Gather Yourselves Together

  “It isn’t that. It’s getting late.”

  “What were you doing when I came in?”

  “Barbara had fallen asleep.”

  “It’s annoying when they do that.”

  Carl frowned. “Oh?”

  “You’ll find out. Shows an improper lack of interest.”

  “It does?”

  “One of the many pitfalls in this world. There are many.” Verne’s voice was thick, the words muffled. He droned on, frowning intently, concentrating on each word. “Many pitfalls. Sometimes they fall asleep. Sometimes they get sick on the rug. Sometimes they break things. Sometimes they just get up and walk out.”

  “That’s the best,” Barbara said.

  Verne raised his eyes. “What?”

  “That’s the best idea. When they walk out.”

  “Then they have to pay their own bus fare the rest of the way home.”

  “It’s worth it.” Barbara was pale. She stubbed her cigarette out harshly. “Maybe you better go on back to your own room.”

  Verne blinked. “Why?”

  “Yes, let’s go,” Carl said quickly. “Come on.”

  “Don’t you people want to talk? What’s the matter with you? Carl likes to talk. He was telling me. Nothing in the world better than a good talk.”

  “Carl, take him back with you,” Barbara said. Her voice was hard. She opened the door to the hall.

  “For Christ’s sake!” Verne said irritably. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I think we better go.” Carl reached for his arm, but Verne pulled away.

  “Don’t be unsociable,” Verne murmured.

  “It’s her room.”

  “But we’re old friends. Did you know that? Barbara and I are old friends. It’s not right to toss an old friend out like this. In the middle of the night.”

  “I think we should go,” Carl said.

  “You do? Are you perhaps an authority?” Verne’s voice was drowsy. “I’m astonished.” He belched suddenly, his mouth falling open, his eyes staring glassily. “I beg your pardon. As I was saying, Carl, you don’t seem to realize that I have your best interests at heart.”

  “You do?”

  “So don’t hurry me. We both have your best interests at heart. You should pay attention.” Verne raised his finger slowly. “All kinds of things you ought to know for your own good. Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Somebody has to explain them to you. It might as well be me. After all, the father always passes on everything to his son.”

  “Come on,” Carl said. “Let’s go.”

  “Don’t rush me.” Verne set his lips grimly. “I don’t like to be rushed. I have something to tell you. A very important thing. You should listen to me. Sit down and we’ll have a talk. It’s important that we talk. I have worked out a treatise to speak to you.”

  “A treatise?”

  “An ethical system of philosophy. A very great approach. One of the most valuable sets of approaches in the world. I’ve gone over it in my mind a number of times to make certain that it surpasses all the others. All of the others who came before. Kant. Spinoza. Whoever it is that came before. Lots of them came before. An endless number of them. Each with his five dollars. Only with this you won’t need five dollars.”

  Verne’s voice droned off into an indistinct murmur.

  “You should have let me tell you before. I told you I wanted to talk to you. Maybe it’s better. Now it’s all worked out. In order. You can’t go wrong. It never fails. You may have to make little changes. That’s where the creative element comes in. The art. From time to time. But not big changes.”

  “I don’t understand,” Carl murmured.

  “Some like music, for instance. Some don’t. For the ones who like music you should have a phonograph. And albums of records. Bach. Bartok. Stravinsky. And prints on the wall. Modigliani. Kandinsky. Some like to dance. A place is needed. A little dark place. Progressive combo in one corner. Quiet. Not too many people. You have to find what they like.”

  Verne swung his head around, searching them out. “What’s the matter? Why are you two looking at me?”

  “Let’s go,” Carl said.

  “Let me finish. You make changes. Small changes. It varies. You have to work that out yourself. But I teach you the basic system. Sure-fire. Never fails. It has to be learned sometime. Learn it now. I know she’ll be glad to cooperate. Will you cooperate, Barbara? I know she will. I know.” His voice trailed off. “I know.”

