Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut

Part 6
listen very maturely and all that. They'll even look intelligent as hell. But don't let it fool
you. Believe me. You'll go through hell if you ever give 'em any credit for intelligence.
Take my word."
Mary Jane, looking depressed, raised her chin from the armrest of the couch. For a
change, she supported her chin on her forearm. She thought over Eloise's advice. "You
can't call Lew not intelligent," she said aloud.
"Who can't?"
"I mean isn't he intelligent?" Mary Jane said innocently.
"Oh," said Eloise, "what's the use of talking? Let's drop it. I'll just depress you. Shut
me up."
"Well, wudga marry him for, then?" Mary Jane said.
"Oh, God! I don't know. He told me he loved Jane Austen. He told me her books
meant a great deal to him. That's exactly what he said. I found out after we were
married that he hadn't even read one of her books. You know who his favorite author
is?"
Mary Jane shook her head.
"L. Manning Vines. Ever hear of him?"
"Uh-uh."
"Neither did I. Neither did anybody else. He wrote a book about four men that starved
to death in Alaska. Lew doesn't remember the name of it, but it's the most beautifully
written book he's ever read. Christ! He isn't even honest enough to come right out and
say he liked it because it was about four guys that starved to death in an igloo or
something. He has to say it was beautifully written."
"You're too critical," Mary Jane said. "I mean you're too critical. Maybe it was a good-"
"Take my word for it, it couldn't've been," Eloise said. She thought for a moment, then
added, "At least, you have a job. I mean at least you--"
"But listen, though," said Mary Jane. "Do you think you'll ever tell him Walt was
killed, even? I mean he wouldn't be jealous, would he, if he knew Walt was--you know.
Killed and everything."

"Oh, lover! You poor, innocent little career girl," said Eloise. "He'd be worse. He'd be a
ghoul. Listen. All he knows is that I went around with somebody named Walt--some
wisecracking G.I. The last thing I'd do would be to tell him he was killed. But the last
thing. And if I did--which I wouldn't--but if I did, I'd tell him he was killed in action."
Mary Jane pushed her chin farther forward over the edge of her forearm.
"El. . ." she said.
"Why won't you tell me how he was killed? I swear I won't tell anybody. Honestly.
Please."
"No."
"Please. Honestly. I won't tell anybody."
Eloise finished her drink and replaced the empty glass upright on her chest. "You'd
tell Akim Tamiroff," she said.
"No, I wouldn't! I mean I wouldn't tell any--"
"Oh," said Eloise, "his regiment was resting someplace. It was between battles or
something, this friend of his said that wrote me. Walt and some other boy were putting
this little Japanese stove in a package. Some colonel wanted to send it home. Or they
were taking it out of the package to rewrap it--I don't know exactly. Anyway, it was all
full of gasoline and junk and it exploded in their faces. The other boy just lost an eye."
Eloise began to cry. She put her hand around the empty glass on her chest to steady it.
Mary Jane slid off the couch and, on her knees, took three steps over to Eloise and
began to stroke her forehead. "Don't cry, El. Don't cry."
"Who's crying?" Eloise said.
"I know, but don't. I mean it isn't worth it or anything.
The front door opened.
"That's Ramona back," Eloise said nasally. "Do me a favor. Go out in the kitchen and
tell whosis to give her her dinner early. Willya?"
"All right, if you promise not to cry, though."
"I promise. Go on. I don't feel like going out to that damn kitchen right this minute."