Twisted Ones (11 page)

REGINALD WHITTIER

“I’ll be right with you,” said Laura Lee Whittier. “I just have to serve a ham and eggs at Number 3.”

In the diner, the television set was on. There were half-a-dozen people at the counter, lingering over coffee and hamburgers, waiting for Cash-Answer to begin.

Reginald Whittier walked to a booth in the rear. Laura had gotten the job here two days ago, the same day the doctor had verified her pregnancy. Yesterday morning, there had been further verification. Seeing his wife sick like that had made Reggie ill himself. Laura had borrowed some Alka-Seltzer from the landlady and fixed it for him before she went off to work.

“Just take it easy,” she told him. “You’ll feel better. Just rest awhile—and honey, rest in the bed. Not on the floor. After all, I can’t bite you or anything. I’ll be at work.”

“I’m going to find work too,” he said. “I’ll have a job by the time I pick you up tonight.”

Reggie sat down in the booth and lit a cigarette. He inhaled the smoke, thinking of the way she had taught him to do that, thinking of all the patience she had, only vaguely interested in the face of the eight-year-old on the television screen, or the voice of the quizmaster.

“Back tonight for his fourth appearance on CASH-ANSWER is young, eight-year-old Charles Berrey, from Reddton, New Jersey!”

Laura appeared with a cup of coffee, setting it in front of him, sitting down beside him.

“I can’t stay along,” she said, “but you can watch the television. I’ll only be another half-hour.”

“Has it been busy?”

“Murder! Jeez!”

“I’m sorry about flaring up earlier, Laur. I didn’t mean to.”

“Aw, honey, you’re just nervous. It made me nervous to job-hunt too.”

“I really tried today, Laur. I just can’t seem to get anywhere.”

“It’s hard without experience.”

“I start stuttering. I
know
that’s it. I can’t get a word out.”

“If you’d only let me teach you how to carry a tray, Reg. Honestly, it’s the simplest thing in the world. You just get the palm of your right hand smack under the middle of the tray, see, and—“

“I can’t be a waiter, Laura! It isn’t carrying the trays that bothers me. I just can’t do that work. Sales or something. I could do what I did at Whittier’s Wheel.”

“Which was
what,
exactly?”
“You
know!”

“Reggie, I’m not hopping on you or anything, but there just aren’t jobs like that. Now if you could wait table or something, you could make up experience. And you could start right away.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“You just can’t
think
of something. You have to
do
something.”

“I know it! I know that!”

“Oh gosh, there’s Number 3 looking for me … Don’t worry, honey,” she said standing up, “it’ll work out.”

“I hope so.”

“Hey, here’s the letter from my mom.” She reached in her pocket and handed it to him. “Read it. I’ll be back in a sec.”

Reggie took another drag from his cigarette and removed the letter from the envelope. He sipped the coffee and began reading:

Reggie squashed out the cigarette in the ashtray and shoved the letter in his pocket. Still no word from
his
mother. It was too early. He had only mailed the postcard yesterday, but it was strange she had done nothing to find him. She would only have to report the car’s theft, if she had really wanted to locate him. Could there be anything wrong? Could she be ill or anything? He thought of the letter Laura’s mother had sent her, and of what his own mother would have said about it. Tobacco Road. Itinerant workers. Showed up, all right…. He didn’t mean that. He didn’t want to think things like that. It was just that everything was so different now. Here he was married, with a pregnant wife who wanted him to be a waiter, and the two of them living in a tourist home. He had to come to a diner to watch television. He wondered vaguely if his mother were watching Cash-Answer now, if she were seeing the same thing he saw on the big television set up front—the kid going into the Contemplation Chamber, the camera moving in for a close-up of him with the earphones over his head. He looked like a little bug.

Laura was back. She squeezed in beside him. “Did you like mom’s letter, Reggie?”

“Yes,” he said.

“She’s awful nice about everything, isn’t she?”

“Sure, I suppose so.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Wait until she finds out you’re pregnant.”

“I’m not going to tell her. At least not yet. I’ll just wait awhile, and then tell her. She won’t even know the difference.”

