As soon as the meal was over the table was cleared and a pack of greasy playing cards was produced. Herbie had to help his mother with the dishes while George, the old man and I played a three-handed game of pinochle. The idea was, as George had already explained, to throw the game to the old man, otherwise he became grouchy and surly. I seemed to draw nothing but excellent hands, which made it difficult for me to lose. But I did my best, without being too obvious about it. The old man won by a narrow margin. He was highly pleased with himself. “With your hands,” he remarked, “I would have been out in three deals.”
Before we went upstairs for the night Herbie put on a couple of Edison phonograph records. One of them was The Stars and Stripes Forever. It sounded like something from another incarnation.
“Where’s that laughing record, Herbie?” says George.
Herbie dug into an old hatbox and with two fingers dexterously extracted an old wax cylinder. It was a record I’ve never heard the like of. Nothing but laughter—the laughter of a loon, a crackpot, a hyena. I laughed so hard my stomach ached.
“That’s nothing,” says George, “wait till you hear Herbie laugh!”
“Not now!” I begged. “Save it for tomorrow.”
I no more than hit the pillow and I was sound asleep. What a bed! Nothing but soft, downy feathers—tons of them, it seemed. It was like slipping back into the womb, swinging in limbo. Bliss. Perfect bliss.
“There’s a pisspot under the bed, if you need it,” were George’s last words. But I couldn’t see myself getting out of that bed, not even to take a crap.
In my sleep I heard the maniacal laugh of the loon. It was echoed by the rusty doorknobs, the green vegetables, the wild geese, the slanting stars, the wet clothes flapping on the line. It even included Herbie’s old man, the part of him that gave way sometimes to melancholy mirth. It came from far away, deliciously off key, absurd and unreasonable. It was the laugh of aching muscles, of food passing through the midriff, of time foolishly squandered, of millions of nothings all harmoniously fitting together in the great jigsaw puzzle and making extraordinary sense, extraordinary beauty, extraordinary well-being. How fortunate that George Marshall had fallen ill and almost died! In my sleep I praised the grand cosmocrator for having arranged everything so sublimely. I slid from one dream to another, and from dream to a stonelike slumber more healing than death itself.
I awoke before the others, content, refreshed, motionless except for a pleasure waggle of the fingers. The farmyard cacophony was music to my ears. The rustling and scraping, the banging of pails, the cock-a-doodle-doo, the pitter-patter, the calls of the birds, the cackling and grunting, the squealing, the neighing and whinnying, the chug-chug of a distant locomotive, the crunch of hard snow, the slap and gust of the wind, a rusty axle turning, a log wheezing under the saw, the thud of heavy boots trudging laboriously—all combined to make a symphony familiar to my ear. These homely ancient sounds, these early morning notes born of the stir of everyday life, these calls, cackles, echoes and reverberations of the barnyard filled me with an earthling’s joy. A starveling and a changeling, I heard again the immemorial chant of early man. The old, old song—of ease and abundance, of life where you find it, of blue sky, running waters, peace and gladness, of fertility and resurrection, and life everlasting, life more abundant, life superabundant. A song that starts in the very bowels, pervades the veins, relaxes the limbs and all the members of the body. Oh, but it was indeed good to be alive—and horizontal. Fully awake, I once again gave thanks to the Heavenly Father for having stricken my twin, George Marshall. And, whilst rendering devout thanks, praising the divine works, extolling all creation, I allowed my thoughts to drift towards the breakfast which was doubtless under way and towards the long, lazy stretch of hours, minutes, seconds before the day would draw to a close. It mattered not how we filled the day, nor if we left it empty as a gourd; it mattered only that time was ours and that we could do with it as we wished.
The birds were calling more lustily now. I could hear them winging from treetop to treetop, fluttering against the windowpanes, swooshing about under the eaves of the roof.
“Morning, Hen! Morning, Hen!”
“Morning, George! Morning, Herbie!”
