I started the crummy and headed off to the boat at the bottom of the hill, trying to get the memory straight. The whole conversation started coming back to me, clear as a bell; I
still
wasn’t sure right then whether it had really happened or was just a dream, but, real or a dream, I could remember it damn near word for word.
It was from Willard Eggleston, the little gink who used to run the laundry. He was all keyed up and excited and so screwy-sounding I thought at first he was actually drunk. I was still about nine-tenths asleep and he was trying to tell me some story about him and the colored girl that used to work for him, and about their child—this was what made me think he was drunk—about the
child
the two of them had had. I just listened for a while, polite, like I did with the other calls, but after he rambled on long enough I began to see this wasn’t
like
the others; I began to see he wasn’t just calling to give me a hard time, that there was something else on his mind behind all of his rambling and roaming talk. I let him go on; pretty soon he drew a long breath and said, “That’s the story, Mr. Stamper; just like it happened. Every bit the truth, I don’t care what you think.” I said, “All right, Willard, I’ll go along with you, but—” “Every word of it the Lord’s pure truth. I know, I
personally
know, so I don’t care if you go along with me or not—” “All right, all right; but you had more on your mind when you called than telling me how proud you are to be able to sire yourself a pickaninny—” “A boy, Mr. Stamper, a
son!
and not just
sire
him; I was able to pay for his way in the world like a man should for his son—” “Okay, have it your way: a son, but—” “—until you went and made it impossible for a fellow to make profit enough to pay for the overhead—” “I might hafta be
showed
just exactly how I did that, Willard, but for the sake of argument—” “You’ve all but bankrupted the
whole town
; do you need to be showed that?” “All I need is just for you to get on around to what you had on your mind when—” “I’m doing exactly that, Mr. Stamper—” “—because there’s a lot of other anonymous callers these days waitin’ their turn at me; I don’t want to tie up the line too long with
one
when so many—” “I am not anonymous, Mr. Stamper; I want you to be sure of that; this is Eggleston, Willard—” “Eggleston; all right, Willard, now just what is it you had to tell me—other’n your secret loves—at, ah, twelve-twenty-two in the morning?” “Just this, Mr. Stamper: I’m on my way this very moment to kill myself. Ah? No wise comment? This wasn’t what you expected, I’ll bet? Not from Willard Eggleston, I’ll bet? But it’s as true as I’m standing here. You’ll see. No, don’t try to stop me. And don’t try to phone the police, because they couldn’t reach the place before I do anyway, and if you phoned they would know I phoned you, wouldn’t they? And that I phoned to tell you it was your fault that I was forced into—” “Forced? Willard, now listen—” “Yes,
forced
, Mr. Stamper. You see, I have a very large policy with double indemnity in case of violent death, naming as beneficiary my son. Of course, until he’s twenty-one it will—” “Willard, those companies don’t pay on suicide!” “That’s why I can’t have you telling anyone, Mr. Stamper. You see now? I am dying for my son. I’ve arranged everything to look like an accident. But if you were to—” “Willard, you know what I think?” “—to
tell
anyone about this phone call then I would have died in vain, wouldn’t that be true? And your guilt would then be doubled—” “I think that you been seeing too many of your own movies.” “No, Mr. Stamper! You wait! I know you people think that I’m totally without courage, that I’m just ‘that spineless Willard Eggleston.’ But
you’ll
see. Oh yes. And don’t bother trying to stop me, my mind is made up.” “I ain’t trying to stop you from anything, Willard.” “You’ll see
tomorrow
; oh yes, you’ll see what kind of spine—” “I ain’t trying to stop anybody from anything, but you know, that looks to me like a pretty poor excuse for spine as far as I’m concerned—” “It’s no use trying to talk me out of it.” “What I’d call a man with spine is a man able to pay for his kid by
living
for him, no matter how hard it comes—” “I’m sorry, sorry, but you’re just wasting your breath.” “—
not
by dying for him. That’s a lot of crap, Willard, dying for somebody.” “Just whistling at the wind, Mr. Stamper.” “That’s the one thing that everybody in the world can do, ain’t it, Willard? is die . . . living is the hassle.” “No use, Mr. Stamper, not the slightest. I’ve made my decision.” “Well, good luck, then, Willard. . . .” “There’s no way anyone can—what” “I said ‘Good luck.’ ” “Good luck? Good luck? Then you don’t believe I’m going to do it!” “Yeah . . . I think I do; I think I probably do. But I’m tired, and not thinking too sharp, and ‘good luck’ is about the best I can offer.” “The best you can offer? Good luck? To someone who—” “Christ almighty, Willard; you want me to read you a page of scripture or something? ‘Good luck’ seems as good as anything in your case; it’s better than ‘Have fun.’ Or ‘Bon voyage.’ Or ‘Sweet dreams.’ Or just plain old ‘Good-by.’ Let’s leave it like that, Willard: Good luck, and I’ll toss in the good-by for good measure . . . okeydoke?” “But I haven’t—” “I got to try to get some sleep, Willard. So, with all my heart, good luck—” “—completely finished telling—” “—and good-by.”
