Old Man at the Bridge

An old man with steel-rimmed spectacles andvery dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. There was a pontoon bridge across the river and carts, trucks, and men, women and children were crossing it. The mule-drawn carts staggered up the steep bank from the bridge with soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels. The trucks ground up and away heading out of it all and the peasants plodded along in the ankle-deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was too tired to go any farther.

It was my business to cross the bridge, explore the bridgehead beyond and find out to what point the enemy had advanced. I did this and returned over the bridge. There were not so many carts now and very few people on foot, but the old man was still there.

«Where do you come from?», I asked him.

«From San Carlos», he said, and smiled.

That was his native town and so it gave him pleasure to mention it and he smiled.

«I was taking care of animals», he explained.

«Oh», I said, not quite understanding.

«Yes», he said, «I stayed, you see, taking care of animals. I was the last one to leave the town of San Carlos».

He did not look like a shepherd nor a herdsman and I looked at his black dusty clothes and his gray dusty face and his steel-rimmed spectacles and said, «What animals were they?»

«Various animals», he said, and shook his head. «I had to leave them».

I was watching the bridge and the African looking country of the Ebro  Delta and wondering how long now it would be before we would see the enemy, and listening all the while for the first noises that would signal that ever-mysterious event called contact, and the old man still sat there.

«What animals were they?», I asked.

«There were three animals altogether», he explained. «There were two goats and a cat and then there were four pairs of pigeons».

«And you had to leave them?», I asked.

«Yes. Because of the artillery, captain told me to go because of the artillery».

«And you have no family?», I asked watching the far end of the bridge where a few last carts were hurrying down the slope of the bank.

«No», he said, «only the animals I stated. The cat, of course, will be all right. A cat can look out for itself, but I cannot think what will become of the others».

«What politics have you?», I asked.

«I am without politics», he said. «I am seventy-six years old. I have come twelve kilometers now and I think now I can go no further».

«This is not a good place to stop», said. «If you can make it, there trucks up the road where it forks Tortosa».

«I will wait a while», he said, «and then I will go. Where do the trucks go?»

«Towards Barcelona», I told him.

«I know no one in that direction», he said, «but thank you very much. Thank you again very much».

He looked at me very blankly and tiredly, then said, having to share worry with someone, «The cat will be all right, I am sure. There is no need to be unquiet about the cat. But others. Now what do you think about the others?»

«Why, they’ll probably come through it all right».

«You think so?»

«Why not?» I said, watching the bank where now there were no carts.

«But what will they do under artillery when I was told to leave because of the artillery?»

« Did you leave the dove cage unlocked?» I asked.

«Yes».

«Then they’ll fly».

«Yes, certainly they’ll fly. But the others. It’s better not to think about theothers», he said.

«If vou are rested I would go», I urged. «Get up and try to walk now». «Thank you», he said and got to his feet, swayed from side to side and then sat down backwards in the dust.

«I was taking care of animals», he said dully, but no longer to me. «I was only taking care of animals». There was nothing to do about him. It was Easter Sunday and the Fascists were advancing toward the Ebro. It was a gray overcast day with a low ceiling so their planes were not up. That and the fact that cats know how took after themselves was all the good luck that old man would ever have.

Exploring Ideas and Questions for Discussion

1. What is a symbol? What can be a symbol in a fictional text?

2. What are the characters of the story? What are two attitudes to war expressed in the story?

3. What does the image of the old man symbolize in the story? Prove your idea.

4. What other symbolic words can you find in the text of the story?

5. What stylistic devices does the author use to create symbols in the story?

 

2

William Saroyan

Going Home

This valley, he thought, all this country between the mountains is mine, home to me, the place I dream about, and everything is the same, not a thing is changed, water sprinklers still splash in circles over lawns of Bermuda grass, good old home town, simplicity, reality.

Walking along Alvin Street he felt glad to be home again. Everything was fine, common and good, the smell of earth, cooking suppers, smoke, the rich summer air of the valley full of plant growth, grapes growing, peaches ripening, and the oleander bush swooning with sweetness, the same as ever. He breathed deeply, drawing the smell of home deep into his lungs, smiling inwardly. It was hot. He hadn’t felt his senses reacting to the earth so cleanly and clearly for years; now it was a pleasure even to breathe. The cleanliness of the air sharpened the moment so that, walking, he felt the magnificence of being, glory of possessing substance, of having form and motion and intellect, the piety of merely being alive on the earth.

