Part 5
an appendage of startling length--and gave out what in my country would have been a
glorious tribute to a myopic baseball umpire. It fairly shook the tearoom.
"Stop that," Esme said, clearly unshaken. "He saw an American do it in a fish-andchips
queue, and now he does it whenever he's bored. Just stop it, now, or I shall send
you directly to Miss Megley."
Charles opened his enormous eyes, as sign that he'd heard his sister's threat, but
otherwise didn't look especially alerted. He closed his eyes again, and continued to rest
the side of his face on the chair seat.
I mentioned that maybe he ought to save it--meaning the Bronx cheer--till he started
using his title regularly. That is, if he had a title, too.
Esme gave me a long, faintly clinical look. "You have a dry sense of humor, haven't
you?" she said--wistfully. "Father said I have no sense of humor at all. He said I was
unequipped to meet life because I have no sense of humor."
Watching her, I lit a cigarette and said I didn't think a sense of humor was of any use
in a real pinch.
"Father said it was."
This was a statement of faith, not a contradiction, and I quickly switched horses. I
nodded and said her father had probably taken the long view, while I was taking the
short (whatever that meant).
"Charles misses him exceedingly," Esme said, after a moment. "He was an exceedingly
lovable man. He was extremely handsome, too. Not that one's appearance matters
greatly, but he was. He had terribly penetrating eyes, for a man who was intransically
kind."
I nodded. I said I imagined her father had had quite an extraordinary vocabulary.
"Oh, yes; quite," said Esme. "He was an archivist--amateur, of course."
At that point, I felt an importunate tap, almost a punch, on my upper arm, from
Charles' direction. I turned to him. He was sitting in a fairly normal position in his chair
now, except that he had one knee tucked under him. "What did one wall say to the
other wall?" he asked shrilly. "It's a riddle!"
I rolled my eyes reflectively ceilingward and repeated the question aloud. Then I
looked at Charles with a stumped expression and said I gave up.
"Meet you at the corner!" came the punch line, at top volume.
It went over biggest with Charles himself. It struck him as unbearably funny. In fact,
Esme had to come around and pound him on the back, as if treating him for a coughing
spell. "Now, stop that," she said. She went back to her own seat. "He tells that same
riddle to everyone he meets and has a fit every single time. Usually he drools when he
laughs. Now, just stop, please."
"It's one of the best riddles I've heard, though," I said, watching Charles, who was very
gradually coming out of it. In response to this compliment, he sank considerably lower
in his chair and again masked his face up to the eyes with a corner of the tablecloth. He
then looked at me with his exposed eyes, which were full of slowly subsiding mirth and
the pride of someone who knows a really good riddle or two.
"May I inquire how you were employed before entering the Army?" Esme asked me.
I said I hadn't been employed at all, that I'd only been out of college a year but that I
like to think of myself as a professional short-story writer.
She nodded politely. "Published?" she asked.
It was a familiar but always touchy question, and one that I didn't answer just one,
two, three. I started to explain how most editors in America were a bunch--
"My father wrote beautifully," Esme interrupted. "I'm saving a number of his letters
for posterity."
I said that sounded like a very good idea. I happened to be looking at her enormousfaced,
chronographic-looking wristwatch again. I asked if it had belonged to her father.
She looked down at her wrist solemnly. "Yes, it did," she said. "He gave it to me just
before Charles and I were evacuated." Self-consciously, she took her hands off the table,
saying, "Purely as a momento, of course." She guided the conversation in a different
direction. "I'd be extremely flattered if you'd write a story exclusively for me sometime.
I'm an avid reader."
an appendage of startling length--and gave out what in my country would have been a
glorious tribute to a myopic baseball umpire. It fairly shook the tearoom.
"Stop that," Esme said, clearly unshaken. "He saw an American do it in a fish-andchips
queue, and now he does it whenever he's bored. Just stop it, now, or I shall send
you directly to Miss Megley."
Charles opened his enormous eyes, as sign that he'd heard his sister's threat, but
otherwise didn't look especially alerted. He closed his eyes again, and continued to rest
the side of his face on the chair seat.
I mentioned that maybe he ought to save it--meaning the Bronx cheer--till he started
using his title regularly. That is, if he had a title, too.
Esme gave me a long, faintly clinical look. "You have a dry sense of humor, haven't
you?" she said--wistfully. "Father said I have no sense of humor at all. He said I was
unequipped to meet life because I have no sense of humor."
Watching her, I lit a cigarette and said I didn't think a sense of humor was of any use
in a real pinch.
"Father said it was."
This was a statement of faith, not a contradiction, and I quickly switched horses. I
nodded and said her father had probably taken the long view, while I was taking the
short (whatever that meant).
"Charles misses him exceedingly," Esme said, after a moment. "He was an exceedingly
lovable man. He was extremely handsome, too. Not that one's appearance matters
greatly, but he was. He had terribly penetrating eyes, for a man who was intransically
kind."
I nodded. I said I imagined her father had had quite an extraordinary vocabulary.
"Oh, yes; quite," said Esme. "He was an archivist--amateur, of course."
At that point, I felt an importunate tap, almost a punch, on my upper arm, from
Charles' direction. I turned to him. He was sitting in a fairly normal position in his chair
now, except that he had one knee tucked under him. "What did one wall say to the
other wall?" he asked shrilly. "It's a riddle!"
I rolled my eyes reflectively ceilingward and repeated the question aloud. Then I
looked at Charles with a stumped expression and said I gave up.
"Meet you at the corner!" came the punch line, at top volume.
It went over biggest with Charles himself. It struck him as unbearably funny. In fact,
Esme had to come around and pound him on the back, as if treating him for a coughing
spell. "Now, stop that," she said. She went back to her own seat. "He tells that same
riddle to everyone he meets and has a fit every single time. Usually he drools when he
laughs. Now, just stop, please."
"It's one of the best riddles I've heard, though," I said, watching Charles, who was very
gradually coming out of it. In response to this compliment, he sank considerably lower
in his chair and again masked his face up to the eyes with a corner of the tablecloth. He
then looked at me with his exposed eyes, which were full of slowly subsiding mirth and
the pride of someone who knows a really good riddle or two.
"May I inquire how you were employed before entering the Army?" Esme asked me.
I said I hadn't been employed at all, that I'd only been out of college a year but that I
like to think of myself as a professional short-story writer.
She nodded politely. "Published?" she asked.
It was a familiar but always touchy question, and one that I didn't answer just one,
two, three. I started to explain how most editors in America were a bunch--
"My father wrote beautifully," Esme interrupted. "I'm saving a number of his letters
for posterity."
I said that sounded like a very good idea. I happened to be looking at her enormousfaced,
chronographic-looking wristwatch again. I asked if it had belonged to her father.
She looked down at her wrist solemnly. "Yes, it did," she said. "He gave it to me just
before Charles and I were evacuated." Self-consciously, she took her hands off the table,
saying, "Purely as a momento, of course." She guided the conversation in a different
direction. "I'd be extremely flattered if you'd write a story exclusively for me sometime.
I'm an avid reader."
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