  “Get out of here,” Barbara whispered.

  Verne blinked. “Get out?” His head turned slowly until he was looking in Carl’s direction. “You see? Now it’s too late. Sponsor has withdrawn her offer. That’s too bad. I tried to help you. But you wouldn’t listen while you had the chance. Now it’s too late. You should have let me talk to you. This is a good place to start. I’m sorry. As good as any there are. Good place for a young man.”

  “Something’s going to happen,” Barbara said tightly.

  “Happen? It’s already happened. One came today. I had a long talk with him. Nice little fellow. Like a snake. Iron. Iron and blood. Nice little guy.” All at once he roused himself. His face became hard. He fixed his gaze on Carl. “You know what I came here for? I came here to warn you. Something very important.”

  “Warn me?”

  “To warn you not to. It’s not safe. I’ve been thinking it over.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s bad. Forget the whole thing. Let’s go. We’ll go back. It’s not safe.” Verne had risen to his feet. “Carl, I want to tell you more about her. I was just about your age. Ellen. Came from a good family in the Middle West. Golden hair. Hot little bitch. Be careful. They’ll destroy you. There won’t be anything left of you. Once they get hold of you they’ll eat you up. I know. They’ll use you up. You better come away. If she lets you in she’ll never let you out.”

  Carl’s face had gone sickly white. He moved unsteadily toward Verne.

  Barbara screamed. Carl grabbed hold of Verne. He dragged him across the room to the door, his face a dull mask.

  “Carl!” Barbara ran in front of him. Carl pushed her out of the way with his shoulder. He kicked the door open. Verne’s head sagged. He collapsed, limp and dangling, like a bundle of rags. His glasses fell to the floor.

  Carl threw him out into the hall. Verne crashed against the floor, his arms out, one of his shoes flying off. For a moment he sat, his head bowed against his chest. Then he settled slowly, slumping down, like a rag doll that had been tossed away.

  “Oh my God,” Barbara said.

  Carl slammed the door. He turned toward her, his face distorted, trembling from head to foot. “He had no right to talk that way. To say those things about you. I shouldn’t have done it. But he shouldn’t have said those things about you.”

  Barbara covered her eyes, pressing her hands into her face. She shuddered. “We—we better see if he’s hurt.” She picked up Verne’s glasses, kneeling down unsteadily.

  “Did they break?”

  “No. Open the door.”

  Carl opened the hall door. Verne lay stretched out on the floor. He did not stir.

  “Is he all right?” Carl said.

  Barbara bent down, examining him. “Yes. He’s all right. Passed out. He’ll be all right. We better get him back to his room.”

  20

  BETWEEN THEM THEY got Verne to his feet. He mumbled something they did not understand. They half carried, half dragged him down the hall to the stairs, down the stairs onto the porch. The night was cold and dark. Stars shone, scattered above them in the sky.

  “I’m sorry,” Carl said, pausing to get back his breath. “I know I shouldn’t have done it. I don’t do things like that. I don’t know what happened to me. But he shouldn’t have said those things.”

  “He’ll be all right.”

  “In a way he had it coming to him. He was very insulting. Don’t you think so? I wouldn’t have don
e it if I hadn’t been on edge.”

  “Let’s go.”

  With Verne between them they made their way along the path. The air was thin and sharp. Carl took a deep breath, filling his lungs. “It’s nice. The night air. I like it when it’s this way. Clean and cold. I hope he’ll be all right. I hope I didn’t break anything. Do you think he’ll be all right?”

  Barbara did not answer. Between them, Verne had begun to stir a little. He grunted, trying to pull back. Carl held on tight to him.

  “Don’t let him fall,” Barbara said.

  “Maybe well find his pipe. He probably lost it along the way someplace. Don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They reached the men’s dormitory without finding Verne’s pipe. Verne had passed out again. Carl carried him up the stairs to the second floor, Barbara following behind. By the time he had put him down on his bed Carl was gasping and panting.