“Don’t get up yet, Hen … Herbie’ll make the fire first.”
“O.K. Sounds wonderful.”
“How did you sleep?”
“Like a top.”
“You see why I don’t want to get well too quick.”
“Lucky guy, you. Aren’t you glad you didn’t die?”
“Hen, I’m never going to die. I promised myself that on my deathbed. It’s just too wonderful to be alive.”
“You said it. I say, George, let’s fool them all and live forever, what?”
Herbie got up to make the fire, then crawled back into bed and began chuckling and cooing.
“What do we do now?” I asked. “Lie here till the bell rings?”
“Exactly,” said Herbie.
“I say, Hen, wait till you taste those corn muffins his mother makes. They melt in your mouth.”
“How do you like your eggs?” said Herbie. “Boiled, fried or scrambled?”
“Any old way, Herbie. Who gives a damn? Eggs are eggs. I can suck them raw too.”
“The bacon, Hen, that’s the thing. Thick as your thumb.”
Thus the second day began, to be followed by a dozen more, all of the same tenor. As I said before, we were twenty-two or three at the time, and still in our adolescence. We had nothing on our minds but play. Each day it was a new game, full of hair-raising stunts. “To take the lead,” as George had put it, was as easy as drawing one’s breath. Between times we skipped rope, threw quoits, rolled marbles, played leapfrog. We even played tag. In the toilet, which was an outhouse, we kept a chessboard on which a problem was always waiting for us. Often the three of us took a shit together. Strange conversations in that outhouse! Always some fresh titbit about George’s mother, what she had done for him, what a saint she was, and so on. Once he started to talk about God, how there must be one, since only God could have pulled him through. Herbie listened reverently—he worshiped George.
One day George drew me aside to tell me something confidential. We were to give Herbie the slip for an hour or so. There was a young country girl he wanted me to meet. We could find her down near the bridge, towards dark, with the right signal.
“She looks twenty, though she’s only a kid,” said George, as we hastened towards the spot. “A virgin, of course, but a dirty little devil. You can’t get much more than a good feel, Hen. I’ve tried everything, but it’s no go.”
Kitty was her name. It suited her. A plain-looking girl, but full of sap and curiosity. Hump for the monkeys.
“Hello,” says George, as we sidle up to her. “How’s tricks? Want you to meet a friend of mine, from the city.”
Her hand was tingling with warmth and desire. It seemed to me she was blushing, but it may have been simply the abundant health which was bursting through her cheeks.
“Give him a hug and squeeze.”
Kitty flung her arms about me and pressed her warm body tight to mine. In a moment her tongue was down my throat. She bit my lips, my ear lobes, my neck. I put my hand under her skirt and through the slit in her flannel drawers. No protest. She began to groan and murmur. Finally she had an orgasm.
“How was it, Hen? What did I tell you?”
We chatted a while to give Kitty a breathing spell, then George locked horns with her. It was cold and wet under the bridge, but the three of us were on fire. Again George tried to get it in, but Kitty managed to wriggle away.
The most he could do was to put it between her legs, where she held it like a vice.
As we were walking back towards the road Kitty asked if she couldn’t visit us sometime—when we got back to the city. She had never been to New York.
“Sure,” said George, “let Herbie bring you. He knows his way around.”
“But I won’
t have any money,” said Kitty.
“Don’t worry about that,” said big-hearted George, “we’ll take care of you.”
“Do you think your mother would trust you?” I asked.
Kitty replied that her mother didn’t give a damn what she did. “It’s the old man: he tries to work me to the bone.”
“Never mind,” said George, “leave it to me.”
In parting she lifted her dress of her own accord, and invited us to give her a last good feel.
“Maybe I won’t be so shy,” she said, “when I get to the city.” Then, impulsively, she reached into our flies, took out our cocks, and kissed them—almost reverently. “I’ll dream about you tonight,” she whispered. She was almost on the point of tears.
“See you tomorrow,” said George, and we waved goodbye.
