I said fine, that, in fact, I had finished it.
'Well, let's hear some of it,' Grandma said. 'Start right with the beginning.'
'Certainly, Grandma,' I said. 'Certainly… 'Once upon a time, there were two billion and a half bastards who lived in a jungle, which weighed approximately six sextillion, four hundred and fifty quintillion short tons. Though they were all brothers, these bastards, their sole occupation was fratricide. Though the jungle abounded in wondrous fruits, their sole food was dirt. Though their potential for knowledge was unlimited, they knew but one thing. And what they knew was only what they did not know. And what they did not know was what was enough.'
I stopped speaking.
Grandma stirred impatiently. 'Well, go on.'
'That's all there is,' I said.
'But I thought you said you'd finished. That's no more than you had before.'
'It's all there is,' I repeated. 'As I see it, there is nothing more to say.'
We were silent for a time. Without talk to divert me, my hangover began to return, crept slowly up through my body and over my head. Shaking me, sickening me, gnawing at me inside and out like some hateful and invisible reptile.
Grandma snickered sympathetically. 'Pretty sick, aren't you?'
'A little,' I said. 'Something I took internally seems to have disagreed with me. Or, I should say-in all fairness- I disagreed with it. It was entirely friendly and tractable until I removed it from the bottle.'
'You know what to do about it,' Grandma said. 'You know what you've got to do.'
'I don't know whether I can make it,' I said. 'Rather, I have a strong suspicion that I can't make it.'
'You've got to,' Grandma said, 'so stop wasting good breath. Stop talking and start moving.'
I groaned piteously, making futile motions of arising. The flesh was willing, but also weak. And as for spirit, I had none whatsoever.
'Verily, Grandma,' I moaned. 'Verily, verily. I would swap my soul to Satan for one good drink.'
'Cheapskate,' said Grandma. 'Now, cut out the gab and get on your way.'
I nodded miserably. Somehow, I managed to get to my feet. 'I shall do as you say, Grandma,' I said.
Grandma made no reply. Presumably she had returned to her well-earned sleep.
I turned and tried to tiptoe away from her. I lost my balance and fell flat on my face, and minutes passed before I could pick myself up again. Finally, after several similar fallings and pickings-up, I reached the road to town.
A truck was coming from the opposite direction. It looked like Joe Henderson's, and it was. I swung an arm, limply, thumb upraised, in the gesture as old as hitchhiking. Joe slowed down, and came to a stop. Then, as I reached for the door, he jabbed one finger into the air, and roared away.
I walked on, more strengthened, more firm in my purpose than otherwise. I wondered what loss Joe could suffer that could not be recouped by insurance, and I decided that the tires of his truck would be a very good bet.
Another farm truck drove up behind me-Dutch Eaton's. Dutch stopped and leaned out, asked me solicitously if I was tired of walking.
'Yes,' I said, 'but please spare me the suggestion that I run a while. It was not very amusing even when I first heard it, back during my cradle days.'
His fat face reddened with anger. He sputtered, 'Why, you crazy, low-down-!'
'Listen,' I said. 'Listen, listen, Mr. Eaton. What is it that is gutless, brainless and moves around on wheels? A swine, Mr. Eaton. A pig in overalls.'
He had been easing the door open. Now, he sprang out with a furious roar, and, whirling, I also sprang. I am almost always equal to such emergencies. Weak though I may have been a moment before, the strength and the agility to save myself invariably come to me. And they did now.
So I leaped the ditch, and vaulted easily over the fence. I walked on up into the orchard in the rear of the Devore estate, listening to Dutch curse me, and, finally, drive away.
Temporarily, I was so absorbed in thought that I almost forgot my hangover. In a sense, I had reason to be grateful to Dutch Eaton and Joe Henderson. Yet I must confess that the emotion I felt for them was very far from gratitude.
Joe and Dutch, I thought. They had been on bad terms with one another for years. What would be the result, say, if Joe's tires should be slashed on the same night that Dutch's barn burned down?
'Lord World forgive me,' I murmured, 'for their minds are even as those of a Paleolithic foetus, and I know all too damned well what I do.'
I had passed through the orchard by now, and arrived at the barnyard. Moving boldly but quietly, I went through the gate, crossed the barnyard and backyard, and entered the back door of the house.
No, there was no danger. I knew that, having visited the place several times before. Ralph would be away. Luane would be in bed, and her bedroom was on the front. As long as I was quiet, and no one can be more quiet than I, I could prowl the downstairs at will.
I stopped inside the door a moment, listening. Faintly, from upstairs, Luane's voice drifted down to me as she talked over the telephone:
'… course, I hate to say anything either. Far be it from me to say a word about anyone, and you know it, Mabel. But a thing like that-a young girl lifting her skirts for a nigger-and that father of hers, always acting so high and mighty…'
I hesitated, feeling vaguely impelled to do something. Knowing that if anything could ever have been done, it was too late now. Pete Pavlov would soon hear the gossip. As soon as he ascertained its truth, he would act. And there could be no doubt about how he would act- what he would do.
I frowned, shrugged, and pushed the matter out of my mind; mentally disconnecting the vicious whine of Luane's voice. I could not help the inevitable. On the other hand, I hoped, I could help myself to a drink; and my need for one was growing.
I opened the cupboard, a familiar section of it. I studied the several bottles of flavoring extract, my mouth watering. And then miserably, having noted the labels, I turned away. There was no end, apparently, to Ralph's skimping. Since my last visit, he had substituted cheap, nonalcoholic extracts for the fine, invigorating brands he had previously stocked.
I looked through the other cupboards. I hesitated over a large bottle of floor polish: then, insufficiently intrigued by its five per cent alcoholic content, I turned away again. Finally, I lifted a trap door in the floor, and went down into the cellar.
I had no luck there, either. Ralph's cider was freshly made-still sweet; and he had done his canning as expertly as he did everything else. Out of all the endless jars of fruit and vegetables, there was not a one that was beginning to ferment.
I went back up into the kitchen. Sweat pouring off of me, my nerves screaming for the balm of drink. I went through the connecting door to the front hall, and stood at the foot of the stairs.
There would be plenty to drink up there. Rubbing alcohol. Female tonic. Liniment. Perhaps even something that was made to be drunk. And if Luane would only go to sleep, if she would cease her poisonous spewing for only a few minutes.
But, obviously, she would not. Already she had another party on the wire, and when she had finished with that one she would immediately ring up another. And so on throughout the day. She would never stop-unless she was stopped. As well she deserved to be, aside from my crying need. But I could not envision myself now in the role of stopper, and being unable to I could not act as such.
Another day, perhaps. Some other day, or night, when thirst and hopelessness brought me here again.
I left the house. I retraced my steps through the orchard, and walked toward town, turning
