. "My
mother and father don't think a person's human unless he thinks a lot of things are
very sad or very annoying or very-very unjust, sort of. My father gets very emotional
even when he reads the newspaper. He thinks I'm inhuman."
Nicholson flicked his cigarette ash off to one side. "I take it you have no emotions?" he
said.

Teddy by J. D. Salinger

Part 8
touched. "That's sacrilege," he said. "Absolute sacrilege." He stretched out his legs,
which were unusually heavy at the thighs, almost like human bodies in themselves. He
was dressed, for the most part, in Eastern seaboard regimentals: a turf haircut on top,
run-down brogues on the bottom, with a somewhat mixed uniform in between--buffcolored
woolen socks, charcoal-gray trousers, a button-down-collar shirt, no necktie,
and a herringbone jacket that looked as though it had been properly aged in some of
the more popular postgraduate seminars at Yale, or Harvard, or Princeton. "Oh, God,
what a divine day," he said appreciatively, squinting up at the sun. "I'm an absolute
pawn when it comes to the weather." He crossed his heavy legs, at the ankles. "As a
matter of fact, I've been known to take a perfectly normal rainy day as a personal insult.
So this is absolute manna to me." Though his speaking voice was, in the usual
connotation, well bred, it carried considerably more than adequately, as though he had
some sort of understanding with himself that anything he had to say would sound
pretty much all right--intelligent, literate, even amusing or stimulating--either from
Teddy's vantage point or from that of the people in the row behind, if they were
listening. He looked obliquely down at Teddy, and smiled. "How are you and the
weather?" he asked. His smile was not unpersonable, but it was social, or
conversational, and related back, however indirectly, to his own ego. "The weather ever
bother you out of all sensible proportion?" he asked, smiling.
"I don't take it too personal, if that's what you mean," Teddy said.
The young man laughed, letting his head go back. "Wonderful," he said. "My name,
incidentally, is Bob Nicholson. I don't know if we quite got around to that in the gym. I
know your name, of course."
Teddy shifted his weight over to one hip and stashed his notebook in the side pocket
of his shorts.

Teddy by J. D. Salinger

Part 7
Teddy abruptly took out a small, bullet-shaped, ballpoint pen from the side pocket of
his shorts, uncapped it, and began to write. He used his right thigh as a desk, instead
of the chair arm.
Diary for October 28, 1952
Same address and reward as written on October 26 and 27, 1952.
I wrote letters to the following persons after meditation this morning.
Dr. Wokawara
Professor Mandell
Professor Peet
Burgess Hake, Jr.
Roberta Hake
Sanford Hake
Grandma Hake
Mr. Graham
Professor Walton
I could have asked mother where daddy's dog tags are but she would probably say I
don't have to wear them. I know he has them with him because I saw him pack them.
Life is a gift horse in my opinion.
I think it is very tasteless of Professor Walton to criticize my parents. He wants people to
be a certain way.

Teddy by J. D. Salinger

Part 6
shoulder of his T shirt was not a cute hole. The excess material in the seat of his
seersucker shorts, the excess length of the shorts themselves, were not cute excesses.
The McArdles' four deck chairs, cushioned and ready for occupancy, were situated in
the middle of the second row from the front. Teddy sat down in one of them so that--
whether or not it was his intention--no one was sitting directly on either side of him. He
stretched out his bare, unsuntanned legs, feet together, on the leg rest, and, almost
simultaneously, took a small, ten-cent notebook out of his right hip pocket. Then, with
instantly one-pointed concentration, as if only he and the notebook existed--no
sunshine, no fellow passengers, no ship--,he began to turn the pages.
With the exception of a very few pencil notations, the entries in the notebook had
apparently all been made with a ball-point pen. The handwriting itself was manuscript
style, such as is currently being taught in American schools, instead of the old, Palmer
method. It was legible without being pretty-pretty. The flow was what was remarkable
about the handwriting. In no sense--no mechanical sense, at any rate--did the words
and sentences look as though they had been written by a child.
Teddy gave considerable reading time to what looked like his most recent entry. It
covered a little more than three pages:
Diary for October 27, 1952
Property of Theodore McArdle
412 A Deck

Teddy by J. D. Salinger

Part 5
see. Move your carcass." She shut her eyes and waited, with a cross-bearing grimace,
till Myron moved.
Teddy stood over the two stacks of discs and looked down appraisingly at them.
"That's very nice," he said. "Very symmetrical."
"This guy," Booper said, indicating Myron, "never even heard of backgammon. They
don't even have one."
Teddy glanced briefly, objectively, at Myron. "Listen," he said to Booper. "Where's the
camera? Daddy wants it right away."
"He doesn't even live in New York," Booper informed Teddy. "And his father's dead. He
was killed in Korea." She turned to Myron. "Wasn't he?" she demanded, but without
waiting for a response. "Now if his mother dies, he'll be an orphan. He didn't even know
that." She looked at Myron. "Did you?"
Myron, non-committal, folded his arms.
"You're the stupidest person I ever met," Booper said to him. "You're the stupidest
person in this ocean. Did you know that?"
"He is not," Teddy said. "You are not, Myron." He addressed his sister: "Give me your
attention a second. Where's the camera? I have to have it immediately. Where is it?"
"Over there," Booper said, indicating no direction at all. She drew her two stacks of
shuffleboard discs in closer to her. "All I need now is two giants," she said. "They could
play backgammon till they got all tired and then they could climb up on that
smokestack and throw these at everybody and kill them." She looked at Myron. "They
could kill your parents," she said to him knowledgeably. "And if that didn't kill them,
you know what you could do? You could put some poison on some marshmellows and
make them eat it."
The Leica was about ten feet away, next to the white railing that surrounded the
Sports Deck. It lay in the drain gully, on its side. Teddy went over and picked it up by
its strap and hung it around his neck. Then, immediately, he took it off. He took it over
to Booper. "Booper, do me a favor. You take it down, please," he said. "It's ten o'clock. I
have to write in my diary."