Water, he thought, hearing the soft splash of a lawn sprinkler; to taste the water of home, the full cool water of the valley, to have that simple thirst and that solid water with which to quench it, fulfillment, the clarity of life. He saw an old man holding a hose over some geranium plants, and his thirst sent him to the man.

«Good evening», he said quietly; «may I have a drink?»

The old man turned slowly, his shadow large against the house, to look into the young man’s face, amazed and pleased. «You bet», he said; «here», and he placed the hose into the young man’s hands. «Mighty fine water», said the old man, «this water of the San Joaquin¹ valley; best yet, I guess. That water up in Frisco² makes me sick; ain’t got no taste. And down in Los Angeles, why, the water tastes like castor oil; I can’t understand how so many people go on living there year after year».

While the old man talked, he listened to the water falling from the hose to the earth, leaping thickly, cleanly, sinking swiftly into the earth. «You said it», he said to the old man; «you said it; our water is the finest water on earth».

He curved his head over the spouting water and began to drink. The sweet rich taste of the water amazed him, and as he drank, he thought, God, this is splendid. He could feel the cool water splashing into his being, refreshing and cooling him. Losing his breath, he lifted his head, saying to the old man, «We’re mighty lucky, us folk in the valley».

He bent his head over the water again and began again to swallow the splashing liquid, laughing to himself with delight. It seemed as if he couldn’t get enough of it into his system; the more he drank, the finer the water tasted to him and the more he wanted to drink. The old man was amazed. «You drunk about two quarts», he said. Still swallowing the water, he could hear the old man talking, and he lifted his head again, replying, «I guess so. It sure tastes fine». He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, still holding the hose, still wanting to drink more. The whole valley was in that water, all the clarity, all the genuineness, all the goodness and simplicity and reality.

«Man alive», said the old man. «You sure was thirsty. How long since you had a drink, anyway?»

«Two years», he replied. «I mean two years since I had a drink of thiswater. I been away, traveling around. I just got back. I was born here, over on G Street in Russian town; you know, across the Southern Pacific³ tracks; been away two years and I just got back. Mighty fine too, let me tell you, to be back. I like this place. I’m going to get a job and settle down».

He hung his head over the water again and took several more swallows; then he handed the hose to the old man.

«You sure was thirsty», said the old man. «I ain’t never seen anybody anywhere drink so much water at one time. It sure looked good seeing you swallow all that water».

He went on walking down Alvin Street, humming to himself, the old man staring at him.

Nice to be back, the young man thought; greatest mistake I ever made, coming back this way.

Everything he had ever done had been a mistake, and this was one of the good mistakes. He had come south from San Francisco without even thinking of going home; he had thought of going as far south as Merced,⁴ stopping there awhile, and then going back, but once he had got into the country, it had been too much. It had been great fun standing on the highway in his city clothes, hitchhiking.

One little city after another, and here he was walking through the streets of his home town, at seven in the evening. It was great, very amusing; and the water, splendid.

He wasn’t far from town, the city itself, and he could see one or two of the taller buildings, the Pacific Gas & Electric Building, all lit up with colored lights, and another, a taller one, that he hadn’t seen before. That’s a new one, he thought; they put up that one while I was away; things must be booming.

He turned down Fulton Street and began walking into town. It looked great from where he was, far away and nice and small, very genuine, a real quiet little town, the kind of place to live in, settle down in, marry in, have a home, kids, a job, and all the rest of it. It was all he wanted. The air of the valley and the water and the reality of the whole place, the cleanliness of life in the valley, the simplicity of the people.

In the city everything was the same; the names of the stores, the people walking in the streets, and the slow passing of automobiles; boys in cars walking to pick up girls; same as ever, not a thing changed. He saw faces he had known as a boy, people he did not know by name, and then he saw Pony Rocca, his old pal, walking up the street toward him, and he saw that Tony recognized him. He stopped walking, waiting for Tony to come into his presence. It was like a meeting in a dream, strange, almost incredible. He had dreamed of the two of them playing hooky from school to go swimming, to go out to the county fair, to sneak into a moving-picture theater; and now here he was again, a big fellow with a lazy, easy-going walk, and a genial Italian grin. It was good, and he was glad he had made the mistake and come back.

