“‘Why, Goldilocks,’ said her mother, ‘What great big eyes you have!’
“‘All the better to eat you up!’ said Goldilocks.
“‘Why, Goldilocks,’ cried her father, ‘and where in hell did you put my bottle of schnapps?’
“‘I gave it to the three bears,’ said Goldilocks dutifully.
“‘Goldilocks, you’re telling me a fib,’ said her father threateningly.
“‘I’m not either,’ Goldilocks replied. ‘It’s the God’s truth.’ Suddenly she remembered what she had read in the big book, about sin and how Jesus came to wipe away all sin. ‘Father,’ she said, kneeling before him reverently, ‘I believe I’ve committed a sin.’
“‘Worse than that,’ said her father, reaching for the strap, ‘you’ve committed larceny.’ And without another word he began to belt and flay her. ‘I don’t mind your visiting the three bears in the woods,’ he said, as he plied the strap. ‘I don’t mind a little fib now and then. But what I do mind is not to have a wee drop of schnapps when my throat is sore and parched.’ He flayed her and belted her until Goldilocks was just a mass of welts and bruises. ‘And now,’ he said, putting in an extra lick for the finish, ‘I’m going to give you a treat. I’m going to tell you the story of the three bears—or what happened to my bottle of schnapps.’
“And that, my dear children, is the end.”
The story finished, the kids were hustled off to bed. We could now settle down comfortably to drink and chew the fat. MacGregor liked nothing better than to talk of old times. We were only in our thirties but we had twenty years of solid friendship between us, and besides, at that age one feels older than at fifty or sixty. Actually, both MacGregor and I were still in a period of prolonged adolescence.
Whenever MacGregor took up with a new girl it seemed imperative for him to look me up, get my approval of her, and then settle down for a long, sentimental talkfest. We had done it so many times that it was almost like playing a duet. The girl was supposed to sit there enchanted—and to interrupt us now and then with a pertinent question. The duet always began by one of us asking if the other had seen or heard anything recently of George Marshall. I don’t know why we instinctively chose this opening. We were like certain chess players who, no matter who the opponent may be, always open with the Scotch gambit.
“Have you seen George lately?” says I, apropos of nothing at all.
“You mean George Marshall?”
“Yeah, it seems ages since I’ve seen him.”
“No, Hen, to tell you the truth, I haven’t. I suppose he’s still going to the Village Saturday afternoons.”
“To dance?”
MacGregor smiled. “If you want to call it that, Henry. You know George!” He paused, then added: “George is a queer guy. I think I know less about him now than ever.”
“What?”
“Just that, Henry. That guy leads a double life. You ought to see him at home, with the wife and kids. You wouldn’t know him.”
I confessed I hadn’t seen George since he got married. “Never liked that wife of his.”
“You should talk to George about her sometime. How they manage to live together is a miracle. He gives her what she wants and in return he goes his own way. Boy, it’s like skating on dynamite when you visit them: You know the sort of double talk George indulges in.…”
“Listen,” I interrupted, “do you remember that night in Greenpoint, when we were sitting in the back of some gin mill and George began a spiel about his mother, how the sun rose and set in her ass?”
“Jesus, Hen, you sure think of strange things. Sure, I remember. I remember every conversation we ever had, I guess. And the time and place. And whether I was drunk or sober.” He turned to Trix. “Are we boring you? You know, the three of us were great pals once. We had some good times together, didn’t we, Hen? Remember Maspeth—those athletic contests? We didn’t have much to worry about, did we? Let’s see, were you tied up with the widow then, or was that later? Get this, Trix.… Here’s this guy hardly out of school and he falls in love with a woman old enough to be his mother. Wanted to marry her, too, didn’t you, Hen?”
I grinned and gave a vague nod.
