Where’s the mayonnaise?
I couldn’t find it, honest, says Herbie. Next time I want mayonnaise, understand? thunders George Marshall. How the hell do you expect me to eat roast potatoes without mayonnaise? Then, without transition, he continues: Now the idea is to crawl under the cars until we’re near the engine. When I whistle, the two of you crawl from under and run as fast as you can. Take the short cut down to the river. I’ll meet you under the bridge. Here Hen, better take another gulp of this … it’s cold down there. Next time I’ll offer you a cigar—but don’t take it! How do you feel now?
I felt so good I couldn’t see the sense of leaving in a hurry. But evidently their plans had to be executed in strict timing.
How about that chippie and the potatoes? I ventured to ask.
That’s for next time, says George. We can’t afford to be trapped here. He turns to Herbie. Have you got the gun?
Off again, scrambling around under the freight trains as if we were outlaws. I was glad Herbie had given me the woollen muffler. At a given signal Herbie and I flung ourselves face downward under the car, waiting for George’s whistle.
What’s the next move? I whispered.
Shhhhh! Someone may hear you.
In a few minutes we heard a low whistle, crawled out from under, and ran as fast as our legs would carry us down the ravine towards the bridge. There was George again, sitting under the bridge, waiting. Good work, he says. We gave ‘em the slip all right. Now listen, we’ll rest a minute or two and then we’ll make for that hill over there, do you see? He turned to Herbie. Is the gun loaded?
Herbie examined his rusty old Colt, nodded, then shoved it back in the holster.
Remember, says George, don’t shoot unless it’s absolutely necessary. I don’t want you to be killing any more children accidentally, you understand?
There was a gleam in Herbie’s eyes as he shook his head.
The idea, Hen, is to get to the foot of that hill before they give the alarm. Once we get there we’re safe. We’ll make a detour home by way of the swamp.
We started off on a trot, crouching low. Soon we were in the bulrushes and the water coming over our shoe tops. Keep an eye open for traps, muttered George. We got to the foot of the hill without detection, rested there a few moments, then set off at a brisk pace to skirt the swamp. Finally we reached the road and settled down to a leisurely walk.
We’ll be home in a few minutes, says George. We’ll go in by the back way and change our clothes. Mum’s the word.
Are you sure we shook them off? I asked. Reasonably sure, says George. The last time they followed us right to the barn, says Herbie.
What happens if we get caught? Herbie drew the side of his hand across his throat.
I mumbled something to the effect that I wasn’t sure I wanted to be involved.
You’ve got to be, says Herbie. It’s a feud. We’ll explain it in detail tomorrow, says George.
In the big room upstairs there were two beds, one for me, and one for Herbie and George. We made a fire at once in the big-bellied stove, and began changing our clothes.
How would you like to give me a rubdown? says George, stripping off his under-shirt. I get a rubdown twice a day. First alcohol and then goose fat. Nothing like it, Hen.
He lay down on the big bed and I went to work. I rubbed until my hands ached.
Now you lay down, says George, and Herbie’ll fix you up. Makes a new man of you.
I did as instructed. It sure felt good. My blood tingled, my flesh glowed. I had an appetite such as I hadn’t known in ages.
You see why I came here, says George. After supper we’ll play a round of pinochle—just to please the old man—and then we’ll turn in.
By the way, Hen, he added, watch your tongue. No cursing or swearing in front of the old man. He’s a Methodist. We say grace before we eat. Try not to laugh!
You’ll have to do it too some night, says Herbie. Say any god-damned thing that comes to mind. Nobody listens anyway.
At table I was introduced to the old man. He was the typical farmer—big horny hands, unshaven, smelling of clover and manure, sparse of speech, wolfing his food, belching, picking his teeth with the fork and complaining about his rheumatism. We ate enormous quantities, all of us. There were at least six or seven vegetables to go with the roast chicken, followed by a delicious bread pudding, fruits and nuts of all kinds. Everyone but myself drank milk with his food. Then came coffee with real cream and salted peanuts. I had to open my belt a couple of notches.