He stopped walking, waiting for Tony to come into his presence, smiling at him, unable to speak. The two boys shook hands and then began to strike one another with affection, laughing loudly, swearing at one another. «Where the hell have you been?», Tony said; and he punched his friend in the stomach, laughing loudly.

«Old Tony», he said, «good old punch drunk Tony. God, it’s good to sec you. I thought maybe you’d be dead by this time. What the hell have you been doing?». He dodged another punch and struck his friend in the chest. He swore in Italian at Tony, using words Tony had taught him years ago, and Tony swore back at him in Russian.

«I’ve got to go out to the house», he said at last. «The folks don’t know I’m here. I’ve got to go out and see them. I’m dying to see my brother Paul».

He went on down the street, smiling about Tony. They would be having a lot of good times together again; they might even go swimming again the way they did as kids. It was great to be back.

Walking by stores, he thought of buying his mother a small gift. A little gilt would please the old lady. But he had little money, and all the decent things were expensive. I’ll get her something later, he thought.

He turned west on Tulare Street, crossing the Southern Pacific tracks, reached G Street, then turned south. In a few minutes he would be home again, at the door of the little old house; the same as ever; the old woman, the old man, his three sisters, and his kid brother, all of them in the house, living simple lives.

* * *

He saw the house from a distance of about a block, and his heart began to lump. He felt suddenly ill and afraid, something he had forgotten about the place, about that life which he had always hated, something ugly and mean. But he walked on, moving slower as he came closer to the house. The fence had fallen and no one had fixed it. The house suddenly appeared to be very ugly, and he wondered why in the hell the old man didn’t move to «better house in a better neighborhood. Seeing the house again, feeling all its old reality, all his hatred for it returned, and he began to feel again the longing to be away from it, where he could not see it. He began to feel, as he had felt as a boy, the deep inarticulate hatred he had for the whole city, Its falseness, its meanness, the stupidity of its people, the emptiness of their minds, and it seemed to him that he would never be able to return to such a place. The water; yes, it was good, it was splendid; but there were other things.

He walked slowly before the house, looking at it as if he might be a stranger, feeling alien and unrelated to it, yet feeling that it was home, the place he dreamed about, the place that tormented him wherever he went. He was afraid someone might come out of the house and see him, because he knew that if he was seen, he might find himself running away. Still, he wanted to see them, all of them, have them before his eyes, feel the full presence of their bodies, even smell them, that old strong Russian smell. But it was too much. He began to feel hatred for everything in the city, and he walked on, going to the corner. There he stood beneath the street lamp, bewildered and disgusted, wanting to see his brother Paul, to talk to the boy, find out what was going on in his mind, how he was taking it, being in such a place, living such a life. He knew how it had been with him when he had been his brother’s age, and he hoped he might be able to give his brother a little advice, how to keep from feeling the monotony and the ugliness by reading.

He forgot that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and that he had been dreaming for months of eating another of his mother’s meals, sitting at the old table in the kitchen, seeing her, large and red-faced and serious and angry toward him, loving him, but he had lost his appetite. He thought he might wait at the corner; perhaps his brother would leave the house to take a walk and he would see the boy and talk to him. Paul, he would say, and he would talk to the boy in Russian.

The stillness of the valley began to oppress him, losing its piety, becoming merely a form of the valley’s monotony.

Still, he couldn’t go away from the house. From the corner he could see it, and he knew that he wanted to go in and be among his people, a part of their lives; he knew this was what he had wanted to do for months, to knock at the door, embrace his mother and his sisters, walk across the floors of the house, sit in the old chairs, sleep in his bed, talk with his old man, eat at the table.

And now something he had forgotten while he had been away, something real but ugly in that life, had come up swiftly, changing everything, changing the appearance and meaning of the house, the city, the whole valley, making it all ugly and unreal, making him wish to go away and never return. He could never come back. He could never enter the house again and go on with his life where he had left off.

