The Winter of Our Discontent

  Joey Morphy came in for his afternoon refreshment as he did every day now that the weather was warming. He waved the bottle toward the cold counter. "You should put in a soda fountain," he said.

  "And grow four new arms, or split into two clerks like a pseudopod? You forget, neighbor Joey, I don't own the store."

  "You should."

  "Must I tell you my sad story of the death of kings?"

  "I know your story. You didn't know your asparagus from a hole in the double-entry bookkeeping. You had to learn the hard way. Now wait--but you learned."

  "Small good it does me."

  "If it was your store now, you'd make money."

  "But it isn't."

  "If you opened up next door, you'd take all the customers with you."

  "What makes you think so?"

  "Because people buy from people they know. It's called good will and it works."

  "Didn't work before. Everybody in town knew me. I went broke."

  "That was technical. You didn't know how to buy."

  "Maybe I still don't."

  "You do. You don't even know you've learned. But you've still got a broke state of mind. Junk it, Mr. Hawley. Junk it, Ethan."

  "Thanks."

  "I like you. When is Marullo going to Italy?"

  "He hasn't said. Tell me, Joey--how rich is he? No, don't. I know you're not supposed to talk about clients."

  "I can rupture a rule for a friend, Ethan. I don't know all his affairs, but if our account means anything, I'd say he is. He's got his fingers in all kinds of things--piece of property here, vacant lot there, some beach-front houses, and a bundle of first mortgages big around as your waist."

  "How do you know?"

  "Safe-deposit box. He rents one of our big ones. When he opens it, he has one key and I have the other. I'll admit I've peeked. Guess I'm a peeping Tom at heart."

  "But it's all on the level, isn't it? I mean--well you read all the time about--well, drugs and rackets and things like that."

  "I wouldn't know about that. He don't tell his business around. Draws some out, puts some back. And I don't know where else he banks. You notice I don't tell his balance."

  "I didn't ask."

  "Could you let me have a beer?"

  "Only to take out. I can put it in a paper cup."

  "I wouldn't ask you to break the law."

  "Nuts!" Ethan punched holes in a can. "Just hold it down beside you if anybody comes in."

  "Thanks. I've put a lot of thought on you, Ethan."

  "Why?"

  "Maybe because I'm a Nosy Parker. Failure is a state of mind. It's like one of those sand traps an ant lion digs. You keep sliding back. Takes one hell of a jump to get out of it. You've got to make that jump, Eth. Once you get out, you'll find success is a state of mind too."

  "Is it a trap too?"

  "If it is--it's a better kind."

  "Suppose a man makes the jump, and someone else gets tromped."

  "Only God sees the sparrow fall, but even God doesn't do anything about it."

  "I wish I knew what you're trying to tell me to do."

  "I wish I did too. If I did, I might do it myself. Bank tellers don't get to be president. A man with a fistful of stock does. I guess I'm trying to say, Grab anything that goes by. It may not come around again."

  "You're a philosopher, Joey, a financial philosopher."

  "Don't rub it in. If you don't have it, you think about it. Man being alone thinks about things. You know most people live ninety per cent in the past, seven per cent in the present, and that only leaves them three per cent for the future. Old Satchel Paige said the wisest thing about that I ever heard. He said, 'Don't look behind. Something may be gaining on you.' I got to get back. Mr. Baker's going to New York tomorrow for a few days. He's busy as a bug."

  "What about?"

  "How do I know? But I separate the mail. He's been getting a lot from Albany."

  "Politics?"

  "I only separate it. I don't read it. Is business always this slow?"

  "Around four o'clock, yes. It'll pick up in ten minutes or so."

  "You see? You've learned. I bet you didn't know that before you went broke. Be seeing you. Grab the gold ring for a free ride."

  The little buying spurt between five and six came on schedule. The sun, held back by daylight-saving, was still high and the streets light as midafternoon when he brought in the fruit bins and closed the front doors and drew the green shades. Then, reading from a list, he gathered the supplies to carry home and put them all in one big bag. With his apron off and his coat and hat on, he boosted up and sat on the counter and stared at the shelves of the congregation. "No message!" he said. "Only remember the words of Satchel Paige. I guess I have to learn about not looking back."