As soon as the meal was over the table was cleared and a pack of greasy playing cards was produced. Herbie had to help his mother with the dishes while George, the old man and I played a three-handed game of pinochle. The idea was, as George had already explained, to throw the game to the old man, otherwise he became grouchy and surly. I seemed to draw nothing but excellent hands, which made it difficult for me to lose. But I did my best, without being too obvious about it. The old man won by a narrow margin. He was highly pleased with himself. With your hands, he remarked, I would have been out in three deals.
Before we went upstairs for the night Herbie put on a couple of Edison phonograph records. One of them was The Stars and Stripes Forever. It sounded like something from another incarnation.
Where’s that laughing record, Herbie? says George.
Herbie dug into an old hat box and with two fingers dexterously extracted an old wax cylinder. It was a record I’ve never heard the like of. Nothing but laughter—the laughter of a loon, a crack-pot, a hyena. I laughed so hard my stomach ached.
That’s nothing, says George, wait till you hear Herbie laugh!
Not now! I begged. Save it for tomorrow.
I no more than hit the pillow and I was sound asleep. What a bed! Nothing but soft, downy feathers—tons of them, it seemed. It was like slipping back into the womb, swinging in limbo. Bliss. Perfect bliss.
There’s a piss-pot under the bed, if you need it, were George’s last words. But I couldn’t see myself getting out of that bed, not even to take a crap.
In my sleep I heard the maniacal laugh of the loon. It was echoed by the rusty door knobs, the green vegetables, the wild geese, the slanting stars, the wet clothes flapping on the line. It even included Herbie’s old man, the part of him that gave way sometimes to melancholy mirth. It came from far away, deliciously off-key, absurd and unreasonable. It was the laugh of aching muscles, of food passing through the midriff, of time foolishly squandered, of millions of nothings all harmoniously fitting together in the great jig-saw puzzle and making extraordinary sense, extraordinary beauty, extraordinary well-being. How fortunate that George Marshall had fallen ill and almost died! In my sleep I praised the grand Cosmocrator for having arranged everything so sublimely. I slid from one dream to another, and from dream to a stone-like slumber more healing than death itself.
I awoke before the others, content, refreshed, motionless except for a pleasure waggle of the fingers. The farm-yard cacophany was music to my ears. The rustling and scraping, the banging of pails, the cock-adoodle-doo, the pitter patter, the calls of the birds, the cackling and grunting, the squealing, the neighing and whinnying, the chug-chug of a distant locomotive, the crunch of hard snow, the slap and gust of the wind, a rusty axle turning, a log wheezing under the saw, the thud of heavy boots trudging laboriously—all combined to make a symphony familiar to my ear. These homely ancient sounds, these early morning notes born of the stir of everyday life, these calls, cackles, echoes and reverberations of the barn-yard filled me with an earthling’s joy. A starveling and a changeling, I heard again the immemorial chant of early man. The old, old song—of ease and abundance, of life where you find it, of blue sky, running waters, peace and gladness, of fertility and resurrection, and life everlasting, life more abundant, life superabundant. A song that starts in the very bowels, pervades the veins, relaxes the limbs and all the members of the body. Ah, but it was indeed good to be alive—and horizontal. Fully awake, I once again gave thanks to the Heavenly Father for having stricken my twin, George Marshall. And, whilst rendering devout thanks, praising the divine works, extolling all creation, I allowed my thoughts to drift towards the breakfast which was doubtless under way and towards the long, lazy stretch of hours, minutes, seconds before the day would draw to a close. It mattered not how we filled the day, nor if we left it empty as a gourd; it mattered only that time was ours and that we could do with it as we wished.
The birds were calling more lustily now. I could hear them winging from tree top to tree top, fluttering against the windowpanes, swooshing about under the eaves of the roof.
Morning, Hen! Morning, Hen!
Morning, George! Morning, Herbie!
Don’t get up yet, Hen … Herbie’ll make the fire first.
O.K. Sounds wonderful.
How did you sleep?
Like a top.
You see why
