George couldn’t answer that. The old man continued to rant and rail. His wife tried to calm him down but succeeded only in fanning his ire. These bursts of temper obviously took the place of a good souse.
I don’t know what would have happened had not little Herbie had an inspiration. Suddenly he began to sing—one of those sweet, sticky Christian hymns which make the tears flow. He sang like an angel, with eyes closed, and in a falsetto voice. We were all so astounded no one dared say a word. When he had finished, he leaned forward, bowed his head, and murmured a prayer. He begged God to restore peace and harmony in the bosom of the family, to forgive his father for losing his temper, to ease his mother’s burdens, and finally with great sanctimoniousness, to look after cousin George who had been grievously stricken. When he lifted his face the tears were streaming down his cheeks.
The old man was visibly moved. Apparently Herbie had never put on an act like this before.
You’d better go to bed now, son, he said, his voice quivering. Tomorrow I’m going to get you that bicycle you’ve been asking for.
Bless you, father, said Herbie. And you, too, mother. May God keep us all and preserve us from harm!
I noticed that his mother looked rather apprehensive.
You’re not ill, are you, Herbie? she inquired solicitously.
No, ma, I’m just fine.
Well, have a good sleep, she said, and don’t worry too much.
George, said the old man, putting his arm around George’s shoulder, forgive my hasty words. Your father is a good man. He’ll find his way to God some day.
We’re all sinners before the Lord, said Herbie. I was beginning to find it difficult to keep a straight face.
Let’s take a little walk before we turn in, I suggested.
You go straight to bed, said the old man to Herbie. It’s getting late.
Outside George and I started walking rapidly towards the river. When we got a convenient distance away from the house we exploded with laughter.
That little Herbie’s a comedian, I said. I don’t know how the hell I managed to keep a straight face.
He sure knows how to take the lead, said George. I wonder if Kitty’s still up? he added impulsively.
Jesus, don’t let’s try that! I cautioned. It’s too late.
You never know, says George. I’d like to twine my fingers around that rose-bush before going to bed, wouldn’t you?
I’d like a good drink, if you ask me, said I.
That’s an idea. Let’s go to the caboose and see what’s there.
We took the long way around, skirting Kitty’s house. The lights were out, but George insisted on giving the signal—two low whistles—just in case. If she’s not dead to the world, said George, she’ll sneak out and follow us. We strolled leisurely to the caboose.
We put the lantern on the stove, opened the flask which still contained a few drops, and sat there with ears cocked.
You’re taking a hell of a chance, George. You can get twenty years for this.
If I could only get it in, he replied, it would be worth it.
You can have her. I said, I’m clearing out.
Don’t do that, Hen. Wait a few minutes and I’ll go with you.
I waited a few minutes, then got up. Maybe she’s down by the bridge, waiting for us, said George.
We strolled down to the bridge. Sure enough, there she was. Oh, George, she cried, I thought you’d never come. She flung her arms about him passionately. I walked away, saying I’d keep watch. I stood at the cross-roads for almost a half-hour. I had doused the lantern, of course. The fool! I thought to myself. He won’t be happy until he knocks her up. Finally I heard them coming. Well, any luck this time? I asked, after we had seen Kitty off.
George groaned. Let’s go down to the river. I think I’ve got blood all over me.
Oi yoi! I whistled. So that’s it! Now you’re really in for it.
Guess we’ll have to go hack to the city soon, said George.
What? Are you going to leave her in the ditch?
She won’t tell on me. I made her promise.
I’m not thinking of you, you bastard, I’m thinking of her
Oh, we can fix it up when she comes to the city, said George. I know a medical student who’ll do the trick.
Supposing she gets a hemorrhage?
She won’t, said George. She’s too healthy. We didn’t speak for a while.
About Una, says George suddenly. I’ve been thinking it over, Hen. I think the best thing is for you to see her yourself. I might only make a mess of it.
You bastard! Another streak of silence.
I think I’ll leave in a day or two, I said, as we neared the house.