“She can count, can’t she, Laur?”

“Lots of people have premature babies.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Sure, honey. The period of gestation differs with women.”

“Gestation, ovulation—you know all
those
big words.”

“A girl has to. I read up in medical books.”

“Okay! Okay!”

“Why do you get so touchy when I talk about it?”

“Laur, you don’t have to talk about it all the time. That’s all.”

“I hardly ever talk about it.”

“You’ve been talking about it for months. All about taking your temperature, and ovulation—that’s all you’ve been talking about.”

“Oh, come on, Reggie! Gee, that just
isn’t
true—”

“Listen!” he said, “The quiz kid’s on.”

“I hardly ever talk about it,” she said.

They sat there side by side in Mac’s Diner, staring up at the television screen. Reggie lit another cigarette and sat back with a sigh.

“… have only one chance to identify these American butterflies, Chuck, so be careful not to blurt out your answers too quickly. Take your time. Study the pictures in front of you. And for $52,000, tell me the answers to this question. Can you hear me all right, Chuck?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, Jackie.”

“About sixty species make up the nymphs and satyrs. About two thousand species make up the coppers and blues. The largest species—the swallowtails—have over twenty species native to America. Using the pictures you are holding in your hands, name the butterfly family, the species, and the locale where this species is most commonly found in the United States. Do you understand the question, Chuck?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Start with picture Number 1.”

“That’s a common wood nymph. From the South and Southwestern parts of the United States.”

“That’s correct for Number 1.”

“I’m sorry,” said Reggie Whittier to his wife. “Maybe you
don’t
talk about it all the time.”

“You’re nice, Reggie. Do you know that?”

“I don’t like to pick on you all the time, Laura.”

“I don’t mind. When you apologize like that, I want to cry or something.”

“This kid knows plenty, doesn’t he?”

“I mean it, Reggie. I think you’re a swell husband.”

“Thanks.”

“Picture Number 4, now, Chuck. Do you have it?”

“Yes.”

“Take as much time as you can, Chuck.”

“Number 4 is a blue. A pigmy blue. Common to the West.”

“Right again, Chuck. Now, Number 5.”

“Oh, oh, someone wants their check. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, Laur.”

“Don’t go away,” she said. “I’ll only be a sec.”

“Would you repeat that, Chuck. Number 5 is what?”

“He’s a tiger swallowtail.”

“Chuck—Chuck, I’m sorry fellow. I’m sorry, Chuck. Gee, this is too bad, fellow. It says here on my card that Number 5 is a zebra swallowtail, fellow.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Gosh, Chuck, I’m the guy who’s sorry. All perfect answers but Number 5. I guess that’s it, Chuck. You want to step out of the Contemplation Chamber, please?”

Some of the people at the counter groaned.

The studio audience applauded wildly as the eight-year-old on the television screen came out of the booth.

A woman in front of Reginald Whittier said, “That doesn’t seem fair! He knew all but one!”

Another woman shushed her.

“Well, Chuck, you don’t go home empty-handed. You still get all 32 volumes of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That was a rough deal, wasn’t it, Chuck. But now there’ll be more time for baseball.”

“Yes, there will be.”

“Still going to be a ballplayer when you grow up?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, Chuck, no one here doubts that whatever you decide to be, you’ll be good at it.”

“Thank you.”

“How about that, folks?”

The studio audience applauded a second time. So did the lady sitting at the booth in front of Reggie Whittier.

Now the quizmaster was welcoming another contestant. A minister, whose category was famous hymns.

“I just have to get my apron off, Reg,” Laura said as she passed by. “I’ll only be a sec.”

It was beginning to get on his nerves the way she always said “a sec.” He wondered why he was sitting there kidding himself. It would never work out. Nothing ever had. Everything he had tried to do on his own, from the Boy Scout Jamboree when he was thirteen to
this
, had been a huge flop. He thought of the way he had cut his face shaving that morning. He had been standing there in the room at the tourist home looking into the mirror, and in the mirror’s reflection, he had seen Laura’s things again, hanging up all over the place; hanging up to dry—stockings and the panties she had bought yesterday from her advance in salary, and the slip. She had gone to work.