Teddy by J. D. Salinger

Part 4
Teddy lingered for a moment at the door, reflectively experimenting with the door
handle, turning it slowly left and right. "After I go out this door, I may only exist in the
minds of all my acquaintances," he said. "I may be an orange peel."
"What, darling?" Mrs. McArdle asked from across the cabin, still lying on her right
side.
"Let's get on the ball, buddy. Let's get that Leica down here."
"Come give Mother a kiss. A nice, big one."
"Not right now," Teddy said absently. "I'm tired." He closed the door behind him.
The ship's daily newspaper lay just outside the doorsill. It was a single sheet of glossy
paper, with printing on just one side. Teddy picked it up and began to read it as he
started slowly aft down the long passageway. From the opposite end, a huge, blond
woman in a starched white uniform was coming toward him, carrying a vase of longstemmed,
red roses. As she passed Teddy, she put out her left hand and grazed the top
of his head with it, saying, "Somebody needs a haircut!" Teddy passively looked up from
his newspaper, but the woman had passed, and he didn't look back. He went on
reading. At the end of the passageway, before an enormous mural of Saint George and
the Dragon over the staircase landing, he folded the ship's newspaper into quarters and
put it into his left hip pocket. He then climbed the broad, shallow, carpeted steps up to
Main Deck, one flight up. He took two steps at a time, but slowly, holding on to the
banister, putting his whole body into it, as if the act of climbing a flight of stairs was for
him, as it is for many children, a moderately pleasurable end in itself. At the Main Deck
landing, he went directly over to the Purser's desk, where a good-looking girl in naval
uniform was presiding at the moment. She was stapling some mimeographed sheets of
paper together.

Teddy by J. D. Salinger

Part 3
Teddy took in most of his head. "They float very nicely," he said without turning
around. "That's interesting."
"Teddy. For the last time. I'm going to count three, and then I'm-"
"I don't mean it's interesting that they float," Teddy said. "It's interesting that I know
about them being there. If I hadn't seen them, then I wouldn't know they were there,
and if I didn't know they were there, I wouldn't be able to say that they even exist.
That's a very nice, perfect example of the way--"
"Teddy," Mrs. McArdle interrupted, without visibly stirring under her top sheet. "Go
find Booper for me. Where is she? I don't want her lolling around in that sun again
today, with that bum."
"She's adequately covered. I made her wear her dungarees," Teddy said. "Some of
them are starting to sink now. In a few minutes, the only place they'll still be floating
will be inside my mind. That's quite interesting, because if you look at it a certain way,
that's where they started floating in the first place. If I'd never been standing here at all,
or if somebody'd come along and sort of chopped my head off right while I was--"
"Where is she now?" Mrs. McArdle asked. "Look at Mother a minute, Teddy."
Teddy turned and looked at his mother. "What?" he said.
"Where's Booper now? I don't want her meandering all around the deck chairs again,
bothering people. If that awful man--"
"She's all right. I gave her the camera."

Teddy by J. D. Salinger

Part 2
"If that bag can't support a ten-year-old boy, who's thirteen pounds underweight for
his age, I don't want it in my cabin," Mrs. McArdle said, without opening her eyes.
"You know what I'd like to do?" Mr. McArdle said. "I'd like to kick your goddam head
open."
"Why don't you?"
Mr. McArdle abruptly propped himself up on one elbow and squashed out his
cigarette stub on the glass top of the night table. "One of these days--" he began grimly.
"One of these days, you're going to have a tragic, tragic heart attack," Mrs. McArdle
said, with a minimum of energy. Without bringing her arms into the open, she drew her
top sheet more tightly around and under her body. "There'll be a small, tasteful funeral,
and everybody's going to ask who that attractive woman in the red dress is, sitting there
in the first row, flirting with the organist and making a holy--"
"You're so goddam funny it isn't even funny," Mr. McArdle said, lying inertly on his
back again.
During this little exchange, Teddy had faced around and resumed looking out of the
porthole. "We passed the Queen Mary at three-thirty-two this morning, going the other
way, if anybody's interested," he said slowly. "Which I doubt." His voice was oddly and
beautifully rough cut, as some small boys' voices are. Each of his phrasings was rather
like a little ancient island, inundated by a miniature sea of whiskey. "That deck steward
Booper despises had it on his blackboard."
"I'll Queen Mary you, buddy, if you don't get off that bag this minute," his father said.
He turned his head toward Teddy. "Get down from there, now. Go get yourself a haircut
or something." He looked at the back of his wife's head again. "He looks precocious, for
God's sake."

Teddy by J. D. Salinger

I'LL EXQUISITE DAY you, buddy, if you don't get down off that bag this minute. And I
mean it," Mr. McArdle said. He was speaking from the inside twin bed--the bed farther
away from the porthole. Viciously, with more of a whimper than a sigh, he foot-pushed
his top sheet clear of his ankles, as though any kind of coverlet was suddenly too much
for his sunburned, debilitated-looking body to bear. He was lying supine, in just the
trousers of his pajamas, a lighted cigarette in his right hand. His head was propped up
just enough to rest uncomfortably, almost masochistically, against the very base of the
headboard. His pillow and ashtray were both on the floor, between his and Mrs.
McArdle's bed. Without raising his body, he reached out a nude, inflamed-pink, right
arm and flicked his ashes in the general direction of the night table. "October, for God's
sake," he said. "If this is October weather, gimme August." He turned his head to the
right again, toward Teddy, looking for trouble. "C'mon," he said. "What the hell do you
think I'm talking for? My health? Get down off there, please." Teddy was standing on
the broadside of a new looking cowhide Gladstone, the better to see out of his parents'
open porthole. He was wearing extremely dirty, white ankle-sneakers, no socks,
seersucker shorts that were both too long for him and at least a size too large in the
seat, an overly laundered T shirt that had a hole the size of a dime in the right
shoulder, and an incongruously handsome, black alligator belt. He needed a haircut--
especially at the nape of the neck--the worst way, as only a small boy with an almost
full-grown head and a reedlike neck can need one.
"Teddy, did you hear me?"
Teddy was not leaning out of the porthole quite so far or so precariously as small boys
are apt to lean out of open portholes--both his feet, in fact, were flat on the surface of
the Gladstone--but neither was he just conservatively well-tipped; his face was
considerably more outside than inside the cabin. Nonetheless, he was well within
hearing of his father's voice--his father's voice, that is, most singularly. Mr. McArdle
played leading roles on no fewer than three daytime radio serials when he was in New
York, and he had what might be called a third-class leading man's speaking voice:
narcissistically deep and resonant, functionally prepared at a moment's notice to
outmale anyone in the same room with it, if necessary even a small boy. When it was on
vacation from its professional chores, it fell, as a rule, alternately in love with sheer
volume and a theatrical brand of quietness-steadiness. Right now, volume was in order.
"Teddy. God damn it--did you hear me?"
Teddy turned around at the waist, without changing the vigilant position of his feet on
the Gladstone, and gave his father a look of inquiry, whole and pure. His eyes, which
were pale brown in color, and not at all large, were slightly crossed--the left eye more
than the right. They were not crossed enough to be disfiguring, or even to be necessarily
noticeable at first glance. They were crossed just enough to be mentioned, and only in
context with the fact that one might have thought long and seriously before wishing
them straighter, or deeper, or browner, or wider set. His face, just as it was, carried the
impact, however oblique and slow-travelling, of real beauty.
"I want you to get down off that bag, now. How many times do you want me to tell
you?" Mr. McArdle said.