“Henry always falls hard. The serious sort, though you’d never think it to look at him.… But about George. As I was saying before, Hen, George is a different guy. He’s at loose ends. Hates his work, loathes his wife, and the kids bore him to death. All he thinks of now is tail. And boy, does he chase it! Picks ’em younger and younger all the time. The last time I saw him he was in a hell of a mess with some fifteen year old—from his own school. (I still can’t picture George as a principal, can you?) It began right in his office, it seems. Then he takes to meeting her at the dance hall. Finally he has the nerve to take her to a hotel—and register as man and wife.… The last I heard they were diddlin’ one another in a vacant lot near the ball grounds. Some day, Hen, that guy’s goin’ to make the headlines. And boy, that won’t make pleasant reading!”
At this point I had a flash of memory, so vivid and so complete, I could scarcely contain myself. It was like opening a Japanese fan. The picture was of a time when George and I were still twins, so to speak. I was then working for my father, which means I must have been twenty-two or -three. George Marshall had come down with a bad case of pneumonia which had kept him bedridden for several months. When he got well enough, his parents shipped him to the country—somewhere in New Jersey. It all started by my receiving a letter from him one day saying that he was recuperating fast and wouldn’t I come to visit him. I was only too glad of the chance to steal a few days’ vacation, and so I sent him a wire saying I’d be there the following day.
It was late autumn. The countryside was cheerless. George met me at the station, with his young cousin, Herbie. (The farm was run by George’s aunt and uncle, that is, his mother’s sister and her husband.) The first words out of his mouth—as I might well have expected!—were to the effect that it was his mother who had saved his life. He was overjoyed to see me and appeared to be in excellent shape. He was brown and weather-beaten.
“The grub is wonderful, Hen,” he said. “It’s a real farm, you know.”
To me it looked much like any other farm—sort of seedy, grubby and run-down. His aunt was a stout, kindhearted, motherly creature whom George worshiped, apparently, almost as much as he did his mother. Herbie, the son, was a bit of a zany. A blabbermouth too. But what got me at once was the look of wonder in his eyes. He evidently idolized George. And then the way we talked to one another was something new for him. It was hard to shake him off our heels.
The first thing we did—I remember it so well—was to have a tall glass of milk. Rich milk. Milk such as I hadn’t tasted since I was a boy. “Drink five and six of them a day,” says George. He cut me a thick slice of homemade bread, spread some country butter over it, and over that some homemade jam.
“Did you bring any old clothes with you, Hen?”
I confessed I hadn’t thought of that.
“Never mind, I’ll lend you my things. You’ve got to wear old clothes here. You’ll see.”
He looked pointedly at Herbie. “Eh, Herbie?”
I had arrived on the afternoon train. It was now getting on to dark. “Change your clothes, Hen, and we’ll take a brisk hike. Dinner won’t be ready till seven. Got to work up an appetite, you know.”
“Yeah,” said Herbie, “we’re going to have chicken tonight.”
And in the next breath he asked me if I were a good runner.
George gave me a sly wink. “He’s crazy about games, Hen.”
When I met them at the foot of the stairs I was handed a big stick. “Better wear your gloves,” said Herbie.
He threw me a big woollen muffler.
“All set?” says George. “Come on, let’s hurry.” And he starts off at a record-breaking clip.
“Why the hurry?” said I. “Where are we going?”
“Down by the station,” said Herbie.
“And what’s down there?”
“You’ll see. Won’t he, George?”
The station was a dismal, forlorn affair. A line of freight cars were standing there, waiting for milk cans, no doubt.
“Listen,” said George, slowing up a bit to keep in step with me, “the idea is to take the lead. You know what I mean!” He talked rapidly, mumbling the words, as if there were something secretive connected with our actions. “Up to now there’s been just Herbie and me: we’ve had to make our own fun. Nothing to worry about, Hen. You’ll get on to it quick enough. Just follow me.”
I was more than ever baffled by this quixotic piece of information. As we hopped along Herbie became positively electrified. He gabbled like an old turkey cock.
George opened the door of the station softly, stealthily, and peered inside. An old drunk was snoozing away on the bench. “Here,” said George, grabbing my hat and stuffing an old cap in my hand, “wear this!” He shoves a crazy-looking contraption on his own head and pins a badge on his coat. “You stay here,” he commands, “and I’ll open shop. Do just as Herbie does and you’ll be all right.”