“Stamper!” Willard hears the phone buzz in his ear. “Wait, please. . . .” He stands in the booth, surrounded by his three dimly lit reflections, listening to that electric hum. This isn’t the way he planned it; not at all. He wonders if he should call back,
make
the man understand! But he knows calling back won’t do any good because the man obviously does believe his story, whether he understands completely or not. Yes. There is every indication that he believes him. But . . . no evidence at all that he was
concerned
; not even the
slightest!
Willard returns the receiver back to its black cradle. The phone thanks him for his dime with a polite clatter as it drops the coin from the points into the box. Willard stares at the phone for a long time, not thinking of anything at all; until his breathing fogs the images from the glass walls and his feet and calves go to sleep.
Back in his car he starts the motor and turns up Necanicum Street toward the coastal highway, driving slowly through the twisting rain. The enthusiasm he felt at his house is all but gone. The anticipation dampened, the adventure of the night blunted. By that man’s cruel indifference. How could the devil not care? How could he have the heart to not care even the slightest? How could he have the
right!
He reaches the highway and turns north, traveling along the edge of the dunes in a gradual rise toward the palisades where the Wakonda lighthouse stirs the thickening sky. The muffled cadence of the surf to his left annoys him and he turns on the radio to drown it out, but it is too late to pick up local stations and the terrain is becoming too hilly to pick up Eugene or Portland; he switches it off. He continues to rise, following the flicker of white guardposts that line the cliff side of the highway; he is too high now to hear the surf, but a feeling of annoyance continues to nag at him. . . . That Hank Stamper and his talk about spine; what kind of way is that for a man to react to such a desperate phone call, just brushing it off with a good luck and good-by? . . . What gave him the
right?
By the time he reaches the stone-fenced view point near the top his chin is quivering, and by the time he is approaching the turn the hot-rod crowd calls Bustass Curve, his whole body is quaking with grim outrage. He drives on past the turn. He has half a mind to go back and make another call, by golly! Even if the man doesn’t understand completely, he has no right to be so heartless. Not when he is so much to
blame!
him and the rest of that bunch. No! No, he certainly does not!
Willard pulls into the drive that leads off to the lighthouse, and backs out, turning around. Fuming with indignation, he heads back toward town. No, by golly; no right! Hank Stamper is no better than anybody else! I have every bit as much spine as he does! And I will prove it! To him! And Jelly! And everybody! Yes I will! And I’ll do everything possible to help drag him off his high horse! Yes I will! I promise, I
swear
I will . . .
And, hissing down from the palisades along the wet, winding pavement, swollen with anger and determination and life, Willard goes into a slide on the very turn he had picked weeks before, and unintentionally keeps both his appointment and his promise. . . .
“Oh . . . heard tell over the news, I did . . . you recollect that puny little drink of water owned the laundry till he took over the picture show a year or so back? Willard Eggleston? Well sir, they scraped his carcass offn the rocks out by Wakonda Head this mornin’. Slammed through the guard rail, he did, sometime last night.”
The old man followed this piece of information with a loud belch and returned to the less spectacular gossip about the townspeople’s trials and tribulations. He hadn’t expected any of us to pay the news much attention; the man was too vague an entity to concern any of us. Even Joe, who usually could be counted on for elaboration about any of the local citizenry, admitted that he knew about as much about the unfortunate carcass as I did: that the little man sold tickets to the movies and had displayed about as much life as did an arcade fortune-telling dummy in his little glass case. Nobody knew much about him. . . .