Suddenly he was in the alley, climbing over the fence, walking through the yard. His mother had planted tomatoes, and peppers, and the smell of the growing plants was thick and acrid and very melancholy to him. There was a light in the kitchen, and he moved quietly toward it, hoping to see some of them without being seen. He walked close to the house, to the kitchen window, and looking in saw his youngest sister, Martha, washing dishes. He saw the old table, the old stove, and Martha, with her back turned to him; and all these things seemed so sad and so pathetic that tears came to his eyes, and he began to need a cigarette. He struck a match quietly on the bottom of his shoe and inhaled the smoke, looking at his little sister in the old house, a part of the monotony. Everything seemed very still, very clear, terribly sad; but he hoped his mother would enter the kitchen; he wanted to have another look at her. He wanted to see if his being away had changed her much. How would she look? Would she have that angry look? He felt angry with himself for not being a good son, for not trying to make his mother happy, but he knew it was impossible.

He saw his brother Paul enter the kitchen for a drink of water, and for a moment he wanted to cry out the boy’s name, everything that was good in him, all his love, rushing to the face and form of the boy; but he restrained himself, inhaling deeply, tightening his lips. In the kitchen, the boy seemed lost, bewildered, imprisoned. Looking at his brother, he began to cry softly.

He no longer wished to see his mother. He would become so angry that he would do something crazy. He walked quietly through the yard, hoisted himself over the fence, and jumped to the alley. He began to walk away, his grief mounting in him. When he was far enough away not to be heard, he began to sob, loving them passionately and hating the ugliness and monotony of their lives. He felt himself hurrying away from home, from his people, crying bitterly in the darkness of the clear night, weeping because there was nothing he could do, not one confounded thing.

Notes

1. San Joaquin — river in central California.

2. Frisco — San Francisco.

3. Southern Pacific — a railroad line.

4. Merced — city in central California.

Exploring Ideas and Questions for Discussion

1. How does W. Saroyan divide the text of his story graphically? Do you feel that the two parts of the story are different emotionally? What sort of words dominate in the story?

2. What nouns and adjectives prevail in each part of the story? What paradigmatic relation do they express? Give examples of synonymic groups of words used in the story. In what component of meaning are they different?

3. Do you consider emotional words in the first part of the story to have their antonyms in the second part? Confirm the idea investigating the semantic structures of the words under analysis.

4. What is described and contrasted with the help of synonyms and antonyms? Find examples of the way the city, the people, the young man’s family are descriptively treated in each section. How does the author use the young man’s attitude toward these elements of the story to establish a mood in each section?

5. What’s the function of the synonyms used in the last paragraph of the story?

6. Interprete the author’s message.

3

James Thurber

The Catbird Seat

Mr. Martin bought the pack of Camels on Monday night in the most crowded cigar store on Broadway. It was theatre time and seven or eight men were buying cigarettes. The clerk didn’t even glance at Mr. Martin, who put the pack in his overcoat pocket and went out. If any of the staff at F & S had seen him buy the cigarettes, they would have been astonished, for it was generally known that Mr. Martin did not smoke, and never had. No one saw him.

It was just a week to the day since Mr. Martin had decided to rub out Mrs. Ulgine Barrows. The term «rub out» pleased him because it suggested nothing more than the correction of an error — in this case an error of Mr. Fitweiler. Mr. Martin had spent each night of the past week working out his plan and examining it. As he walked home now he went over it again. For the hundredth time he resented the element of imprecision, the margin of guesswork that entered into the business. The project as he had worked it out was casual and bold, the risks were considerable. Something might go wrong anywhere along the line. And therein lay the cunning of his scheme. No one would ever see in it the cautious, painstaking hand of Erwin Martin, head of the filingdepartment at F & S, of whom Mr. Fitweiler had once said, «Man is fallible but Martin isn’t». No one would see his hand, that is, unless it were caught in the act.

Sitting in his apartment, drinking a glass of milk, Mr. Martin reviewed his ease against Mrs. Ulgine Barrows, as he had every night for seven nights. He began at the beginning. Her quacking voice and braying laugh had first profaned the halls of F & S on March 7, 1941 (Mr. Martin had a head for dates). Old Roberts, the personnel chief, had introduced her as the newly appointed special adviser to the president of the firm, Mr. Fitweiler. The woman had appalled Mr. Martin instantly, but he hadn’t shown it. He had given her his dry hand, a look of studious concentration, and a faint smile. «Well», she had said, looking at the paper on his desk, «are you lifting the oxcart out of the ditch?» As Mr. Martin recalled that moment, over his milk, he squirmed slightly. He must keep his mind on her crimes as a special adviser, not on her peccadillos as a personality. This he found difficult to do, in spite of entering an objection and sustaining it. The faults of the woman as a woman kept chattering on in his mind like an unruly witness. She had, for almost two years now, baited him. In the halls, in the elevator, even in his own office, into which she romped now and then like a circus horse, she was constantly shouting these silly questions at him. «Are you lifting the oxcart out of the ditch? Are you tearing up the pea patch? Are you hollering down the rain barrel? Are you scraping around the bottom of the pickle barrel? Are you sitting in the catbird seat?»