As George ducks into the office and opens the ticket window Herbie pulls me by the hand. “This is it, Hen,” says he, going up to the window where George is already standing, pretending to make up the train schedule.
“Sir, I would like to buy a ticket,” says Herbie in a timid voice.
“A ticket to where?” says George, frowning, “We’ve got all kinds of tickets here. Do you want first, second, or third class? Let’s see, the Weehawken Express pulls out of here in about eight minutes. She’s making a connection with the Denver and Rio Grande at Omaha Junction. Any baggage?”
“Please sir, I don’t know where I want to go yet.”
“Whaddaya mean, you don’t know where you want to go? What do you think this is—a lottery? Who’s that man behind you? Any relation of yours?”
Herbie turns round to look at me and blinks.
“He’s my great-uncle, sir. Wants to go to Winnipeg, but he’s not sure when.”
“Tell him to step up here. What’s the matter with him—is he deaf or just hard of hearing?”
Herbie pushed me in front of him. We look at each other, George Marshall and I, as if we had never seen each other before.
“I just came from Winnipeg,” says I. “Isn’t there some other place I could go to?”
“I could sell you a ticket to New Brunswick, but there wouldn’t be much in it for the company. We’ve got to make ends meet, you know. Now here’s a nice looking ticket for Spuyten Duyvil—how would that suit you? Or would you like something more expensive?”
“I’d like to go by way of the Great Lakes, if you could arrange it.”
“Arrange it? That’s my business! How many in the party? Any cats or dogs? You know the lakes are frozen now, don’t you? But you can catch the iceboat this side of Canandaigua. I don’t have to draw a map for you, do I?”
I leaned forward as if to communicate something private and confidential.
“Don’t whisper!” he shouted, banging a ruler against the counter. “It’s against the rules.… Now then, what is it you wished to convey to me? Speak clearly and pause for your commas and semicolons.”
“It’s about the coffin,” I said.
“The coffin? Why didn’t you mention that right off? Hold on a minute, I’ll have to telegraph the dispatch master.” He went over to the machine and tapped the keys. “Got to get a special routing. Livestock and corpses take the deferred route. They spoil too quickly.… Anything in the coffin besides the body?”
“Yes sir, my wife.”
“Get the hell out of here before I call the police!” Down came the window with a bang. And then an infernal racket inside the coop, as if the new station master had run amok.
“Quick,” says Herbie, “let’s get out of here. I know a short cut, come on!” And grabbing my hand, he pulls me out by the other door, around by the water tank. “Flop down, quick,” he says, “or they’ll spy you.” We flopped in a puddle of dirty water under the tank. “Shhhhh!” says Herbie, putting his finger over my lips. “They might hear you.”
We lay there a few minutes, then Herbie got up on all fours, cautiously, looking about as if we were already trapped. “You lay here a minute and I’ll run up the ladder and see if the tank’s empty.”
“They’re nuts,” I said to myself. Suddenly I asked myself why I should be lying in that cold dirty water. Herbie called softly: “Come on up, the coast is clear. We can hide in here a while.” As I gripped the iron rungs I felt wind go through me like an icy blast. “Don’t fall in,” says Herbie, “the tank’s half-full.” I climbed to the top and hung from the inside of the tank with frozen hands. “How long do we stay this way?” I asked after a few minutes. “Not long,” says Herbie. “They’re changing the watch now. Hear ’em? George’ll be waiting for us in the caboose. He’ll have a nice warm stove going.”
It was dark when we clambered out of the tank and raced across the yard to the end of the freight train standing on the siding. I was frozen through and through. Herbie was right. As we opened the door of the caboose there was George sitting before a hot stove, warming his hands.
“Take your coat off, Hen,” he says, “and dry yourself.” Then he reaches up to a little closet and gets down a flask of whisky. “Here, take a good pull—this is dynamite.” I did as instructed, passed the flask to George who took a good swig himself, and then to little Herbie.
“Did you bring any provisions?” says George to Herbie.
“A chippie and a couple of potatoes,” says Herbie, fishing them out of his pockets.
“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 tramps,” 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 undershirt. “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 goddamned thing that comes to mind. Nobody listens anyway.”
At the 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.