In One Person

“Oh, I’m so sorry—I’ve had too much to drink, and I forgot there were young people here!” Helena blurted out.

“Don’t you worry, dear,” Uncle Bob told Gerry’s new girlfriend; I could tell Bob liked Helena, who was not at all similar to a long list of Gerry’s previous girlfriends. “These kids are from another country, another culture; the things we talk about in this country are not necessarily topics for conversation in Korea,” the Racquet Man painfully explained.

“Oh, crap!” Gerry cried. “Just try another fucking word!” Gerry turned to Su Min and Dong Hee, who were still very much in the dark as far as the vagina word was concerned. “It’s a twat, a snatch, a quim, a pussy, a muff, a honeypot—it’s a cunt, for Christ’s sake!” Gerry cried, the cunt word making Elaine (and even Larry) flinch.

“They get it, Gerry—please,” Uncle Bob said.

Indeed, the Korean girls had turned the color of a clean sheet of unlined paper; the Japanese kid had kept up, for the most part, although both “muff” and “honeypot” had surprised him.

“Is there a picture of it somewhere, Bill—if not in the encyclopedia?” Larry asked mischievously.

“Before I forget it, Bill,” Richard Abbott interjected—I could tell Richard was tactfully trying to drop the vagina subject—“what about the Mossberg?”

“The what?” Fumi asked, in a frightened voice; if the muff and honeypot vulgarisms for vagina had thrown him, the Japanese boy had never heard the Mossberg word before.

“What about it?” I asked Richard.

“Shall we auction it off with the furniture, Bill? You don’t want to keep that old carbine, do you?”

“I’ll hang on to the Mossberg, Richard,” I told him. “I’ll keep the ammunition, too—if I ever live here, it makes sense to have a varmint gun around.”

“You’re in town, Billy,” Uncle Bob pointed out, about the River Street house. “You’re not supposed to shoot in town—not even varmints.”

“Grandpa Harry loved that gun,” I said.

“He loved his wife’s clothes, too, Billy,” Elaine said. “Are you going to keep her clothes around?”

“I don’t see you becoming a deer hunter, Bill,” Richard Abbott said. “Even if you do decide to live here.” But I wanted that Mossberg .30-30—they could all see that.

“What do you want a gun for, Bill?” Larry asked me.

“I know you’re not opposed to trying to keep a secret, Billy,” Elaine told me. “You’re just not any good at keeping secrets.”

Elaine had not kept many secrets from me, but if she had a secret, she knew how to keep it; I could never very successfully keep a secret, even when I wanted to keep one.

I could see that Elaine knew why I wanted to hang on to that Mossberg .30-30. Larry knew, too; he was looking at me with a hurt expression—as if he were saying (without actually saying it), “How can you conceive of not letting me take care of you—how can you not die in my arms, if you’re ever dying? How can you even imagine sneaking off and shooting yourself, if you get sick?” (That’s what Larry’s look said, without the words.)

Elaine was giving me the same hurt look as Larry.

“Whatever you want, Bill,” Richard Abbott said; Richard looked hurt, too—even Mrs. Hadley seemed disappointed in me.

Only Gerry and Helena had stopped paying attention; they were touching each other under the table. The vagina conversation seemed to have distracted them from what remained of our Thanksgiving dinner. The Korean girls were once more whispering in Korean; the lonely-looking Fumi was writing something down in a notebook not much bigger than the palm of his hand. (Maybe the Mossberg word, so he could use it in the next all-male dormitory conversation—such as, “I would really like to get into her Mossberg.”)

“Don’t,” Larry said quietly to me, as I’d earlier said across the table to him.

“You should see Herm Hoyt while you’re in town, Billy,” Uncle Bob was saying—a welcome change of subject, or so I first imagined. “I know the coach would love to have a word with you.”

“What about?” I asked Bob, with badly faked indifference, but the Racquet Man was busy; he was pouring himself another beer.

Robert Fremont, my uncle Bob, was sixty-seven. He was retiring next year, but he’d told me that he would continue to volunteer his services to Alumni Affairs, and particularly continue to contribute to the academy’s alumni magazine, The River Bulletin. Whatever one thought of Uncle Bob’s “Cries for Help from the Where-Have-You-Gone? Dept.”—well, what can I say?—his enthusiasm for tracking down the school’s most elusive alums made him very popular with folks in Alumni Affairs.

“What would Coach Hoyt like to have a word with me about?” I tried asking Uncle Bob again.

“I think you gotta ask him yourself, Billy,” the ever-genial Racquet Man said. “You know Herm—he can be a kind of protective fella when it comes to talking about his wrestlers.”

“Oh.”

Maybe not a welcome change of subject, I thought.

IN ANOTHER TOWN, AT a later time, the Facility—“for assisted living, and beyond”—would probably have been named the Pines, or (in Vermont) the Maples. But you have to remember the place was conceived and constructed by Harry Marshall and Nils Borkman; ironically, neither of them would die there.

Someone had just died there, on that Thanksgiving weekend when I went to visit Herm Hoyt. A shrouded body was bound to a gurney, which an elderly, severe-looking nurse was standing guard over in the parking lot. “You’re neither the person nor the vehicle I’m waitin’ for,” she told me.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s gonna snow, too,” the old nurse said. “Then I’ll have to wheel him back inside.”

I tried to change the subject from the deceased to the reason for my visit, but—First Sister being the small town it was—the nurse already knew who I was visiting. “The coach is expectin’ ya,” she said. When she’d told me how to find Herm’s room, she added: “You don’t look much like a wrestler.” When I told her who I was, she said: “Oh, I knew your mother and your aunt—and your grandfather, of course.”

“Of course,” I said.

“You’re the writer,” she added, with her eyes focused on the ash-end of her cigarette. I realized that she’d wheeled the body outside because she was a smoker.

I was forty-two that year; I judged the nurse to be at least as old as my aunt Muriel would have been—in the latter half of her sixties. I agreed that I was “the writer,” but before I could leave her in the parking lot, the nurse said: “You were a Favorite River boy, weren’t ya?”

“Yes, I was—’61,” I said. I could see her scrutinizing me now; of course she would have heard everything about me and Miss Frost—everyone of a certain age had heard all about that.

“Then I guess ya knew this fella,” the old nurse said; she passed her hand over the body bound to the gurney, but she touched nothing. “I’m guessin’ he’s waitin’ in more ways than one!” the nurse said, exhaling an astonishing plume of cigarette smoke. She was wearing a ski parka and an old ski hat, but no gloves—the gloves would have interfered with her cigarette. It was just starting to snow—some scattered flakes were falling, not nearly enough to have accumulated on the body on the gurney.

“He’s waitin’ for that idiot kid from the funeral home, and he’s waitin’ in whatchamacallit!” the nurse exclaimed.

“Do you mean purgatory?” I asked her.

“Yes, I do—what is that, anyway?” she asked me. “You’re the writer.”

“But I don’t believe in purgatory, or all the rest of it—” I started to say.

“I’m not askin’ ya to believe in it,” she said. “I’m askin’ ya what it is!”

“An intermediate state, after death—” I started to answer her, but she wouldn’t let me finish.

“Like Almighty God is decidin’ whether to send this fella to the Underworld or the Great Upstairs—isn’t that supposed to be what’s goin’ on there?” the nurse asked me.