“See what I mean, Hen? Boy, if you could get that you’d have something to remember.”
“My balls are aching.”
“Drink lots of milk and cream. That helps.”
“I think I’d rather jerk off.”
“That’s what you think now. Tomorrow you’ll be panting to see her. I know. She’s in my blood, the little bitch.… Don’t let Herbie know about this, Hen. He’d be horrified. He’s just a kid compared to her. I think he’s in love with her.”
“What will we tell him when we get back?”
“Leave that to me.”
“And her old man—don’t you ever think of that?”
“You said it, Hen. If he ever caught us I think he’d cut our balls off.”
“That’s cheering.”
“You’ve got to take a chance,” said George. “Here in the country all the gals are dying for it. They’re much better than city tripe, you know that. They smell clean. Here, smell my fingers—ain’t that delicious?”
Childish amusements.… One of the funniest things was taking turns riding an old tricycle which had belonged to Herbie’s dead sister. To see George Marshall, a grown man, pushing the pedals of that ridiculous vehicle was a sight for sore eyes. His fanny was so big he had to be squeezed into the seat with might and main. Steering with one hand, he energetically rang a cowbell with the other. Now and then a car stopped, thinking he was a cripple in trouble: George would allow the occupants to get out and escort him to the other side of the road, pretending that he was indeed a paralytic. Sometimes he would bum a cigarette or demand a few pennies. Always in a strong Irish brogue, as if he had just arrived from the old country.
One day I espied an old baby carriage in the barn. It struck me that it would be still funnier if we took George Marshall out for a walk in that. George didn’t give a shit. We got a bonnet with ribbons and a big horse blanket to cover him. But try as we would, we couldn’t get him into the carriage. So Herbie was elected. We dressed him up like a kewpie doll, stuck a clay pipe in his mouth, and started down the road. At the station we ran into an elderly spinster waiting for the train. As usual, George took the lead.
“I say, Ma’am,” touching his cap, “but would you be tellin’ us where we might get a little nip? The boy’s almost frozen.”
“Dear me,” said the spinster automatically. Then suddenly getting the drift of his words, she squeaked: “What’s that you said, young man?”
Again George touched his cap respectfully, pursing his lips and squinting like an old spaniel. “Just a wee nip, that’s all. He’s nigh on to eleven but it’s a terrible thirst he has.”
Herbie was sitting up now, puffing vigorously at the short clay pipe. He looked like a gnome.
At this point I felt like taking the lead myself. The spinster had a look of alarm which I didn’t like.
“I beg pardon, Ma’am,” said I, touching my cap, “but the two of them are dotty. You know.…” I tapped my skull.
“Dear me, dear me,” she wheezed, “how perfectly dreadful.”
“I do my best to keep them in good spirits. They’re quite a trial. Quite. Especially the little one. Would you like to hear him laugh?”
Without giving her a chance to answer, I beckoned Herbie to go to it. Herbie’s laugh was really insane. He did it like a ventriloquist’s dummy, beginning with an innocent little smile which slowly broadened into a grin, then a chuckle and a cooing followed by a low gurgling, and finally a belly laugh which was irresistible. He could keep it up indefinitely. With the pipe in one hand and the rattle which he waved frantically in the other, he was a picture out of a Swiss joke book. Every now and then he paused to hiccup violently, then leaned over the side of the carriage and spat. To make the situation still more ludicrous, George Marshall had taken to sneezing. Pulling out a large red handkerchief with huge holes in it, he vigorously blew his nose, then coughed, then sneezed some more.
“The tantrums,” I said, turning to the spinster. “There’s no harm they be doing. Wonderful boys, the two of ’em—except they be queer.” Then, on the impulse, I added: “Fact is, Ma’am,” touching my cap reverently, “we’re all screwballs. You wouldn’t know where we might stop for the night, seein’ the condition we’re in? If only you had a drop of brandy—just a thimbleful. Not for meself, you understand, but for the little ones.”