De Daumier-Smith's Blue Period by J. D. Salinger

Part 12
confusions this change of plans might cause the school. She sincerely hoped that the
first tuition payment of fourteen dollars might be refunded to the diocese.
The mouse, I've been sure for years, limps home from the site of the burning ferris
wheel with a brand-new, airtight plan for killing the cat. After I'd read and reread and
then, for great, long minutes, stared at the Mother Superior's letter, I suddenly broke
away from it and wrote letters to my four remaining students, advising them to give up
the idea of becoming artists. I told them, individually, that they had absolutely no talent
worth developing and that they were simply wasting their own valuable time as well as
the school's. I wrote all four letters in French. When I was finished, I immediately went
out and mailed them. The satisfaction was short-lived, but very, very good while it
lasted.
When it came time to join the parade to the kitchen for dinner, I asked to be excused.
I said I wasn't feeling well. (I lied, in 1939, with far greater conviction than I told the
truth--so I was positive that M. Yoshoto looked at me with suspicion when I said I
wasn't feeling well.) Then I went up to my room and sat down on a cushion. I sat there
for surely an hour, staring at a daylit hole in the window blind, without smoking or
taking off my coat or loosening my necktie. Then, abruptly, I got up and brought over a
quantity of my personal notepaper and wrote a second letter to Sister Irma, using the
floor as a desk.
I never mailed the letter. The following reproduction is copied straight from the
original.

De Daumier-Smith's Blue Period by J. D. Salinger

Part 11
personally had no objection to smoking, but that, alas, the school's policy was against
smoking in the instructors' room. He cut short my profuse apologies with a
magnanimous wave of his hand, and went back over to his and Mme. Yoshoto's side of
the room. I wondered, in a real panic, how I would manage to get sanely through the
next thirteen days to the Monday when Sister Irma's next envelope was due.
That was Tuesday morning. I spent the rest of the working day and all the working
portions of the next two days keeping myself feverishly busy. I took all of Bambi
Kramer's and R. Howard Ridgefield's drawings apart, as it were, and put them together
with brand-new parts. I designed for both of them literally dozens of insulting,
subnormal, but quite constructive, drawing exercises. I wrote long letters to them. I
almost begged R. Howard Ridgefield to give up his satire for a while. I asked Bambi,
with maximum delicacy, to please hold off, temporarily, submitting any more drawings
with titles kindred to "Forgive Them Their Trespasses." Then, Thursday mid-afternoon,
feeling good and jumpy, I started in on one of the two new students, an American from
Bangor, Maine, who said in his questionnaire, with wordy, Honest-John integrity, that
he was his own favorite artist. He referred to himself as a realist-abstractionist. As for
my after-school hours, Tuesday evening I took a bus into Montreal proper and sat
through a Cartoon Festival Week program at a third-rate movie house--which largely
entailed being a witness to a succession of cats being bombarded with champagne
corks by mice gangs. Wednesday evening, I gathered up the floor cushions in my room,
piled them three high, and tried to sketch from memory Sister Irma's picture of Christ's
burial.
I'm tempted to say that Thursday evening was peculiar, or perhaps macabre, but the
fact is, I have no bill-filling adjectives for Thursday evening. I left Les Amis after dinner
and went I don't know where--perhaps to a movie, perhaps for just a long walk; I can't
remember, and, for once, my diary for 1939 lets me down, too, for the page I need is a
total blank.

De Daumier-Smith's Blue Period by J. D. Salinger

Part 10
the young lady in the foreground in the blue outfit was Mary Magdalene, because if it
was, you were using your incipient genius somewhat more than your religious
inclinations, I am afraid. However, this is nothing to fear, in my opinion.
With sincere hope that you are enjoying completely perfect health, I am,
Very respectfully yours, (signed)
JEAN DE DAUMIER-SMITH Staff Instructor
Les Amis Des Vieux Maltres
P.S. I have nearly forgotten that students are supposed to submit envelopes every
second Monday to the school. For your first assignment will you kindly make some
outdoor sketches for me? Do them very freely and do not strain. I am unaware, of
course, how much time they give you for your personal drawing at your Convent and
hope you will advise me. Also I beg you to buy those necessary supplies I took the
liberty of advocating, as I would like you to begin using oils as soon as possible. If you
will pardon my saying so, I believe you are too passionate to paint just in watercolors
and never in oils indefinitely. I say that quite impersonally and do not mean to be
obnoxious; actually, it is intended as a compliment. Also please send me all of your old
former work that you have on hand, as I am eager to see it. The days will be
insufferable for me till your next envelope arrives, it goes without saying.
If it is not overstepping myself, I would greatly appreciate your telling me if you find
being a nun very satisfactory, in a spiritual way, of course. Frankly, I have been
studying various religions as a hobby ever since I read volumes 36, 44, 45 of the
Harvard Classics, which you may be acquainted with. I am especially delighted with
Martin Luther, who was a Protestant, of course. Please do not be offended by this. I
advocate no doctrine; it is not my nature to do so. As a last thought, please do not
forget to advise me as to your visiting hours, as my weekends are free as far as I know
and I may happen to be in your environs some Saturday by chance. Also please do not
forget to inform me if you have a reasonable command of the French language, as for all
intents and purposes I am comparatively speechless in English owing to my varied and
largely insensible upbringing.

De Daumier-Smith's Blue Period by J. D. Salinger

Part 9
"Non, non-merci, madame." I said that the way the floor cushions were set right up
against the wall, it gave me a good chance to practice keeping my back straight. I stood
up to show her how sway-backed I was.
After dinner, while the Yoshotos were discussing, in Japanese, some perhaps
provocative topic, I asked to be excused from the table. M. Yoshoto looked at me as if he
weren't quite sure how I'd got into his kitchen in the first place, but nodded, and I
walked quickly down the hall to my room. When I had turned on the overhead light and
closed the door behind me, I took my drawing pencils out of my pocket, then took off
my jacket, unbuttoned my shirt, and sat down on a floor cushion with Sister Irma's
envelope in my hands. Till past four in the morning, with everything I needed spread
out before me on the floor, I attended to what I thought were Sister Irma's immediate,
artistic wants.
The first thing I did was to make some ten or twelve pencil sketches. Rather than go
downstairs to the instructors' room for drawing paper, I drew the sketches on my
personal notepaper, using both sides of the sheet. When that was done, I wrote a long,
almost an endless, letter.
I've been as saving as an exceptionally neurotic magpie all my life, and I still have the
next-to-the-last draft of the letter I wrote to Sister Irma that June night in 1939. I could
reproduce all of it here verbatim, but it isn't necessary. I used the bulk of the letter, and
I mean bulk, to suggest where and how, in her major picture, she'd run into a little
trouble, especially with her colors. I listed a few artist's supplies that I thought she
couldn't do without, and included approximate costs. I asked her who Douglas Bunting
was. I asked where I could see some of his work. I asked her (and I knew what a long
shot it was) if she had ever seen any reproductions of paintings by Antonello da
Messina. I asked her to please tell me how old she was, and assured her, at great
length, that the information, if given, wouldn't go beyond myself. I said the only reason
that I was asking was that the information would help me to instruct her more
efficiently. Virtually in the same breath, I asked if she were allowed to have visitors at
her convent.

