I spoke of laughter. There was only one sort of laughter she ever indulged in—an hysterical laughter. Actually, she was almost devoid of humor. Those who aroused her sense of humor were usually people who were themselves devoid of humor. With Nahoum Yood, who was truly a humorist, she smiled. It was a good-natured smile, indulgent, affectionate, the sort one gives to a wayward child. Her smile, as a matter of fact, was quite a different thing from her laugh. Her smile was genuine and warming. It sprang from her sympathetic nervous system. Her laugh, on the other hand, was off-key, raucous, disconcerting. The effect was harsh. I had known her for a long time before I ever heard her laugh. Between her laughter and her weeping there was scarcely any difference. At the theatre she had learned how to laugh artificially. A terrifying thing to hear! It used to send shudders up my spine.
You know what you two remind me of sometimes? said O’Mara, snickering. You remind me of a pair of confederates. All that’s lacking is the old shell game.
It’s nice and toasty here though, eh what? I answered.
Listen, said O’Mara, his face utterly serious, if we could stick it out here for a year or two I’d say it was worth while. We’re in clover now, and don’t I know it! I haven’t relaxed this way for years. The funny thing is, I feel as if I were hiding away, as if I had committed a crime which I can’t remember. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if one day the police knocked at the door.
Here we all laughed uproariously. The police! Too funny for words.
Once I was rooming with a guy, said O’Mara, beginning one of his never-ending stories, and he was plain cuckoo. I didn’t know it until some one from the asylum called for him. I swear to God he was the most normal-looking person you ever saw, and he talked normal, and acted normal. In fact, that’s what was the matter with him—he was too god-damned normal. I was on my uppers at the time, too disheartened to even look for work. He had a job as a motorman—on the Reid Avenue carline. On his swings he’d come back to the room and rest up. He’d always bring a bag of doughnuts along and soon as he took off his things he’d make coffee. He never said much. Mostly he’d sit by the window and manicure his nails. Sometimes he’d take a shower and a rub down. If he was in high spirits he’d suggest playing a game of pinochle. We’d always play for small stakes and he’d always let me win, though he knew I was cheating him. I never asked him any questions about his past and he never volunteered anything on his own. Every day was a new day.
If it was cold he talked about the weather, how cold it was; if it was warm, he talked about how warm it was. He never complained about a thing, not even when his pay was reduced. That in itself ought to have made me suspicious, but it didn’t. He was so kind and considerate, so unobtrusive and delicate, that the worst I could think of him was to call him dull. Yet I couldn’t very well complain about that, seeing as how he was taking care of me. Never once did he suggest that I ought to be up and stirring. All he ever wanted to know was if I were comfortable or not. I understood that he needed me, that he couldn’t live alone—but that didn’t make me suspicious either. Lots of people hate to live alone. Anyway, and why the hell I’m telling you all this I don’t know, anyway, as I was saying before, one day there came a knock at the door and there stood the man from the asylum.
Not a bad sort either, I must say. He mouseyed in quiet-like, sat down, and started talking to my friend. In that quiet, easy way he says—Are you ready to go back with me? Eakins, that was the guy’s name, says Yes, of course, in the same easy, quiet way. After a few minutes Eakins excused himself to go to the bathroom and pack his things. The officer, or whatever the hell he was, didn’t seem at all uneasy about letting the fellow out of sight. He started talking to me. (It was the first time he had addressed a word to me.) It took me a few minutes to realize that he took me for a nut too. I got wise when he began asking me all sorts of funny, queasy questions—Do you like it here? Does he feed you well? Are you sure you’re comfortable? And so on. I was taken so unawares that I fell into the part as if it were made for me. Eakins had been in the bathroom a good fifteen minutes. I was getting fidgety, wondering how I would prove myself sane should the officer decide to take me along too. Suddenly the bathroom door opens softly. I look up and there’s Eakins stark naked, his hair completely shaved off and a douche bag hanging from his neck. He had a grin on his face that I had never seen before. I got a cold chill instanter.
Ready, sir, he says, just as smooth as butter.
Come now, Eakins, said the officer, you know better than to dress that way.
But I’m not dressed, says Eakins blandly.
That’s what I mean, said the officer. Now go back and put your clothes on. That’s a good fellow.
Eakins didn’t budge, didn’t move a muscle.
What suit would you like me to wear? he asks.
The one you had on, «aid the officer tartly.
But it’s all torn, says Eakins, and with that he steps inside the bathroom. In a jiffy he’s back in the doorway, holding the suit in his hands. It’s in shreds.
That’s all right, said the officer, trying not to appear disturbed, your friend here will lend you a suit, I’m sure.
He turns to me. I explain that the only suit I’ve got is the one I’m wearing.
That will do nicely, he chirps.
What? I yelled. What am I goin’ to wear?
A fig leaf, he says, and see that it don’t shrink!
Just at this point there came a tapping on the window pane.
The police, I bet! shouted O’Mara.
I went to the window and drew up the shade. It was Osiecki, grinning that sheepish grin of his and gesticulating with his fingers.
It’s Osiecki, I said, going to the door. He’s probably lit up.
Where are your companions? I asked as I shook his hand.
They deserted me, he said. Too many lice, I guess … Is it O. K. to come in? He hesitated at the doorway, not certain if he were welcome.
Come in! shouted O’Mara.
Am I busting in on something? He looked at Mona, not knowing who she was.
This is my wife, Mona. Mona, this is a new friend of ours, Osiecki. He’s had a little trouble lately. You don’t mind if he stays a few minutes, do you?
Mona immediately poured out a glass of Benedictine and offered him a piece of cake.
What’s this? he asked, sniffing the liqueur. How do you get it? He looked from one to the other of us as if we were in possession of some dark secret.
How are you feeling? I asked.
Right now, fine! he answered. A little too good maybe. Can you smell it? He blew his breath in our faces, grinning even more widely this lime, like a rhododendron in full bloom.
How are the lice coming along? asked O’Mara in a casual tone.
At this Mona began to titter, then laughed outright.
That’s his trouble … I started to explain.
You can tell everything, said Osiecki. It’s no secret any more. We’ll get to the bottom of it soon. He raised himself up. Excuse me, but I can’t drink this stuff. Too much turpentine in it. Have you any coffee?
Of course, said Mona. Would you like a sandwich perhaps?
No, just some black coffee … He hung his head blushingly. I’ve just had a tiff with my pals. They’re getting fed up with me, I guess. I don’t blame them either. They’ve taken a lot these last few months. You know, sometimes I think I am a bit screwy. He paused to note the effect this might have on us.
That’s all right, I said, we’re all a bit screwy. O’Mara here was just telling us a yarn about a nut he used to live with. You can be as whacky as you like, so long as you don’t start breaking up the furniture.
You’d get queer yourself, said Osiecki, if you had those things sucking your blood all night—and all day too. He rolled up his trousers to show us the marks they had left. His legs were a mass of scratches and blood clots. I felt damned sorry for him, sorry I had twitted him.
Perhaps if you moved to another apartment … I ventured to suggest.
No use, he said, looking ruefully at the floor. They’ll keep after me till I quit—or until I catch them red-handed.
I thought you were going to bring your girl around for dinner some evening? said O’Mara.
Sure, I am, said Osiecki. Right now, though, she’s busy.
Busy doing what? asked O’Mara.
I don’t know.