Herbie broke into a crying fit. He was so gleefully hysterical he didn’t know what he was doing. He waved the rattle so assiduously that suddenly he lurched too far and the carriage tipped over.
“Goodness gracious, goodness gracious!” wailed the spinster.
George quickly pulled Herbie loose. The latter now stood up, in his jacket and long pants, the bonnet still wreathed around his head. He clutched the rattle like a maniac. Goofy was no word for it.
Says George, touching his cap, “No hurt, Ma’am. He’s got a thick skull.” He takes Herbie by the arm and pulls him close. “Say something to the lady! Say something nice!” And he gives him a god-awful box on the ears.
“You bastard!” yells Herbie.
“Naughty, naughty!” says George, giving him another cuff. “What do you say to ladies? Speak up now, or I’ll have to take your pants down.”
Herbie now assumed an angelic expression, raised his eyes heavenward, and with great deliberation, delivered himself thus:
“Gentle creature of God, may the angels deliver you! There are nine of us in all, not counting the goat. My name is O’Connell, Ma’am. Terence O’Connell, we were going to Niagara Falls, but the weather.…”
The old cluck refused to hear any more. “You’re a public disgrace, the three of you,” she cried. “Now stay here, all of you, while I look for the constable.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” says George, touching his cap, “we’ll stay right here, won’t we, Terence?” With this he gives Herbie a sound slap in the face.
“Ouch!” yells Herbie.
“Stop that, you fool!” screams the spinster. “And you!” she says to me, “why don’t you do something? Or are you crazy too?”
“That I am,” says I, and so saying, I put my fingers to my nose and began bleating like a nanny goat.
“Stay right here! I’ll be back in a minute!” She ran towards the station master’s office.
“Quick!” says George, “let’s get the hell out of here!” The two of us grabbed the handle of the baby carriage and started running. Herbie stood there a moment, unfastening his bonnet; then he too took to his heels.
“Good work, Herbie,” said George, when we got safely out of sight. “Let’s rehearse this tonight. Hen’ll give you a new spiel, won’t you Hen?”
“I don’t want to be the baby any more,” said Herbie.
“All right,” said George amiably, “we’ll let Hen ride in the carriage.”
“If I can squeeze in, you mean.”
“We’ll squeeze you in, if we have to use a sledge hammer.”
But after dinner that night we got new ideas, better ones, we thought. We lay awake till midnight discussing plans and projects.
Just as we were dozing off, George Marshall suddenly sat up.
“Are you awake, Hen?” he says.
I groaned.
“There’s something I forgot to ask you.”
“What’s that?” I mumbled, fearing to wake myself up.
“Una … Una Gifford! You haven’t said a word about her all this time. What’s the matter, aren’t you in love with her any more?”
“Jesus!” I groaned, “what a thing to ask me in the middle of the night.”
“I know, Hen, I’m sorry. I just want to know if you still love her.”
“You know the answer,” I replied.
“Good, I thought so. O.K., Hen, good night!”
“Good night!” said Herbie.
“Good night!” said I.
I tried to fall back to sleep but it was impossible. I lay there staring at the ceiling and thinking of Una Gifford. After a while I decided to get it out of my system.
“Are you still awake, George?” I called softly.
“You want to know if I saw her lately, don’t you?” he said.
He hadn’t closed his eyes, obviously.
“Yeah, I would. Tell me anything. Any little crumb will do.”
“I wish I could, Hen, I know how you feel, but there just isn’t anything to tell.”
“Christ, don’t say that! Make up something!”
“All right, Hen, I’ll do that for you. Hold on a minute. Let me think.…”
“Something simple,” I said. “I don’t want a fantastic story.”
“Listen, Hen, this is no lie: I know she loves you. I can’t explain how I know, but I do.”
“That’s good,” I said. “Tell me a little more.”
“The last time I saw her I tried to pump her about you. She pretended to be absolutely indifferent. But I could tell she was dying to hear about you.…”