Might be a good idea, said George. You don’t want to wear out your welcome.
I’d like to pay something for my board, I said.
You can’t to that, Hen, they’d be insulted.
Well, I’ll buy them something, then.
O.K., said George.
After a pause, he added:
Don’t think I’m not grateful for all you’ve done.
It was nothing, I said. Some day you can take care of me.
I’m sorry about Una … I really don’t…
I cut him short. Forget it!
It would be a shame to lose her, Hen.
Don’t let that worry you. I’m not giving her up.
This Carnahan … she’s engaged to him, you know.
What? Why didn’t you tell me that before?
I didn’t want to hurt you, said George.
So that’s it? Listen, I’m leaving tomorrow by the first train.
Don’t get panicky, Hen! They’ve been engaged for three months now.
What? Jesus, it beats me how you could keep such a thing quiet.
I thought it would blow over. I’m sure she’s not in love with him.
But she might marry him just to spite me, I retorted.
That’s true … But she’d regret it for the rest of her life, if she did.
And what good would that do me? Listen, you’re a chump, do you know that?
Don’t get sore, Hen. What could I do? If I had told you, you’d have been miserable. Besides, we hadn’t seen one another for a long while.
Why not be honest about it? You simply don’t give a shit one way or the other, isn’t that it?
Come on now, don’t be foolish!
George, I said, I like you just as much as ever, I can’t help liking you, we’ve been so close all these years. But I’ll never trust you again. You had a right to let me know.
All right, Hen, have it your own way.
We said no more. We went to bed in silence—after George had washed himself thoroughly. I half hoped he’d get a good dose of clap.
In the morning I said good-bye to everyone. When I got to New York I stopped at a shop and sent the folks a huge box of chocolates, not knowing what the hell would please them.
From then on, George Marshall was no longer my twin brother…
So that’s how you lost Una? said MacGregor.
Yep! When I got back I found that she was married. Had married just three days before.
Well, Hen, it was all for the best, I guess.
That sounds just like George.
No, seriously, why try to buck Fate? Supposing you had married her? In a year or two you’d have separated—if I know you,
Better to separate than never to marry.
Hen, you’re a chump! To hear you, I’d say you were still in love with her.
Maybe I am.
You’re nuts. If you were to run into her tomorrow, in the street, you’d probably run away from her.
Maybe I would. But that has nothing to do with it.
You’re hopeless, Hen. He turned to Trix. Did you ever hear the like of it? And he calls himself a writer! Wants to write about life but doesn’t know human nature. He turned square around. When you get ready to write the great American novel, Hen, see me! I’ll give you a few facts of life to set you straight.
I laughed outright.
All right, wise guy, go ahead and laugh. When your smoke dreams clear away, come to me and I’ll untangle the mess for you. I’ll give you two more years with this … this what’s her name … yeah, Mono.. Mona, Una … sort of go together, don’t they? Why don’t you choose a gal with an ordinary name, like Mary, Jane or Sal?
Having delivered himself of this, MacGregor felt a little mellower. Hen, he began, we’re all saps. You’re not the worst guy in the world, not by a long shot. The trouble is, we all had big ideals. But once your eyes are opened you realize that you can never change the set-up. Sure, you can make minor changes—revolutions and all that—but they don’t mean a thing. People remain what they are, whether Royalists, Communists, or just plain Democrats. Everyone for himself, that’s the game. When you’re young, it’s disheartening. You can’t quite believe it. The more faith you have, the greater the disillusionment. It’ll take another fifty thousand years—or more!—before there’s any fundamental change in humanity. Meanwhile we’ve got to make the best of it, isn’t that so?
You talk exactly like your old man.
That’s true enough, Henry.
He said it soberly. Shows you that we’re not as original as we thought we were. We’re getting old, do you realize that?
You may be—I’m not! I said bluntly.
Even Trix had to laugh at this. You’re just kids, the two of you, she said.
Don’t fool yourself, sister, said MacGregor, going over to her and fondling her. Because I still have a pair of balls doesn’t make me a