“I just won’t wear a slip,” she had said before she left. “I’m not going to spend good money on a new slip, and this one’s not dry. I have to buy a new garter belt, though. The elastic’s gone on the one I’m wearing.”

He hadn’t wanted to hear all that. Why did she have to talk about it all the time? Through all the years of living with his mother, he had never once heard her mention anything about her underclothing.

He stood there shaving, thinking about it, and he cut his upper lip.

Now, he was smoking all the time too. One right after the other. He ground out his cigarette and finished his coffee.

“All right, Reverend Handson, for $44,000 answer this question. A famous hymn will play in just one second. You are to give me the name of the hymn, the name of the man who wrote words of the hymn, the year he wrote the hymn, the name of a novel he wrote, and the name of the man who wrote the music of this hymn.”

“I’m ready, Mr. Paul.”

“Listen carefully to this famous hymn!”

When the music began, the woman in the booth in front of Reggie said, “Why, that’s easy! Who doesn’t know that hymn?”

“Sure, but who wrote it, smarty?” another woman in the diner said, “and what year? Hah?”

The sound of the martial music filled the diner.

Reggie began to tremble. He noticed his hands shake as he reached for the cup of coffee in front of him. The cup was empty.

He wanted to get out of there suddenly, away from the sound of the music. He sat frozen, wanting to go, unable to move.

Then he heard Laura’s voice behind him. “Hey, Reggie. Your mother wants you!”

He whirled around, “What? What?”

She was laughing at him. “That’s her signal, isn’t it, honey?”

He wanted to hit her. He wanted to slap her face for saying that. He got up and stood there, facing her.

“What’s the matter?” she said.

People were watching them. Reggie could feel their eyes on him.

His face was hot and red. He wanted to shout at her to be quiet.

“I was making a joke,” she said, “You know how your mother always played that—”

He raised his fist. He shook it at her. “You just sh-sh-sh-sh—” He couldn’t get the words out. Again, he tried, “Sh-sh-sh—”

Laura simply stood there with that hurt expression in her eyes.

Then someone else said the words he couldn’t say. The woman in front of Reggie. He stared at her.

“You shut up,” she said. “You just shut up and listen!”

Reginald Whittier sat back down in the booth. He put his head in the cradle of his arms, on the table. Goose bumps came out all over him. He began to shake, without crying.

Sabine Baring-Gould wrote that hymn, Mr. Paul, in the year 1865. Sir Arthur Sullivan set it to music. Sabine Baring-Gould also wrote a novel called The Broom Squire. I guess there’s not a living soul who doesn’t know that the name of that hymn is “Onward, Christian Soldiers.”

Then there were bells ringing and there was the thunder of applause. Reggie looked up at the television set while the drums beat, and the lights on the Contemplation Chamber blinked on and off.

“Sh-sh-sh-shut up!” Reggie Whittier whispered, and the tears started streaming down his face.

CHARLES BERREY

Before they got into the elevator at International Broadcasting Company, Evelyn Berrey said: “Leave him alone, Howard!”

“I’d just like an answer to my question, Evelyn. This is
one
question the boy can answer. Now how about it, Chuck?”

“The elevator’s here now. Ask him, later.”

“Chuck?” said Howard Berrey, “Are you going to answer me?”

“Here,
dad?” Did his father want him to say it right in front of his mother?

“Yes, here.”

“All right, dad. I
was
spoofing.”

“I knew it! I knew it!”

“Chuckles, are you serious?”

The elevator boy shouted: “Down! Down car!”

“Anyone knows a zebra swallowtail,” said Charles Berrey.

He looked up at his father and smiled broadly.

“You damn little brat!” said his father between his teeth, “You goddam little brat!” He caught a hold of the boy’s collar and shoved him toward the elevator.

“Be careful, Howard!” said Evelyn Berrey. “Don’t lose your temper here. Don’t talk in the elevator!”

The elevator boy touched his finger to his cap.

“Hi, folks. Tough luck, Chuck. Better luck next time.”

“Thank you,” said Charles Berrey.