  He took the folded lined pages from his wallet, made a little envelope for them of waxed paper. Then, opening the enamel door to the works of the cold counter, he slipped the waxy envelope in a corner behind the compressor and closed the metal door on it.

  Under the cash register on a shelf he found the dusty and dogeared Manhattan telephone book, kept there for emergency orders to the supply house. Under U, under United States, under Justice, Dept of . . . His finger moved down the column past "Antitrust Div US Court House, Customs Div, Detention Hdqtrs, Fed Bur of Investgatn," and under it, "Immigration & Naturalization Svce, 20 W Bway, BA 7-0300, Nights Sat Sun & Holidays OL 6-5888."

  He said aloud, "OL 6-5888--OL 6-5888 because it's late." And then he spoke to his canned goods without looking at them. "If everything's proper and aboveboard, nobody gets hurt."

  Ethan went out the alley door and locked it. He carried his bag of groceries across the street to the Foremaster Hotel and Grill. The grill was noisy with cocktailers but the tiny lobby where the public phone booth stood was deserted even by the room clerk. He closed the glass door, put his groceries on the floor, spread his change on the shelf, inserted a dime, and dialed 0.

  "Operator."

  "Oh! Operator--I want to call New York."

  "Will you dial the number, please?"

  And he did.

  Ethan came from work, carrying his bag of groceries. How good the long afternoons are! The lawn was so tall and lush that it took his footprints. He kissed Mary damply.

  "Pollywog," he said, "the lawn is running wild. Do you think I could get Allen to cut it?"

  "Well, it's examination time. You know how that is, and school closing and all."

  "What's that unearthly squalling sound in the other room?"

  "He's practicing with his voice-throwing gadget. He's going to perform at the school closing show."

  "Well, I guess I'll have to cut the lawn myself."

  "I'm sorry, dear. But you know how they are."

  "Yes, I'm beginning to learn how they are."

  "Are you in a bad temper? Did you have a hard day?"

  "Let's see. No, I guess not. I've been on my feet all day. The thought of pushing the lawnmower doesn't make me jump with joy."

  "We should have a power mower. The Johnsons have one you can ride on."

  "We should have a gardener and a gardener's boy. My grandfather did. Ride on? Allen might cut the lawn if he could ride."

  "Don't be mean to him. He's only fourteen. They're all like that."

  "Who do you suppose established the fallacy that children are cute?"

  "You are in a bad temper."

  "Let's see. Yes, I guess I am. And that squalling is driving me crazy."

  "He's practicing."

  "So you said."

  "Now don't take your bad temper out on him."

  "All right, but it would help if I could." Ethan pushed through the living room, where Allen was squawking vaguely recognizable words from a vibrating reed held on his tongue. "What in the world is that?"

  Allen spat it into his palm. "From that box of Peeks. It's ventriloquism."

  "Did you eat the Peeks?"

  "No. I don't like it. I've got to practice, Dad."
r />   "Hold up a moment." Ethan sat down. "What do you plan to do with your life?"

  "Huh?"

  "The future. Haven't they told you in school? The future is in your hands."

  Ellen slithered into the room and draped herself on the couch like a knob-kneed cat. She rippled out a steel-cutting giggle.

  "He wants to go on television," she said.

  "There was a kid only thirteen won a hundred and thirty thousand dollars on a quiz program."

  "Turned out it was rigged," said Ellen.

  "Well, he still had a hundred and thirty grand."

  Ethan said softly, "The moral aspects don't bother you?"

  "Well, it's still a lot of dough."

  "You don't find it dishonest?"

  "Shucks, everybody does it."

  "How about the ones who offer themselves on a silver platter and there are no takers? They have neither honesty nor money."

  "That's the chance you take--the way the cooky crumbles."

  "Yes, it's crumbling, isn't it?" Ethan said. "And so are your manners. Sit up! Have you dropped the word 'sir' from the language?"

  The boy looked startled, checked to see if it was meant, then lounged upright, full of resentment. "No, sir," he said.