  “Gosh.” Carl stepped back from the bed. “What a job. I’m glad that’s over.”

  Verne lay sprawled out on the bed, his mouth open, his body limp and loose. They could hear him breathing.

  “What should we do?” Carl asked. “Will he sleep for a while? Should we do anything else?”

  “Cover him with a blanket.”

  Carl got the top blanket over Verne. He pushed a pillow under Verne’s head. “How will that be? There’s not any chance of him smothering, is there?”

  “No.” Barbara wandered around the room. The room smelled of John Jamison. She bent over the waste basket, reaching down into it.

  “What is it?”

  Barbara pulled out the John Jamison bottle. It was almost empty. There was a little in the bottom. She put the bottle on the dresser. “I can almost understand it, now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s good stuff.”

  Carl nodded. He was still looking at Verne lying on the bed, under the blanket. “It’s certainly an unfortunate thing, isn’t it? A person with such a keen mind as he has. We shouldn’t treat it as a moral crime, the way they used to, though. It’s more an illness.”

  “I guess it is.”

  “I understand they can do things for it these days. Psychoanalysis, health farms, or creative therapy of some sort. They’re making great strides.”

  Barbara said nothing. The room was silent except for Verne’s heavy breathing. Carl moved around uneasily. After a while he removed Verne’s tie and pulled his collar open. Verne stirred, snorting and grunting. Like an animal. Carl stepped back from the bed.

  “It’s too bad,” he murmured. “I wish we could do something. But I guess we can’t.”

  “No. He’ll come to. Sometime tomorrow. This has happened before. He’ll recover.”

  “It’s certainly a shame.”

  Barbara moved to the door. “Coming?”

  Carl hesitated. “I—”

  “You left your manuscript. It’s still back in the room.”

  “That’s right. I did forget it. I’ll go back with you and pick it up.”

  “Let’s go, then.” Barbara went out into the hall. Carl followed after her.

  Barbara’s room was frigid. They had left the door open and the night air had come in. Barbara closed the door after them. “I have an electric heater. I’ll plug it in.”

  She got the heater from the closet and attached it to the wall socket. In a few minutes the elements were glowing warmly. Some of the chill left the room.

  Carl stood in front of the heater, rubbing his hands together. “That feels good. It’s a cold night.”

  Barbara sat down, lighting a cigarette. She sat smoking, leaning back on the bed, watching Carl in front of the little heater. “Yes. It is cold.”

  “I feel a lot better already. Isn’t it strange how slight changes in the temperature affect your whole mood? I never feel right when I’m cold. Or damp. When I’m damp, or I have a headache or indigestion or some little pain, I never can think straight. My mind won’t function right at all.”

  Barbara nodded.

  “It shows how you can’t escape the physical. Just when you start thinking you have a soul something comes along that disagrees with your stomach, and in a few minutes you find yourself faced with the fact that without your stomach you wouldn’t be able to exist. We’re as much a part of the physical as the mental. Sometimes I even think more so. If I had my choice I’d retain my physical over my mental part. Isn’t that strange? You’re not supposed to feel that way. You’re supposed to believe your soul is wonderful and your body is wicked. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess that’s because of centuries of Christian teaching. It was the early Church people who advanced the concept of duality in the human being. The body of unworthy material and the pure spirit. They saw man as broken up in two parts, two conflicting parts. The body dragged the soul down into sin. The soul was lucky when it managed to get away from the body.”

  Barbara said nothing.

  “It’s an idea that’s quite persuasive. It follows us around everywhere. Even the most advanced Westerners automatically accept the Christian duality. Like Freud. He assumed the unconscious was evil because it was associated with body instincts and passions. That’s following right along in the Christian spirit.”

  Carl waited for Barbara to say something. She was gazing past him, cigarette smoke drifting around her. The room was beginning to become comfortably warm. By his feet the little electric heater glowed and simmered.