De Daumier-Smith's Blue Period by J. D. Salinger

Part 8
only when they are laying right on the ground." Her favorite painter was Douglas
Bunting. (A name, I don't mind saying, I've tracked down to many a blind alley, over the
years.) She said her kittys always liked to "draw people when they are running and that
is the one thing I am terrible at." She said she would work very hard to learn to draw
better, and hoped we would not be very impatient with her.
There were, in all, only six samples of her work enclosed in the envelope. (All of her
work was unsigned--a minor enough fact, but at the time, a disproportionately
refreshing one. Bambi Kramer's and Ridgefield's pictures had all been either signed or--
and it somehow seemed even more irritating--initialled.) After thirteen years, I not only
distinctly remember all six of Sister Irma's samples, but four of them I sometimes think
I remember a trifle too distinctly for my own peace of mind. Her best picture was done
in water colors, on brown paper. (Brown paper, especially wrapping paper, is very
pleasant, very cosy to paint on. Many an experienced artist has used it when he wasn't
up to anything grand or grandiose.) The picture, despite its confining size (it was about
ten by twelve inches), was a highly detailed depiction of Christ being carried to the
sepulchre in Joseph of Arimathea's garden. In the far right foreground, two men who
seemed to be Joseph's servants were rather awkwardly doing the carrying. Joseph of
Arimathea followed directly behind them--bearing himself, under the circumstances,
perhaps a trifle too erectly. At a respectably subordinate distance behind Joseph came
the women of Galilee, mixed in with a motley, perhaps gate-crashing crowd of
mourners, spectators, children, and no less than three frisky, impious mongrels. For
me, the major figure in the picture was a woman in the left foreground, facing the
viewer. With her right hand raised overhead, she was frantically signalling to someone--
her child, perhaps, or her husband, or possibly the viewer--to drop everything and
hurry over. Two of the women, in the front rank of the crowd, wore halos. Without a
Bible handy, I could only make a rough guess at their identity. But I immediately
spotted Mary Magdalene. At any rate, I was positive I had spotted her. She was in the
middle foreground, walking apparently self-detached from the crowd, her arms down at
her sides. She wore no part of her grief, so to speak, on her sleeve--in fact, there were
no outward signs at all of her late, enviable connections with the Deceased. Her face,
like all the other faces in the picture, had been done in a cheap-priced, ready-made
flesh-tint. It was painfully clear that Sister Irma herself had found the color
unsatisfactory and had tried her unadvised, noble best to tone it down somehow. There
were no other serious flaws in the picture. None, that is, worthy of anything but
cavilling mention. It was, in any conclusive sense, an artist's picture, steeped in high,
high, organized talent and God knows how many hours of hard work.

De Daumier-Smith's Blue Period by J. D. Salinger

Part 7
All three students assigned to me were English-language students. The first was a
twenty-three-year-old Toronto housewife, who said her professional name was Bambi
Kramer, and advised the school to address her mail accordingly. All new students at Les
Amis Des Vieux Maitres were requested to fill out questionnaire forms and to enclose
photographs of themselves. Miss Kramer had enclosed a glossy, eight by ten print of
herself wearing an anklet, a strapless bathing suit, and a white-duck sailor's cap. On
her questionnaire form she stated that her favorite artists were Rembrandt and Walt
Disney. She said she only hoped that she could some day emulate them. Her sample
drawings were clipped, rather subordinately, to her photograph. All of them were
arresting. One of them was unforgettable. The unforgettable one was done in florid
wash colors, with a caption that read: "Forgive Them Their Trespasses." It showed three
small boys fishing in an odd-looking body of water, one of their jackets draped over a
"No Fishing!" sign. The tallest boy, in the foreground of the picture, appeared to have
rickets in one leg and elephantiasis in the other--an effect, it was clear, that Miss
Kramer had deliberately used to show that the boy was standing with his feet slightly
apart.
My second student was a fifty-six-year-old "society photographer" from Windsor,
Ontario, named R. Howard Ridgefield, who said that his wife had been after him for
years to branch over into the painting racket. His favorite artists were Rembrandt,
Sargent, and "Titan," but he added, advisedly, that he himself didn't care to draw along
those lines. He said he was mostly interested in the satiric rather than the arty side of
painting. To support this credo, he submitted a goodly number of original drawings and
oil paintings. One of his pictures--the one I think of as his major picture--has been as
recallable to me, over the years, as, say, the lyrics of "Sweet Sue" or "Let Me Call You
Sweetheart." It satirized the familiar, everyday tragedy of a chaste young girl, with
belowshoulder-length blond hair and udder-size breasts, being criminally assaulted in
church, in the very shadow of the altar, by her minister. Both subjects' clothes were
graphically in disarray. Actually, I was much less struck by the satiric implications of
the picture than I was by the quality of workmanship that had gone into it. If I hadn't
known they were living hundreds of miles apart, I might have sworn Ridgefield had had
some purely technical help from Bambi Kramer.

De Daumier-Smith's Blue Period by J. D. Salinger

Part 6
my vicinity, stooping a trifle in order not to look disrespectfully tall. He handed me the
sheaf of papers he'd brought over and asked me if I would kindly translate his written
corrections from French into English. I said, "Oui, monsieur!" He bowed slightly, and
padded back to his own desk. I pushed my handful of soft-lead drawing pencils to one
side of my desk, took out my fountain pen, and fell--very nearly heartbroken--to work.
Like many a really good artist, M. Yoshoto taught drawing not a whit better than it's
taught by a so-so artist who has a nice flair for teaching. With his practical overlay
work--that is to say, his tracing-paper drawings imposed over the student's drawings--
along with his written comments on the backs of the drawings--he was quite able to
show a reasonably talented student how to draw a recognizable pig in a recognizable
sty, or even a picturesque pig in a picturesque sty. But he couldn't for the life of him
show anyone how to draw a beautiful pig in a beautiful sty (which, of course, was the
one little technical bit his better students most greedily wanted sent to them through
the mail). It was not, need I add, that he was consciously or unconsciously being frugal
of his talent, or deliberately unprodigal of it, but that it simply wasn't his to give away.
For me, there was no real element of surprise in this ruthless truth, and so it didn't
waylay me. But it had a certain cumulative effect, considering where I was sitting, and
by the time lunch hour rolled around, I had to be very careful not to smudge my
translations with the sweaty heels of my hands. As if to make things still more
oppressive, M. Yoshoto's handwriting was just barely legible. At any rate, when it came
time for lunch, I declined to join the Yoshotos. I said I had to go to the post office. Then
I almost ran down the stairs to the street and began to walk very rapidly, with no
direction at all, through a maze of strange, underprivileged-looking streets. When I
came to a lunch bar, I went inside and bolted four "Coney Island Red-Hots" and three
muddy cups of coffee.

