“I’ll pay it,” she said, “seeing as it’s from old Jerry. Here. Now goodbye.”
Things went on in this fashion—which is to say no fashion at all. I won’t say the people hereabouts got used to them—they weren’t the sort you’d ever really get used to. But after a bit no one seemed to pay them much mind any more. People might stare at his beard if they met him pushing the grocery cart in Safeway, but that’s about all. You didn’t hear any more stories.
Then one day they disappeared. In two different directions. I found out later she’d taken off the week before with somebody—a man—and that after a few days he’d taken the kids to his mother’s over to Redding. For six days running, from one Thursday to the following Wednesday, their mail stayed in the box. The shades were all pulled and nobody knew for certain whether or not they’d lit out for good. But that Wednesday I noticed the Ford parked in the yard again, all the shades still down but the mail gone.
Beginning the next day he was out there at the box every day waiting for me to hand over the mail, or else he was sitting on the porch steps smoking a cigarette, waiting, it was plain to see. When he saw me coming, he’d stand up, brush the seat of his trousers, and walk over by the box. If it happened that I had any mail for him, I’d see him start scanning the return addresses even before I could get it handed over.
We seldom exchanged a word, just nodded at each other if our eyes happened to meet, which wasn’t often. He was suffering, though—anybody could see that—and I wanted to help the boy somehow, if I could. But I didn’t know what to say exactly.
It was one morning a week or so after his return that I saw him walking up and down in front of the box with his hands in his back pockets, and I made up my mind to say something. What, I didn’t know yet, but I was going to say something, sure. His back was to me as I came up the walk. When I got to him, he suddenly turned on me and there was such a look on his face it froze the words in my mouth. I stopped in my tracks with his article of mail. He took a couple of steps toward me and I handed it over without a peep. He stared at it as if dumbfounded.
“Occupant,” he said.
It was a circular from L.A. advertising a hospital-insurance plan. I’d dropped off at least seventy-five that morning. He folded it in two and went back to the house.
Next day he was out there same as always. He had his old look to his face, seemed more in control of himself than the day before. This time I had a hunch I had what it was he’d been waiting for. I’d looked at it down at the station that morning when I was arranging the mail into packets. It was a plain white envelope addressed in a woman’s curlicue handwriting that took up most of the space. It had a Portland postmark, and the return address showed the initials JD and a Portland street address.
“Morning,” I said, offering the letter.
He took it from me without a word and went absolutely pale. He tottered a minute and then started back for the house, holding the letter up to the light.
I called out, “She’s no good, boy. I could tell that the minute I saw her. Why don’t you forget her? Why don’t you go to work and forget her? What have you got against work? It was work, day and night, work that gave me oblivion when I was in your shoes and there was a war on where I was….”
After that he didn’t wait outside for me any more, and he was only there another five days. I’d catch a glimpse of him, though, each day, waiting for me just the same, but standing behind the window and looking out at me through the curtain.
He wouldn’t come out until I’d gone by, and then I’d hear the screen door. If I looked back, he’d seem to be in no hurry at all to reach the box.
The last time I saw him he was standing at the window and looked calm and rested. The curtains were down, all the shades were raised, and I figured at the time he was getting his things together to leave.
But I could tell by the look on his face he wasn’t watching for me this time. He was staring past me, over me, you might say, over the rooftops and the trees, south. He just kept staring even after I’d come even with the house and moved on down the sidewalk. I looked back. I could see him still there at the window. The feeling was so strong, I had to turn around and look for myself in the same direction he was. But, as you might guess, I didn’t see anything except the same old timber, mountains, sky.
The next day he was gone. He didn’t leave any forwarding. Sometimes mail of some kind or other shows up for him or his wife or for the both of them. If it’s first-class, we hold it a day, then send it back to where it came from. There isn’t much. And I don’t mind. It’s all work, one way or the other, and I’m always glad to have it.
Fat
I am sitting over coffee and cigarettes at my friend Rita’s and I am telling her about it.
Here is what I tell her.
It is late of a slow Wednesday when Herb seats the fat man at my station.
This fat man is the fattest person I have ever seen, though he is neat-appearing and well dressed enough.
Everything about him is big. But it is the fingers I remember best. When I stop at the table near his to see to the old couple, I first notice the fingers. They look three times the size of a normal person’s fingers—long, thick, creamy fingers.
I see to my other tables, a party of four businessmen, very demanding, another party of four, three men and a woman, and this old couple. Leander has poured the fat man’s water, and I give the fat man plenty of time to make up his mind before going over.
Good evening, I say. May I serve you? I say.
Rita, he was big, I mean big.
Good evening, he says. Hello. Yes, he says. I think we’re ready to order now, he says.
He has this way of speaking—strange, don’t you know. And he makes a little puffing sound every so often.
I think we will begin with a Caesar salad, he says. And then a bowl of soup with some extra bread and butter, if you please. The lamb chops, I believe, he says. And baked potato with sour cream. We’ll see about dessert later. Thank you very much, he says, and hands me the menu.
God, Rita, but those were fingers.