  "How are you doing in school?"

  "All right, I guess."

  "You were writing an essay about how you love America. Has your determination to destroy her stopped that project?"

  "How do you mean, destroy--sir?"

  "Can you honestly love a dishonest thing?"

  "Heck, Dad, everybody does it."

  "Does that make it good?"

  "Well, nobody's knocking it except a few eggheads. I finished the essay."

  "Good, I'd like to see it."

  "I sent it off."

  "You must have a copy."

  "No, sir."

  "Suppose it gets lost?"

  "I didn't think of that. Dad, I wish I could go to camp the way all the other kids do."

  "We can't afford it. Not all the other kids go--only a few of them."

  "I wish we had some money." He stared down at his hands and licked his lips.

  Ellen's eyes were narrowed and concentrated.

  Ethan studied his son. "I'm going to make that possible," he said.

  "Sir?"

  "I can get you a job to work in the store this summer."

  "How do you mean, work?"

  "Isn't your question, 'What do you mean, work?' You will carry and trim shelves and sweep and perhaps, if you do well, you can wait on customers."

  "I want to go to camp."

  "You also want to win a hundred thousand dollars."

  "Maybe I'll win the essay contest. At least that's a trip to Washington anyway. Some kind of vacation after all year in school."

  "Allen! There are unchanging rules of conduct, of courtesy, of honesty, yes, even of energy. It's time I taught you to give them lip service at least. You're going to work."

  The boy looked up. "You can't."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Child labor laws. I can't even get a work permit before I'm sixteen. You want me to break the law?"

  "Do you think all the boys and girls who help their parents are half slave and half criminal?" Ethan's anger was as naked and ruthless as love. Allen looked away.

  "I didn't mean that, sir."

  "I'm sure you didn't. And you won't again. You stubbed your nose on twenty generations of Hawleys and Allens. They were honorable men. You may be worthy to be one someday."

  "Yes, sir. May I go to my room, sir?"

  "You may."

  Allen walked up the stairs slowly.

  When he had disappeared, Ellen whirled her legs like propellers. She sat up and pulled down her skirt like a young lady.

  "I've been reading the speeches of Henry Clay. He sure was good."

  "Yes, he was."

  "Do you remember them?"

  "Not really, I guess. It's been a long time since I read them."

  "He's great."

  "Somehow it doesn't seem schoolgirl reading."

  "He's just great."

  Ethan got up from his chair with a whole long and weary day pushing him back.

  In the kitchen he found Mary red-eyed and angry.

  "I heard you," she said. "I don't know what you think you're doing. He's just a little boy."

  "That's the time to start, my darling."

  "Don't darling me. I won't stand a tyrant."

  "Tyrant? Oh, Lord!"

  "He's just a little boy. You went for him."

  "I think he feels better now."

  "I don't know what you mean. You crushed him like an insect."

  "No, darling. I gave him a quick glimpse of the world. He was building a false one."

  "Who are you to know what the world is?"

  Ethan walked past her and out the back door.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To cut the lawn."

  "I thought you were tired."

  "I am--I was." He looked over his shoulder and up at her standing inside the screened door. "A man is a lonely thing," he said, and he smiled at her a moment before he got out the lawnmower.

  Mary heard the whirring blades tearing through the soft and supple grass.

  The sound stopped by the doorstep. Ethan called, "Mary, Mary, my darling. I love you." And the whirling blades raged on through the overgrown grass.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Margie Young-Hunt was an attractive woman, informed, clever; so clever that she knew when and how to mask her cleverness. Her marriages had failed, the men had failed; one by being weak, and the second weaker--he died. Dates did not come to her. She created them, mended her fences by frequent telephone calls, by letters, get-well cards, and arranged accidental meetings. She carried homemade soup to the sick and remembered birthdays. By these means she kept people aware of her existence.

  More than any woman in town she kept her stomach flat, her skin clean and glowing, her teeth bright, and her chinline taut. A goodly part of her income went to hair, nails, massage, creams, and unguents. Other women said, "She must be older than she looks."