De Daumier-Smith's Blue Period by J. D. Salinger

Part 5
Yoshoto, if not more so. M. Yoshoto then offered to show me to my room, which, he
explained (in French) had recently been vacated by his son, who had gone to British
Columbia to work on a farm. (After his long silence in the bus, I was grateful to hear
him speak with any continuity, and I listened rather vivaciously.) He started to
apologize for the fact that there were no chairs in his son's room--only floor cushions--
but I quickly gave him to believe that for me this was little short of a godsend. (In fact, I
think I said I hated chairs. I was so nervous that if he had informed me that his son's
room was flooded, night and day, with a foot of water, I probably would have let out a
little cry of pleasure. I probably would have said I had a rare foot disease, one that
required my keeping my feet wet eight hours daily.) Then he led me up a creaky wooden
staircase to my room. I told him on the way, pointedly enough, that I was a student of
Buddhism. I later found out that both he and Mme. Yoshoto were Presbyterians.
Late that night, as I lay awake in bed, with Mme. Yoshoto's Japanese-Malayan dinner
still en masse and riding my sternum like an elevator, one or the other of the Yoshotos
began to moan in his or her sleep, just the other side of my wall. It was a high, thin,
broken moan, and it seemed to come less from an adult than from either a tragic,
subnormal infant or a small malformed animal. (It became a regular nightly
performance. I never did find out which of the Yoshotos it came from, let alone why.)
When it became quite unendurable to listen to from a supine position, I got out of bed,
put on my slippers, and went over in the dark and sat down on one of the floor
cushions. I sat crosslegged for a couple of hours and smoked cigarettes, squashing
them out on the instep of my slipper and putting the stubs in the breast pocket of my
pyjamas. (The Yoshotos didn't smoke, and there were no ashtrays anywhere on the
premises.) I got to sleep around five in the morning.
At six-thirty, M. Yoshoto knocked on my door and advised me that breakfast would be
served at six-forty-five. He asked me, through the door, if I'd slept well, and I answered,

De Daumier-Smith's Blue Period by J. D. Salinger

Part 4
having coffee, I tersely outlined my new plans for the summer. When I'd finished, Bobby
put a couple of quite intelligent questions to me. I answered them coolly, overly briefly,
the unimpeachable crown prince of the situation.
"Oh, it sounds very exciting!" said Bobby's guest, and waited, wantonly, for me to slip
her my Montreal address under the table.
"I thought you were going to Rhode Island with me," Bobby said.
"Oh, darling, don't be a horrible wet blanket," Mrs. X said to him.
"I'm not, but I wouldn't mind knowing a little more about it," Bobby said. But I
thought I could tell from his manner that he was already mentally exchanging his train
reservations for Rhode Island from a compartment to a lower berth.
"I think it's the sweetest, most complimentary thing I ever heard in my life," Mrs. X
said warmly to me. Her eyes sparkled with depravity.
The Sunday that I stepped on to the platform at Windsor Station in Montreal, I was
wearing a doublebreasted, beige gabardine suit (that I had a damned high opinion of), a
navy-blue flannel shirt, a solid yellow, cotton tie, brown-and-white shoes, a Panama hat
(that belonged to Bobby and was rather too small for me), and a reddish-brown
moustache, aged three weeks. M. Yoshoto was there to meet me. He was a tiny man,
not more than five feet tall, wearing a rather soiled linen suit, black shoes, and a black
felt hat with the brim turned up all around. He neither smiled, nor, as I remember, said
anything to me as we shook hands. His expression--and my word for it came straight
out of a French edition of Sax Rohmer's Fu Manchu books--was inscrutable. For some
reason, I was smiling from ear to ear. I couldn't even turn it down, let alone off.
It was a bus ride of several miles from Windsor Station to the school. I doubt if M.
Yoshoto said five words the whole way. Either in spite, or because, of his silence, I
talked incessantly, with my legs crossed, ankle on knee, and constantly using my sock
as an absorber for the perspiration on my palm. It seemed urgent to me not only to
reiterate my earlier lies--about my kinship with Daumier, about my deceased wife,
about my small estate in the South of France--but to elaborate on them. At length, in
effect to spare myself from dwelling on these painful reminiscences (and they were
beginning to feel a little painful), I swung over to the subject of my parents' oldest and
dearest friend: Pablo Picasso. Le pauvre Picasso, as I referred to him. (I picked Picasso,

De Daumier-Smith's Blue Period by J. D. Salinger

Part 3
During the next four days, using all my spare time, plus some time that didn't quite
belong to me, I drew a dozen or more samples of what I thought were typical examples
of American commercial art. Working mostly in washes, but occasionally, to show off, in
line, I drew people in evening clothes stepping out of limousines on opening nights--
lean, erect, super-chic couples who had obviously never in their lives inflicted suffering
as a result of underarm carelessness--couples, in fact, who perhaps didn't have any
underarms. I drew suntanned young giants in white dinner jackets, seated at white
tables alongside turquoise swimming pools, toasting each other, rather excitedly, with
highballs made from a cheap but ostensibly ultrafashionable brand of rye whisky. I
drew ruddy, billboard-genic children, beside themselves with delight and good health,
holding up their empty bowls of breakfast food and pleading, good-naturedly, for more. I
drew laughing, high-breasted girls aquaplaning without a care in the world, as a result
of being amply protected against such national evils as bleeding gums, facial blemishes,
unsightly hairs, and faulty or inadequate life insurance. I drew housewives who, until
they reached for the right soap flakes, laid themselves wide open to straggly hair, poor
posture, unruly children, disaffected husbands, rough (but slender) hands, untidy (but
enormous) kitchens.
When the samples were finished, I mailed them immediately to M. Yoshoto, along with
a half-dozen or so non-commercial paintings of mine that I'd brought with me from
France. I also enclosed what I thought was a very casual note that only just began to
tell the richly human little story of how, quite alone and variously handicapped, in the
purest romantic tradition, I had reached the cold, white, isolating summits of my
profession.