Yet the news of this lifeless thing’s death doubled Brother Hank over like a cannonball to the stomach, producing sudden coughing and a sheet-white face.
Joe’s immediate diagnosis was “Bone in the throat! Bone stuck in the throat!” and he was out of the chair like a shot and banging away at Hank’s back before any of the rest of us even had time to suggest a cure. The old man’s opinion was “Leave off poundin’ on him, for god’s sake . . . all he’s doin’ is gettin’ set to sneeze”—and he held his snuff can in front of Hank’s mouth as though the snuff might coax the reluctant sneeze forth with its aroma. Hank pushed both Joe and the can away.
“Damn!” he declared. “I’m not trying to choke or sneeze, neither one! I’m all right. I just had a tinge in my back is all, but Joe beat it to death.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Viv asked. “What do you mean, a tinge?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” He insisted he was perfectly all right and, much to my disappointment, neglected to answer her second question (I would have enjoyed knowing what a “tinge” was myself), choosing instead to get up from the table and stride across to the refrigerator. “Don’t we have a can of cold beer on the place?”
“Don’t have a can of no kind of beer.” The old man shook his head. “Not beer, wine, nor whisky, an’ I’m drastic low on snuff, by god, if you want to hear some
real
tragic news.”
“What’s the matter? I thought we had a standin’ order at Stokes’s?”
“I guess you ain’t heard,” Jan said. “Henry’s old friend Stokes has cut us off. Stopped delivery.”
“Friend? That ol’ spook? Shoot, I ain’t no more friend to that—”
“Stopped delivery? How come?”
“He said it was because there wasn’t any other stops out this way for his delivery truck to make,” Jan answered from beneath her eyelids. “But the real reason is—”
Hank slammed the refrigerator door. “Yeah; his
real
reason is . . .” He picked up the clock from the stove and looked at it; everyone waited for him to go on; even the kids had stoped eating and were exchanging the scared glances kids exchange when the
big folks
is actin’ funny. But Hank decided not to go into real reasons: “I think I’ll go on up and hit the sack,” he said, putting the clock back.
“An’ miss
Wells Fargo?
” Squeaky asked incredulously, lifting an eyebrow. “You don’t ever miss
Wells Fargo
, Hank.”
“Dale Robertson’ll have to handle
Wells Fargo
without me tonight, Squeaks.”
The little girl pursed her lips and lifted both eyebrows at that; oh boy, the big folks was
really
actin’ funny tonight.
Before he left the kitchen Viv hurried across to feel his forehead, but he said all he needed was a decent night’s little sleep without phone calls, not a head rub, and clumped on up the stairs in his boots. Viv looked after him, worried and wordless.
And her worry and wordlessness worried me. Especially the wordlessness, in view of Hank’s footwear: it was as unusual for cork boots to pass the first step without Viv’s calling out, “Boots,” as it was for Dale Robertson to ride the
Wells Fargo
stage without Hank sitting glued to the TV set with Squeaky on his lap. I couldn’t understand my brother’s funny actin’ any more than Squeaky could (I did know, however, that it was no more brought on by a mere lack of sleep than by bone in the throat; his reaction to the theater-owner’s death was so classic a reaction to bad news that he might have taught Macduff a thing or two) but I was very quick to pick up on Viv’s concern.
“He’s more a man than I am,” I said with grudging good nature, “because I certainly could use a head rub.”
She seemed not to hear.
“Yes. I admire the man his health. . . .” I stood up, groaning. “He was able to make it up those stairs, at least.”
“You going up to bed too, Lee?” she asked, turning at last to me.
“Going to attempt it. Everybody wish me luck.”
She was looking back at the stairwell again. “I’ll drop around to your room in a bit,” she said absently, and added, “I wish I could find that thermometer.”
So, with mysterious WATCH OUT still echoing in my head, I vowed that the time had come. Tomorrow was V-day, without fail. And if I could not understand the qualms I felt, I could nevertheless still understand that a dilution of Viv’s concern was in the offing unless I moved quickly. I could still understand that if one is to alter iron at all he’d best strike while that iron is still hot. I didn’t need a thermometer for that. . . .