  When supporting muscles of her breasts no longer responded to creams, massage, and exercise, she placed them in shapely forms that rode high and jauntily. Her make-up took increasing time. Her hair had all the sheen, luster, wave the television products promise. On a date, dining, dancing, laughing, amusing, drawing her escort with a net of small magnets, who could know her cold sense of repetition? After a decent interval and an outlay of money, she usually went to bed with him if she discreetly could. Then back to her fence-mending. Sooner or later the shared bed must be the trap to catch her future security and ease. But the prospective game leaped clear of the quilted jaws. More and more of her dates were the married, the infirm, or the cautious. And Margie knew better than anyone that her time was running out. The tarot cards did not respond when she sought help for herself.

  Margie had known many men, most of them guilty, wounded in their vanity, or despairing, so that she had developed a contempt for her quarry as a professional hunter of vermin does. It was easy to move such men through their fears and their vanities. They ached so to be fooled that she no longer felt triumph--only a kind of disgusted pity. These were her friends and associates. She protected them even from the discovery that they were her friends. She gave them the best of herself because they demanded nothing of her. She kept them secret because at the bottom she did not admire herself. Danny Taylor was one of these, and Alfio Marullo another, and Chief Stonewall Jackson Smith a third, and there were others. They trusted her and she them, and their secret existence was the one warm honesty to which she could retire to restore herself. These friends talked freely and without fear to her, for to them she was a kind of Andersen's Well--receptive, unjudging, and silent. As most people have secret vices, Margie Young-Hunt concealed a secret virtue. And because of this quiet thing it is probable that she knew more about New Baytown, and even Wessex County, tha
n anyone, and her knowledge was un-warped because she would not--could not--use it for her own profit. But in other fields, everything that came to her hand was usable.

  Her project Ethan Allen Hawley began casually and out of idleness. In a way he was correct in thinking it was mischievous, a testing of her power. Many of the sad men who came to her for comfort and reassurance were hogtied with impotence, bound and helpless in sexual traumas that infected all other areas of their lives. And she found it easy by small flatteries and reassurances to set them free to fight again against their whip-armed wives. She was genuinely fond of Mary Hawley, and through her she gradually became aware of Ethan, bound in another kind of trauma, a social-economic bind that had robbed him of strength and certainty. Having no work, no love, no children, she wondered whether she could release and direct this crippled man toward some new end. It was a game, a kind of puzzle, a test, a product not of kindness but simply of curiosity and idleness. This was a superior man. To direct him would prove her superiority, and this she needed increasingly.

  Probably she was the only one who knew the depth of the change in Ethan and it frightened her because she thought it was her doing. The mouse was growing a lion's mane. She saw the muscles under his clothes, felt ruthlessness growing behind his eyes. So must the gentle Einstein have felt when his dreamed concept of the nature of matter flashed over Hiroshima.

  Margie liked Mary Hawley very much and she had little sympathy and no pity for her. Misfortune is a fact of nature acceptable to women, especially when it falls on other women.

  In her tiny immaculate house set in a large, overgrown garden very near to Old Harbor, she leaned toward the make-up mirror to inspect her tools, and her eyes saw through cream, powder, eye-shadowing, and lashes sheathed in black, saw the hidden wrinkles, the inelasticity of skin. She felt the years creep up like the rising tide about a rock in a calm sea. There is an arsenal of maturity, of middle age, but these require training and technique she did not yet have. She must learn them before her structure of youth and excitement crumbled and left her naked, rotten, ridiculous. Her success had been that she never let down, even alone. Now, as an experiment, she allowed her mouth to droop as it wanted to, her eyelids to fall half-staff. She lowered her high-held chin and a plaited rope came into being. Before her in the mirror she saw twenty years clamber over her and she shuddered as the icy whispering told her what lay waiting. She had delayed too long. A woman must have a showcase in which to grow old, lights, props, black velvet, children, graying and fattening, snickering and pilfering, love, protection, and small change, a serene and undemanding husband or his even more serene and less demanding will and trust fund. A woman growing old alone is useless cast-off trash, a wrinkled obscenity with no hobbled retainers to cluck and mutter over her aches and to rub her pains.