  “But actually there’s no reason why we should accept the Christian dichotomy. The concept of the innate depravity of man’s natural instincts, his bodily needs. Eating, sleeping, reproduction. All natural functions. Spinoza demonstrated that. He advanced the concept of man as a whole, a single entity of body and mind working as a unit, together. Neither part bad. He pointed out that no one had ever seen a body without a mind, or a mind working without a body. We know them only together. So how could we talk about them as if they were distinct things? He had an interesting thought there, don’t you agree? Doesn’t that sound like a realistic appraisal?”

  “It sounds all right.”

  “It’s a monistic concept. Supplanting the dualism of the Christians.” Carl babbled on, faster and faster, his words running together. He could not seem to stop. In a remote, detached way he wondered about it. Why was he going on so? What was the matter with him? But on he went, in a frenzy of theory and interpretation. His mind raced wildly, embracing whole vast concepts at one fell swoop. The mysteries of the universe dissolved around him, showering their secrets in his lap. He was drowning in an ocean of perceptions. All the while Barbara said nothing. She sat smoking silently, staring ahead, into the half-darkness of the room.

  At last Carl slowed down to a stop. He threw himself down in a chair, exhausted. All at once he was completely worn out. His mind was vacant. Empty.

  “Is it true?” Barbara said. “They’re here?”

  Carl stirred. “They?”

  “The yuks.”

  “Verne says one came. He talked to him today.”

  Barbara put her cigarette out and lit another. She leaned back again, against the wall, her arms folded, smoke drifting up.

  “What are you thinking about?” Carl asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “About my life.”

  “You sound so unhappy.”

  “I took the wrong path. That god damn Verne Tildon was responsible.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. You saw him tonight. You saw how he is. He wanted me to be that way.”

  “He did?”

  “Of course. He wanted me to live like that. With him. I was something to satisfy his physical needs. Something he could pick up and use when he felt like it.”

  Barbara leaped to her feet and crossed the room to the heater. She yanked the plug out.

  “It’s too damn hot in here.”

  Carl nodded.


  “What a stupid thing to look back on. It was years ago. Everything is so damn stupid.” She raised the shade and stared out the window at the night. “So they’re here. Well, they can have everything. Why they want it I don’t know. A dirty, empty ruin. They’re welcome to it.” She put her fingers against the glass. “It’s cold outside.”

  Carl got to his feet. “Cold and late.”

  Barbara turned from the window. “Cold and late. You know, we have many things in common. You make me feel better. I feel better being with you.”

  Carl flushed with pleasure. “I’m glad.”

  Barbara paced back and forth. “I’ll be quite ready to turn things over to them. They can take it all. Dirty, cold, barren old place. How do we leave here? Is there a car? How do we get away?”

  “Ed Forester left us a truck. Verne knows where it is. It’s in one of the sheds someplace.”

  “We’ll leave together. When we get in India we can take the same train. The two of us. We can go all the way back to the States together. The same train, the same boat. What do you say? Do you want to do that?”

  “That would be fine.”

  “Yes. Yes, it would be fine. It’s a long way. A long way to go. It’s a cruel world, Carl. A little warmth won’t do any harm.”

  Carl agreed.

  Barbara turned suddenly toward him. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. You don’t have to go back with me.”

  “I’d like to.”

  “It’ll be a long trip.”

  “I really would like to.”

  “All right. We’ll go back together.”

  Carl was pleased. “We can talk. We’ll be able to talk about things on the way.”

  “Is that what it means to you?”

  Carl hesitated. “Why, I—”

  “Just talking? Nothing more than that?”

  Carl twisted in embarrassment. “Of course it’s more than that. Naturally. That goes without saying.”

  Neither of them spoke. The room was silent. With the heater unplugged the room began to grow cold again. The night air was coming back, seeping through the cracks in the walls, under the window, under the door. Carl was cold and tired. He moved toward the door. He felt numb. So many things had happened so quickly.