I hurry away to the kitchen and turn in the order to Rudy, who takes it with a face. You know Rudy.
Rudy is that way when he works.
As I come out of the kitchen, Margo—I’ve told you about Margo? The one who chases Rudy? Margo says to me, Who’s your fat friend? He’s really a fatty.
Now that’s part of it. I think that is really part of it.
I make the Caesar salad there at his table, him watching my every move, meanwhile buttering pieces of bread and laying them off to one side, all the time making this purling noise. Anyway, I am so keyed up or something, I knock over his glass of water.
I’m so sorry, I say. It always happens when you get into a. hurry. I’m very sorry, I say. Are you all right?
I’ll get the boy to clean up right away, I say.
It’s nothing, he says. It’s all right, he says, and he puffs. Don’t worry about it, we don’t mind, he says. He smiles and waves as I go off to get Leander, and when I come back to serve the salad, I see the fat man has eaten all his bread and butter.
A little later, when I bring him more bread, he has finished his salad. You know the size of those Caesar salads?
You’re very kind, he says. This bread is marvelous, he says.
Thank you, I say.
Well, it is very good, he says, and we mean that. We don’t often enjoy bread like this, he says.
Where are you from? I ask him. I don’t believe I’ve seen you before, I say.
He’s not the kind of person you’d forget, Rita puts in with a snicker.
Denver, he says.
I don’t say anything more on the subject, though I am curious.
Your soup will be along in a few minutes, sir, I say, and I go off to put the finishing touches to my party of four businessmen, very demanding.
When I serve his soup, I see the bread has disappeared again. He is just putting the last pi
ece of bread into his mouth.
Believe me, he says, we don’t eat like this all the time, he says. And puffs. You’ll have to excuse us, he says.
Don’t think a thing about it, please, I say. I like to see a man eat and enjoy himself, I say.
I don’t know, he says. I guess that’s what you’d call it. And puffs. He arranges the napkin. Then he picks up his spoon.
God, he’s fat! says Leander.
He can’t help it, I say, so shut up.
I put down another basket of bread and more butter. How was the soup? I say.
Thank you. Good, he says. Very good, he says. He wipes his lips and dabs his chin. Do you think it’s warm in here, or is it just me? he says.
No, it is warm in here, I say.
Maybe we’ll take off our coat, he says.
Go right ahead, I say. A person has to be comfortable, I say.
That’s true, he says, that is very, very true, he says.
But I see a little later that he is still wearing his coat.
My large parties are gone now and also the old couple. The place is emptying out. By the time I serve the fat man his chops and baked potato, along with more bread and butter, he is the only one left.
I drop lots of sour cream onto his potato. I sprinkle bacon and chives over his sour cream. I bring him more bread and butter.
Is everything all right? I say.
Fine, he says, and he puffs. Excellent, thank you, he says, and puffs again.
Enjoy your dinner, I say. I raise the lid of his sugar bowl and look in. He nods and keeps looking at me until I move away.
I know now I was after something. But I don’t know what.
How is old tub-of-guts doing? He’s going to run your legs off, says Harriet. You know Harriet.
For dessert, I say to the fat man, there is the Green Lantern Special, which is a pudding cake with sauce, or there is cheesecake or vanilla ice cream or pineapple sherbet.
We’re not making you late, are we? he says, puffing and looking concerned.
Not at all, I say. Of course not, I say. Take your time, I say. I’ll bring you more coffee while you make up your mind.
We’ll be honest with you, he says. And he moves in the seat. We would like the Special, but we may have a dish of vanilla ice cream as well. With just a drop of chocolate syrup, if you please. We told you we were hungry, he says.
I go off to the kitchen to see after his dessert myself, and Rudy says, Harriet says you got a fat man from the circus out there. That true?
Rudy has his apron and hat off now, if you see what I mean.
Rudy, he is fat, I say, but that is not the whole story.
Rudy just laughs.
Sounds to me like she’s sweet on fat-stuff, he says.
Better watch out, Rudy, says Joanne, who just that minute comes into the kitchen.
I’m getting jealous, Rudy says to Joanne.
I put the Special in front of the fat man and a big bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup to the side.
Thank you, he says.
You are very welcome, I say—and a feeling comes over me.
Believe it or not, he says, we have not always eaten like this.
Me, I eat and I eat and I can’t gain, I say. I’d like to gain, I say.
No, he says. If we had our choice, no. But there is no choice.
Then he picks up his spoon and eats.
What else? Rita says, lighting one of my cigarettes and pulling her chair closer to the table. This story’s getting interesting now, Rita says.
That’s it. Nothing else. He eats his desserts, and then he leaves and then we go home, Rudy and me.
Some fatty, Rudy says, stretching like he does when he’s tired. Then he just laughs and goes back to watching the TV.
I put the water on to boil for tea and take a shower. I put my hand on my middle and wonder what would happen if I had children and one of them turned out to look like that, so fat.