De Daumier-Smith's Blue Period by J. D. Salinger

Part 2
rather perversely read all fifty volumes. Nights, I almost invariably set up my easel
between the twin beds in the room I shared with Bobby, and painted. In one month
alone, according to my diary for 1939, I completed eighteen oil paintings. Noteworthily
enough, seventeen of them were self-portraits. Sometimes, however, possibly when my
Muse was being capricious, I set aside my paints and drew cartoons. One of them I still
have. It shows a cavernous view of the mouth of a man being attended by his dentist.
The man's tongue is a simple, U.S. Treasury hundred dollar bill, and the dentist is
saying, sadly, in French, "I think we can save the molar, but I'm afraid that tongue will
have to come out." It was an enormous favorite of mine.
As roommates, Bobby and I were neither more nor less compatible than would be,
say, an exceptionally live-and-let-live Harvard senior, and an exceptionally unpleasant
Cambridge newsboy. And when, as the weeks went by, we gradually discovered that we
were both in love with the same deceased woman, it was no help at all. In fact, a ghastly
little after-you-Alphonse relationship grew out of the discovery. We began to exchange
vivacious smiles when we bumped into each other on the threshold of the bathroom.
One week in May of 1939, about ten months after Bobby and I checked into the Ritz, I
saw in a Quebec newspaper (one of sixteen French-language newspapers and
periodicals I had blown myself a subscription to) a quarter-column advertisement that
had been placed by the direction of a Montreal correspondence art school. It advised all
qualified instructors--it as much as said, in fact, that it couldn't advise them fortenwnt
enough--to apply immediately for employment at the newest, most progressive,
correspondence art school in Canada. Candidate instructors, it stipulated, were to have
a fluent knowledge of both the French and English languages, and only those of
temperate habits and unquestionable character need apply. The summer session at Les
Amis Des Vieux Maitres was officially to open on 10 June. Samples of work, it said,
should represent both the academic and commercial fields of art, and were to be
submitted to Monsieur I. Yoshoto, directeur, formerly of the Imperial Academy of Fine
Arts, Tokyo.

De Daumier-Smith's Blue Period by J. D. Salinger

IF IT MADE any real sense--and it doesn't even begin to--I think I might be inclined to
dedicate this account, for whatever it's worth, especially if it's the least bit ribald in
parts, to the memory of my late, ribald stepfather, Robert Agadganian, Jr. Bobby--as
everyone, even I, called him--died in 1947, surely with a few regrets, but without a
single gripe, of thrombosis. He was an adventurous, extremely magnetic, and generous
man. (After having spent so many years laboriously begrudging him those picaresque
adjectives, I feel it's a matter of life and death to get them in here.)
My mother and father were divorced during the winter of 1928, when I was eight, and
mother married Bobby Agadganian late that spring. A year later, in the Wall Street
Crash, Bobby lost everything he and mother had, with the exception, apparently, of a
magic wand. In any case, practically overnight, Bobby turned himself from a dead
stockbroker and incapacitated bon vivant into a live, if somewhat unqualified, agentappraiser
for a society of independent American art galleries and fine arts museums. A
few weeks later, early in 1930, our rather mixed threesome moved from New York to
Paris, the better for Bobby to ply his new trade. Being a cool, not to say an ice-cold, ten
at the time, I took the big move, so far as I know, untraumatically. It was the move back
to New York, nine years later, three months after my mother died, that threw me, and
threw me terribly.

Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes by J. D. Salinger

Part 5
"You were. You were wonderful," the girl said. "I'm limp. I'm absolutely limp. Look at
me!"
The gray-haired man looked at her. "Well, actually, it's an impossible situation," he
said. "I mean the whole thing's so fantastic it isn't even--"
"Darling- Excuse me," the girl said quickly, and leaned forward. "I think you're on
fire." She gave the back of his hand a short, brisk, brushing stroke with the flats of her
fingers. "No. It was just an ash." She leaned back. "No, you were marvellous," she said.
"God, I feel like an absolute dog!"
"Well, it's a very, very tough situation. The guy's obviously going through absolute--"
The phone suddenly rang.
The gray-haired man said "Christ!" but picked it up before the second ring. "Hello?" he
said into it.
"Lee? Were you asleep?"
"No, no."
"Listen, I just thought you'd want to know. Joanie just barged in."
"What?" said the gray-haired man, and bridged his left hand over his eyes, though the
light was behind him.
"Yeah. She just barged in. About ten seconds after I spoke to you. I just thought I'd
give you a ring while she's in the john. Listen, thanks a million, Lee. I mean it--you
know what I mean. You weren't asleep, were ya?"
"No, no. I was just--No, no," the gray-haired man said, leaving his fingers bridged over
his eyes. He cleared his throat.

Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes by J. D. Salinger

Part 4
thing--You know what I mean. I don't know. Or I start thinking about--Christ, it's
embarrassing--I start thinking about this goddam poem I sent her when we first started
goin' around together. `Rose my color is. and white, Pretty mouth and green my eyes.'
Christ, it's embarrassing--it used to remind me of her. She doesn't have green eyes--she
has eyes like goddam sea shells, for Chrissake--but it reminded me anyway ... I don't
know. What's the usea talking? I'm losing my mind. Hang up on me, why don't you? I
mean it."
The gray-haired man cleared his throat and said, "I have no intention of hanging up
on you, Arthur. There's just one--"
"She bought me a suit once. With her own money. I tell you about that?"
"No, I--"
"She just went into I think Tripler's and bought it. I didn't even go with her. I mean
she has some goddam nice traits. The funny thing was it wasn't a bad fit. I just had to
have it taken in a little bit around the seat--the pants--and the length. I mean she has
some goddam nice traits."
The gray-haired man listened another moment.
Then, abruptly, he turned toward the girl. The look he gave her, though only glancing,
fully informed her what was suddenly going on at the other end of the phone. "Now,
Arthur. Listen. That isn't going to do any good," he said into the phone. "That isn't going
to do any good. I mean it. Now, listen. I say this in all sincerity. Willya get undressed
and get in bed, like a good guy? And relax? Joanie'll probably be there in about two
minutes. You don't want her to see you like that, do ya? The bloody Ellenbogens'll
probably barge in with her. You don't want the whole bunch of 'em to see you like that,
do ya?" He listened. "Arthur? You hear me?"
"God, I'm keeping you awake all night. Everything I do, I--"

Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes by J. D. Salinger

Part 3
"I know--I know that.... I don't know. What the hell. I may go back in the Army
anyway. I tell you about that?"
The gray-haired man turned his head again toward the girl, perhaps to show her how
forbearing, even stoic, his countenance was. But the girl missed seeing it. She had just
overturned the ashtray with her knee and was rapidly, with her fingers, brushing the
spilled ashes into a little pick-up pile; her eyes looked up at him a second too late. "No,
you didn't, Arthur," he said into the phone.
"Yeah. I may. I don't know yet. I'm not crazy about the idea, naturally, and I won't go
if I can possibly avoid it. But I may have to. I don't know. At least, it's oblivion. If they
gimme back my little helmet and my big, fat desk and my nice, big mosquito net it
might not--"
"I'd like to beat some sense into that head of yours, boy, that's what I'd like to do," the
gray-haired man said. "For a helluvan--For a supposedly intelligent guy, you talk like
an absolute child. And I say that in all sincerity. You let a bunch of minor little things
snowball to an extent that they get so bloody paramount in your mind that you're
absolutely unfit for any--"
"I shoulda left her. You know that? I should've gone through with it last summer,
when I really had the ball rolling--you know that? You know why I didn't? You want to
know why I didn't?"

Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes by J. D. Salinger

Part 3
The gray-haired man, his nostrils dilating, appeared to take a fairly deep breath.
"We're all animals," he said. "Basically, we're all animals."
"Like hell we are. I'm no goddam animal. I may be a stupid, fouled-up twentiethcentury
son of a bitch, but I'm no animal. Don't gimme that. I'm no animal."
"Look, Arthur. This isn't getting us--"
"Brains. Jesus, if you knew how funny that was. She thinks she's a goddam
intellectual. That's the funny part, that's the hilarious part. She reads the theatrical
page, and she watches television till she's practically blind--so she's an intellectual. You
know who I'm married to? You want to know who I'm married to? I'm married to the
greatest living undeveloped, undiscovered actress, novelist, psychoanalyst, and allaround
goddam unappreciated celebrity-genius in New York. You didn't know that,
didja? Christ, it's so funny I could cut my throat. Madame Bovary at Columbia
Extension School. Madame--"
"Who?" asked the gray-haired man, sounding annoyed.
"Madame Bovary takes a course in Television Appreciation. God, if you knew how--"
"All right, all right. You realize this isn't getting us anyplace," the gray-haired man
said. He turned and gave the girl a sign, with two fingers near his mouth, that he
wanted a cigarette. "In the first place," he said, into the phone, "for a helluvan
intelligent guy, you're about as tactless as it's humanly possible to be." He straightened
his back so that the girl could reach behind him for the cigarettes. "I mean that. It
shows up in your private life, it shows up in your--"
"Brains. Oh, God, that kills me! Christ almightyl Did you ever hear her describe
anybody--some man, I mean? Sometime when you haven't anything to do, do me a favor
and get her to describe some man for you. She describes every man she sees as `terribly
attractive.' It can be the oldest, crummiest, greasiest--

Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes by J. D. Salinger

Part 2
"Well, just try to take it a little--What are ya--drunk, or what?"
"I don't know. How the hell do I know?"
"All right, now, listen. Relax. Just relax," the grayhaired man said. "You know the
Ellenbogens, for Chrissake. What probably happened, they probably missed their last
train. All three of 'em'll probably barge in on you any minute, full of witty, night-club--"
"They drove in."
"How do you know?"
"Their baby-sitter. We've had some scintillating goddam conversations. We're close as
hell. We're like two goddam peas in a pod."
"All right. All right. So what? Will ya sit tight and relax, now?" said the gray-haired
man. "All three of 'em'll probably waltz in on you any minute. Take my word. You know
Leona. I don't know what the hell it is--they all get this god-awful Connecticut gaiety
when they get in to New York. You know that."
"Yeah. I know. I know. I don't know, though."
"Certainly you do. Use your imagination. The two of 'em probably dragged Joanie
bodily--"
"Listen. Nobody ever has to drag Joanie anywhere. Don't gimme any of that dragging
stuff."
"Nobody's giving you any dragging stuff, Arthur," the gray-haired man said quietly.
"I know, I know! Excuse me. Christ, I'm losing my mind. Honest to God, you sure I
didn't wake you?"
"I'd tell you if you had, Arthur," the gray-haired man said. Absently, he took his left
hand out from between the girl's upper arm and chest wall. "Look, Arthur. You want my
advice?" he said. He took the telephone cord between his fingers, just under the
transmitter. "I mean this, now. You want some advice?"
"Yeah. I don't know. Christ, I'm keeping you up. Why don't I just go cut my--"
"Listen to me a minute," the gray-haired man said. "First--I mean this, now--get in
bed and relax. Make yourself a nice, big nightcap, and get under the--"
"Nightcap! Are you kidding? Christ, I've killed about a quart in the last two goddam
hours. Nightcap! I'm so plastered now I can hardly--"
"All right. All right. Get in bed, then," the grayhaired man said. "And relax--ya hear
me? Tell the truth. Is it going to do any good to sit around and stew?"

Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes by J. D. Salinger

WHEN the phone rang, the gray-haired man asked the girl, with quite some little
deference, if she would rather for any reason he didn't answer it. The girl heard him as
if from a distance, and turned her face toward him, one eye--on the side of the light--
closed tight, her open eye very, however disingenuously, large, and so blue as to appear
almost violet. The grayhaired man asked her to hurry up, and she raised up on her
right forearm just quickly enough so that the movement didn't quite look perfunctory.
She cleared her hair back from her forehead with her left hand and said, "God. I don't
know. I mean what do you think?" The gray-haired man said he didn't see that it made
a helluva lot of difference one way or the other, and slipped his left hand under the girl's
supporting arm, above the elbow, working his fingers up, making room for them
between the warm surfaces of her upper arm and chest wall. He reached for the phone
with his right hand. To reach it without groping, he had to raise himself somewhat
higher, which caused the back of his head to graze a comer of the lampshade. In that
instant, the light was particularly, if rather vividly, flattering to his gray, mostly white,
hair. Though in disarrangement at that moment, it had obviously been freshly cut-or,
rather, freshly maintained. The neckline and temples had been trimmed conventionally
close, but the sides and top had been left rather more than just longish, and were, in
fact, a trifle "distinguished-looking." "Hello?" he said resonantly into the phone. The girl
stayed propped up on her forearm and watched him. Her eyes, more just open than
alert or speculative, reflected chiefly their own size and color.
A man's voice--stone dead, yet somehow rudely, almost obscenely quickened for the
occasion--came through at the other end: "Lee? I wake you?"
The gray-haired man glanced briefly left, at the girl. "Who's that?" he asked. "Arthur?"
"Yeah--I wake you?"