His father looked down at him with angry eyes. Under his breath, he said: “Only there won’t
be
a next time.”

“I thought it would be all right, dad. I thought—”

“Chuckles,” his mother interrupted him. “Button up your coat, and wait until we’re in the car if you have anything to tell your father.”

“Yes, Chuckles,” said his father, with that mocking tone of mimicry, “button up your lip
too,
for now!”

Charles Berrey saw his mother shove her elbow in his father’s side. The elevator was zooming down to the first floor of I.B.C. Charles could feel it in his ears. They felt as though they would pop. He stood between his parents nervously, while no one said another thing.

On one, the elevator doors shot open.

“Goodnight, folks.”

Charles turned around to wave at the elevator boy, but his mother grabbed his hand, and yanked him along a few steps ahead of his father.

“Chuckles, your father is very, very angry!”

“I thought it would be all right. I thought he—”

“Don’t hang to your
mother’s
skirts,” said Howard Berrey as he caught up with them. “We’ll just have a little ‘confab’ about this, mister! Later!”

“It was a silly thing to do, Chuckles. All that money.”

“I have to work ten years to make that much money!” said his father, “and you just throw it away!”

As they approached the entranceway of I.B.C., half-a-dozen reporters stood waiting.

“Give us a big smile, Chuck!” said one, as the flash bulb on his Graflex sparked.

Howard Berrey said, “We have no comment.”

“How about that, Chuck?” another reporter asked.

“Please,” said Mrs. Berrey, “Chuckles is tired.”

“Is that your pet name for him, Mrs. Berrey?”

“Did the boy have a temporary lapse of memory, or was it a real miss?”

“Mr. Berrey, are you glad the ordeal is over?”

The reporters stood in a circle around the Berrey’s. More flash bulbs exploded, and more questions were fired at the trio.

Suddenly, Howard Berrey shoved his son in front of him.

“Go ahead, Chuck. Tell them.”

Charles Berrey said, “I knew it was a zebra swallowtail.”

“He knew the answer,” said Evelyn Berrey.

The reporter with the Graflex said, “Didn’t they give you enough time, Chuck? Did you feel pressed for time?”

“No,” said Charles Berrey. “I knew instantly.”

“Tell them, Chuck,” said Howard Berrey.

Charles Berrey’s lips were trembling now.

“What do you mean you knew instantly?” said another reporter. “Were you just nervous?”

“Answer them, Chuck!” his father demanded.

“Howard! After all—” said Evelyn Berrey.

“Chuck, did you
hear
me?”

“I was—I was spoofing,” said Charles Berrey.

“You mean that you knew the answer, and gave the wrong answer?”

“Yes, sir,” he told the reporter. “Anyone knows a zebra swallowtail.”

Another flash bulb exploded.

“Why?” said a reporter.

“Why did you give the wrong answer, Chuck?”

“Are you spoofing now, Chuck?” said the man with the Graflex.

“Why?” the first reporter repeated his question.

Charles Berrey stood there in front of his father, biting his lip and staring up at them.

“Do you know why you did it, Chuck?”

“Why, Chuck?”

“Did anyone tell you to do it, Chuck? Was it fixed?”

“Why, Chuck?”

“Why, boy?”

Howard Berrey grabbed his son’s arm. “No comment,” he said.

“We just want some peace,” said Evelyn Berrey.

“Do you believe your son?” asked the man with the Graflex. “Mr. Berrey, do you believe your son was spoofing?”

Howard Berrey turned and glared at the reporter. “You’re goddam right I believe him!” he said.

Then he yanked Charles by the arm and pushed his way through the revolving door.

Momentarily, Evelyn Berrey lingered before the reporters.

“What about it, Mrs. Berrey?”

“Do you believe him too, Mrs. Berrey?”

“Chuckles didn’t mean to do it. I don’t even think he realized what he was doing,” she mumbled. “You see, it was sort of a game to him.”

“Are you mad at him, Mrs. Berrey? Are you and your husband mad at him?”

But she didn’t answer. She pushed her way through the revolving door with the dazed expression of somebody who had just lost a fortune and wasn’t yet able to quite believe it.