Part 2
"Oh, what's the difference, Mother?"
"Muriel, I want to know. Your father--"
"All right, all right. He calls me Miss Spiritual Tramp of 1948," the girl said, and
giggled.
"It isn't funny, Muriel. It isn't funny at all. It's horrible. It's sad, actually. When I think
how--"
"Mother," the girl interrupted, "listen to me. You remember that book he sent me from
Germany? You know--those German poems. What'd I do with it? I've been racking my--"
"You have it."
"Are you sure?" said the girl.
"Certainly. That is, I have it. It's in Freddy's room. You left it here and I didn't have
room for it in the--Why? Does he want it?"
"No. Only, he asked me about it, when we were driving down. He wanted to know if I'd
read it."
"It was in German!"
"Yes, dear. That doesn't make any difference," said the girl, crossing her legs. "He said
that the poems happen to be written by the only great poet of the century. He said I
should've bought a translation or something. Or learned the language, if you please."
"Awful. Awful. It's sad, actually, is what it is. Your father said last night--"
"Just a second, Mother," the girl said. She went over to the window seat for her
cigarettes, lit one, and returned to her seat on the bed. "Mother?" she said, exhaling
smoke.
"Muriel. Now, listen to me."
"I'm listening."
"Your father talked to Dr. Sivetski."
"Oh?" said the girl.
"He told him everything. At least, he said he did--you know your father. The trees.
That business with the window. Those horrible things he said to Granny about her
plans for passing away. What he did with all those lovely pictures from Bermuda--
everything."
"Well?" said the girl.
"Well. In the first place, he said it was a perfect crime the Army released him from the
hospital--my word of honor. He very definitely told your father there's a chance--a very
great chance, he said--that Seymour may completely lose control of himself. My word of
honor."
"There's a psychiatrist here at the hotel," said the girl.
"Who? What's his name?"
"I don't know. Rieser or something. He's supposed to be very good."
"Never heard of him."
"Well, he's supposed to be very good, anyway."
"Muriel, don't be fresh, please. We're very worried about you. Your father wanted to
wire you last night to come home, as a matter of f--"
"I'm not coming home right now, Mother. So relax."
"Muriel. My word of honor. Dr. Sivetski said Seymour may completely lose contr--"
"I just got here, Mother. This is the first vacation I've had in years, and I'm not going
to just pack everything and come home," said the girl. "I couldn't travel now anyway. I'm
so sunburned I can hardly move."
"You're badly sunburned? Didn't you use that jar of Bronze I put in your bag? I put it
right--"
"I used it. I'm burned anyway."
"That's terrible. Where are you burned?"
"All over, dear, all over."
"That's terrible."
"I'll live."
"Tell me, did you talk to this psychiatrist?"
"Well, sort of," said the girl.
"What'd he say? Where was Seymour when you talked to him?"
"Oh, what's the difference, Mother?"
"Muriel, I want to know. Your father--"
"All right, all right. He calls me Miss Spiritual Tramp of 1948," the girl said, and
giggled.
"It isn't funny, Muriel. It isn't funny at all. It's horrible. It's sad, actually. When I think
how--"
"Mother," the girl interrupted, "listen to me. You remember that book he sent me from
Germany? You know--those German poems. What'd I do with it? I've been racking my--"
"You have it."
"Are you sure?" said the girl.
"Certainly. That is, I have it. It's in Freddy's room. You left it here and I didn't have
room for it in the--Why? Does he want it?"
"No. Only, he asked me about it, when we were driving down. He wanted to know if I'd
read it."
"It was in German!"
"Yes, dear. That doesn't make any difference," said the girl, crossing her legs. "He said
that the poems happen to be written by the only great poet of the century. He said I
should've bought a translation or something. Or learned the language, if you please."
"Awful. Awful. It's sad, actually, is what it is. Your father said last night--"
"Just a second, Mother," the girl said. She went over to the window seat for her
cigarettes, lit one, and returned to her seat on the bed. "Mother?" she said, exhaling
smoke.
"Muriel. Now, listen to me."
"I'm listening."
"Your father talked to Dr. Sivetski."
"Oh?" said the girl.
"He told him everything. At least, he said he did--you know your father. The trees.
That business with the window. Those horrible things he said to Granny about her
plans for passing away. What he did with all those lovely pictures from Bermuda--
everything."
"Well?" said the girl.
"Well. In the first place, he said it was a perfect crime the Army released him from the
hospital--my word of honor. He very definitely told your father there's a chance--a very
great chance, he said--that Seymour may completely lose control of himself. My word of
honor."
"There's a psychiatrist here at the hotel," said the girl.
"Who? What's his name?"
"I don't know. Rieser or something. He's supposed to be very good."
"Never heard of him."
"Well, he's supposed to be very good, anyway."
"Muriel, don't be fresh, please. We're very worried about you. Your father wanted to
wire you last night to come home, as a matter of f--"
"I'm not coming home right now, Mother. So relax."
"Muriel. My word of honor. Dr. Sivetski said Seymour may completely lose contr--"
"I just got here, Mother. This is the first vacation I've had in years, and I'm not going
to just pack everything and come home," said the girl. "I couldn't travel now anyway. I'm
so sunburned I can hardly move."
"You're badly sunburned? Didn't you use that jar of Bronze I put in your bag? I put it
right--"
"I used it. I'm burned anyway."
"That's terrible. Where are you burned?"
"All over, dear, all over."
"That's terrible."
"I'll live."
"Tell me, did you talk to this psychiatrist?"
"Well, sort of," said the girl.
"What'd he say? Where was Seymour when you talked to him?"
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