For Esme:--with Love and Squalor

Part 11
We are all tremendously excited and overawed about D Day and only hope that it will
bring about the swift termination of the war and a method of existence that is
ridiculous to say the least. Charles and I are both quite concerned about you; we hope
you were not among those who made the first initial assault upon the Cotentin
Peninsula. Were you? Please reply as speedily as possible. My warmest regards to your
wife.
Sincerely yours,
ESMA
P.S. I am taking the liberty of enclosing my wristwatch which you may keep in your
possession for the duration of the conflict. I did not observe whether you were wearing
one during our brief association, but this one is extremely water-proof and shockproof
as well as having many other virtues among which one can tell at what velocity one is
walking if one wishes. I am quite certain that you will use it to greater advantage in
these difficult days than I ever can and that you will accept it as a lucky talisman.
Charles, whom I am teaching to read and write and whom I am finding an extremely
intelligent novice, wishes to add a few words. Please write as soon as you have the time
and inclination.
HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLO HELLO LOVE
AND KISSES CHALES
It was a long time before X could set the note aside, let alone lift Esme's father's
wristwatch out of the box. When he did finally lift it out, he saw that its crystal had
been broken in transit. He wondered if the watch was otherwise undamaged, but he
hadn't the courage to wind it and find out. He just sat with it in his hand for another
long period. Then, suddenly, almost ecstatically, he felt sleepy.
You take a really sleepy man, Esme, and he always stands a chance of again
becoming a man with all his fac-with all his f-a-c-u-1-t-i-e-s intact.

For Esme:--with Love and Squalor

Part 10
X suddenly felt sick, and he swung around in his chair and grabbed the wastebasket-
-just in time. When he had straightened up and turned toward his guest again, he
found him standing, embarrassed, halfway between the bed and the door. X started to
apologize, but changed his mind and reached for his cigarettes.
"C'mon down and listen to Hope on the radio, hey," Clay said, keeping his distance
but trying to be friendly over it. "It'll do ya good. I mean it."
"You go ahead, Clay. . . . I'll look at my stamp collection."
"Yeah? You got a stamp collection? I didn't know you--"
"I'm only kidding."
Clay took a couple of slow steps toward the door. "I may drive over to Ehstadt later,"
he said. "They got a dance. It'll probably last till around two. Wanna go?"
"No, thanks. . . . I may practice a few steps in the room."
"O.K. G'night! Take it easy, now, for Chrissake." The door slammed shut, then
instantly opened again. "Hey. O.K. if I leave a letter to Loretta under your door? I got
some German stuff in it. Willya fix it up for me?"
"Yes. Leave me alone now, God damn it."
"Sure," said Clay. "You know what my mother wrote me? She wrote me she's glad you
and I were together and all the whole war. In the same jeep and all. She says my letters
are a helluva lot more intelligent since we been goin' around together."
X looked up and over at him, and said, with great effort, "Thanks. Tell her thanks for
me."
"I will. G'night!" The door slammed shut, this time for good.
X sat looking at the door for a long while, then turned his chair around toward the
writing table and picked up his portable typewriter from the floor. He made space for it
on the messy table surface, pushing aside the collapsed pile of unopened letters and
packages. He thought if he wrote a letter to an old friend of his in New York there might
be some quick, however slight, therapy in it for him. But he couldn't insert his
notepaper into the roller properly, his fingers were shaking so violently now. He put his
hands down at his sides for a minute, then tried again, but finally crumpled the
notepaper in his hand.

For Esme:--with Love and Squalor

Part 9
X, however intimate they were--in fact, the more intimate, the better. It was his custom,
after each reading, to ask X to plot out or pad out the letter of reply, or to insert a few
impressive words in French or German.
"Yeah, I had a letter from her yesterday. Down in my room. Show it to ya later," Clay
said, listlessly. He sat up straight on the edge of the bed, held his breath, and issued a
long, resonant belch. Looking just semi-pleased with the achievement, he relaxed again.
"Her goddam brother's gettin' outa the Navy on account of his hip," he said. "He's got
this hip, the bastard." He sat up again and tried for another belch, but with below-par
results. A jot of alertness came into his face. "Hey. Before I forget. We gotta get up at
five tomorrow and drive to Hamburg or someplace. Pick up Eisenhower jackets for the
whole detachment."
X, regarding him hostilely, stated that he didn't want an Eisenhower jacket.
Clay looked surprised, almost a trifle hurt. "Oh, they're good! They look good. How
come?"
"No reason. Why do we have to get up at five? The war's over, for God's sake."
"I don't know--we gotta get back before lunch. They got some new forms in we gotta
fill out before lunch.... I asked Bulling how come we couldn't fill 'em out tonight--he's
got the goddam forms right on his desk. He don't want to open the envelopes yet, the
son of a bitch."
The two sat quiet for a moment, hating Bulling. Clay suddenly looked at X with newhigher-
interest than before. "Hey," he said. "Did you know the goddam side of your face
is jumping all over the place?"
X said he knew all about it, and covered his tic with his hand.
Clay stared at him for a moment, then said, rather vividly, as if he were the bearer of
exceptionally good news, "I wrote Loretta you had a nervous breakdown."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. She's interested as hell in all that stuff. She's majoring in psychology." Clay
stretched himself out on the bed, shoes included. "You know what she said? She says
nobody gets a nervous breakdown just from the war and all. She says you probably
were unstable like, your whole goddam life."

For Esme:--with Love and Squalor

Part 8
words "Dear God, life is hell." Nothing led up to or away from it. Alone on the page, and
in the sickly stillness of the room, the words appeared to have the stature of an
uncontestable, even classic indictment. X stared at the page for several minutes, trying,
against heavy odds, not to be taken in. Then, with far more zeal than he had done
anything in weeks, he picked up a pencil stub and wrote down under the inscription, in
English, "Fathers and teachers, I ponder `What is hell?' I maintain that it is the
suffering of being unable to love." He started to write Dostoevski's name under the
inscription, but saw--with fright that ran through his whole body--that what he had
written was almost entirely illegible. He shut the book.
He quickly picked up something else from the table, a letter from his older brother in
Albany. It had been on his table even before he had checked into the hospital. He
opened the envelope, loosely resolved to read the letter straight through, but read only
the top half of the first page. He stopped after the words "Now that the g.d. war is over
and you probably have a lot of time over there, how about sending the kids a couple of
bayonets or swastikas . . ." After he'd torn it up, he looked down at the pieces as they
lay in the wastebasket. He saw that he had overlooked an enclosed snapshot. He could
make out somebody's feet standing on a lawn somewhere.
He put his arms on the table and rested his head on them. He ached from head to
foot, all zones of pain seemingly interdependent. He was rather like a Christmas tree
whose lights, wired in series, must all go out if even one bulb is defective.
The door banged open, without having been rapped on. X raised his head, turned it,
and saw Corporal Z standing in the door. Corporal Z had been X's jeep partner and
constant companion from D Day straight through five campaigns of the war. He lived on
the first floor and he usually came up to see X when he had a few rumors or gripes to
unload. He was a huge, photogenic young man of twenty-four. During the war, a
national magazine had photographed him in Hurtgen Forest; he had posed, more than
just obligingly, with a Thanksgiving turkey in each hand. "Ya writin' letters?" he asked
X. "It's spooky in here, for Chrissake." He preferred always to enter a room that had the
overhead light on.