I pour the water in the pot, arrange the cups, the sugar bowl, carton of half and half, and take the tray in to Rudy. As if he’s been thinking about it, Rudy says, I knew a fat guy once, a couple of fat guys, really fat guys, when I was a kid. They were tubbies, my God. I don’t remember their names. Fat, that’s the only name this one kid had. We called him Fat, the kid who lived next door to me. He was a neighbor.
The other kid came along later. His name was Wobbly. Everybody called him Wobbly except the teachers. Wobbly and Fat. Wish I had their pictures, Rudy says.
I can’t think of anything to say, so we drink our tea and pretty soon I get up to go to bed. Rudy gets up too, turns off the TV, locks the front door, and begins his unbuttoning.
I get into bed and move clear over to the edge and lie there on my stomach. But right away, as soon as he turns off the light and gets into bed, Rudy begins. I turn on my back and relax some, though it is against my will. But here is the thing. When he gets on me, I suddenly feel I am fat.
I feel I am terrifically fat, so fat that Rudy is a tiny thing and hardly there at all.
That’s a funny story, Rita says, but I can see she doesn’t know what to make of it.
I feel depressed. But I won’t go into it with her. I’ve already told her too much.
She sits there waiting, her dainty fingers poking her hair.
Waiting for what? I’d like to know.
It is August.
My life is going to change. I feel it.
What’s in Alaska?
Jack got off work at three. He left the station and drove to a shoe store near his apartment. He put his foot up on the stool and let the clerk unlace his work boot.
“Something comfortable,” Jack said. “For casual wear.”
“I have something,” the clerk said.
The clerk brought out three pairs of shoes and Jack said he would take the soft beige-colored shoes that made his feet feel free and springy. He paid the clerk and put the box with his boots under his arm. He looked down at his new shoes as he walked. Driving home, he felt that his foot moved freely from pedal to pedal.
“You bought some new shoes,” Mary said. “Let me see.”
“Do you like them?” Jack said.
“I don’t like the color, but I’ll bet they’re comfortable. You needed new shoes.”
He looked at the shoes again. “I’ve got to take a bath,” he said.
“We’ll have an early dinner,” she said. “Helen and Carl asked us over tonight. Helen got Carl a water pipe for his birthday and they’re anxious to try it out.” Mary looked at him. “Is it all right with you?”
“What time?”
“Around seven.”
“It’s all right,” he said.
She looked at his shoes again and sucked her cheeks. “Take your bath,” she said.
Jack ran the water and took off his shoes and clothes. He lay in the tub for a while and then used a brush to get at the lube grease under his nails. He dropped his hands and then raised them to his eyes.
She opened the bathroom door. “I brought you a beer,” she said. Steam drifted around her and out into the living room.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” he said. He drank some of the beer.
She sat on the edge of the tub and put her hand on his thigh. “Home from the wars,” she said.
“Home from the wars,” he said.
She moved her hand through the wet hair on his thigh. Then she clapped her hands. “Hey, I have something to tell you! I had an interview today, and I think they’re going to offer me a job—in Fairbanks.”
“Alaska?” he said.
She nodded. “What do you think of that?”
“I’ve always wanted to go to Alaska. Does it look pretty definite?”
She nodded again. “They liked me. They said I’d hear next week.”
“That’s great. Hand me a towel, will you? I’m getting out.”
“I’ll go and set the table,” she said.
His fingertips and toes were pale and wrinkl
ed. He dried slowly and put on clean clothes and the new shoes. He combed his hair and went out to the kitchen. He drank another beer while she put dinner on the table.
“We’re supposed to bring some cream soda and something to munch on,” she said. “We’ll have to go by the store.”
“Cream soda and munchies. Okay,” he said.
When they had eaten, he helped her clear the table. Then they drove to the market and bought cream soda and potato chips and corn chips and onion-flavored snack crackers. At the checkout counter he added a handful of U-No bars to the order.
“Hey, yeah,” she said when she saw them.
They drove home again and parked, and then they walked the block to Helen and Carl’s.
Helen opened the door. Jack put the sack on the dining-room table.
Mary sat down in the rocking chair and sniffed.
“We’re late,” she said. “They started without us, Jack.”
Helen laughed. “We had one when Carl came in. We haven’t lighted the water pipe yet. We were waiting until you got here.” She stood in the middle of the room, looking at them and grinning. “Let’s see what’s in the sack,” she said. “Oh, wow! Say, I think I’ll have one of these corn chips right now. You guys want some?”
“We just ate dinner,” Jack said. “We’ll have some pretty soon.” Water had stopped running and Jack could hear Carl whistling in the bathroom.
‘We have some Popsicles and some M&M’s,” Helen said. She stood beside the table and dug into the potato-chip bag. “If Carl ever gets out of the shower, he’ll get the water pipe going.” She opened the box of snack crackers and put one in her mouth. “Say, these are really good,” she said.
“I don’t know what Emily Post would say about you,” Mary said.
Helen laughed. She shook her head.
Carl came out of the bathroom. “Hi, everybody. Hi, Jack. What’s so funny?” he said, grinning. “I could hear you laughing.”
“We were laughing at Helen,” Mary said.
“Helen was just laughing,” Jack said.