It was Joey Hart, one of Mr. Martin’s two assistants, who had explained what the gibberish meant. «She must be a Dodger fan», he had said. «Red Barber announces the Dodger games over the radio and he uses those expressions — picked ‘em up down South». Joey had gone on to explain one or two. «Tearing up the pea patch» meant going on a rampage; «sitting in the catbird seat» meant sitting pretty, like a batter with three balls and no strikes on him. Mr. Martin dismissed all this with an effort. It had been annoying, it had driven him near to distraction, but he was too solid a man to be moved to murder by anything so childish. It was fortunate, he reflected as he passed on to the important charges against Mrs. Barrows, that he had stood up under it so well. He had maintained always an outward appearance of polite tolerance, «Why, I even believe you like the woman», Miss Paird, his other assistant, had once said to him. He had simply smiled.

A gravel rapped in Mr. Martin’s mind and the case proper was resumed. Mrs. Ulgine Barrows stood charged with willful, blatant, and persistent attempts to destroy the efficiency and system of F & S. It was competent, material, and relevant to review her advent and rise to power. Mr. Martin had got the story from Miss Paird, who seemed always able to find things out. According to her, Mrs. Barrows had met Mr. Fitweiler at a party, where she had rescued him from the embraces of a powerfully built drunken man who had mistaken the president of F & S for a famous retired Middle Western football coach. She had led him to a sofa and somehow worked upon him a monstrous magic. The aging gentleman had jumped to the conclusion there and then that this was a woman of singular attainments, equipped to bring out the best in him and in the firm. A week later he had introduced her into F & S as his special adviser. On that day confusion got it’s foot in the door. After Miss Tyson, Mr. Brundage, and Mr. Bartlett had been fired and Mr. Munson had taken his hat and stalked out, mailing in his resignation later, old Roberts had been emboldened to speak to Mr. Fitweiler. He mentioned that Mr. Munson’s department had been «a little disrupted» and hadn’t they perhaps better resume the old system there? Mr. Fitweiler had said certainly not. He had the greatest faith in Mrs. Barrows’ ideas. «They require a little seasoning, a little seasoning, is all», he had added. Mr. Roberts had given it up. Mr. Martin reviewed in detail all the changes wrought by Mrs. Barrows. She had begun chipping at the cornices of the firm’s edifice and now she was swinging at the foundation stones with a pickaxe.

Mr. Martin came now, in his summing up, to the afternoon of Monday, November 2, 1942 — just one week ago. On that day, at 3 р. м., Mrs. Barrows had bounced into his office. «Boo!» she had yelled. «Are you scraping around the bottom of the pickle barrel?» Mr. Martin had looked at her from under green eyeshade saying nothing. She had begun to wander about the office, taking it in with her great, popping eyes. «Do you really need all these filing cabinets?» she had demanded suddenly. Mr. Martin’s heart had jumped. «Each of these files», he had said, keeping his voice even, «play an indispensable part in the system of F & S». She had brayed at him, «Well, don’t tear up the pea patch!» and gone to the door. From there she had bawled, «But you sure have got a lot of fine scrap in here!» Mr. Martin could no longer doubt that the finger was on his beloved department. Her pickaxe was on the upswing, poised for the first blow. It had not come yet; he had received no blue memo from the enchanted Mr. Fitweiler bearing nonsensical instructions deriving from the obscene woman. But there was no doubt in Mr. Martin’s mind that one would be forthcoming. He must act quickly. Already a precious week had gone by. Mr. Martin stood up in his living room, still holding his milk glass. «Gentlemen of the jury», he said to himself, «I demand the death penalty for this horrible person».

 

The next day Mr. Martin followed his routine, as usual. He polished his glasses more often and once sharpened an already sharp pencil, but not even Miss Paird noticed. Only once did he catch sight of his victim; she swept past him in the hall with a patronizing «Hi!». At five-thirty he walked home, as usual, and had a glass of milk, as usual. He had never drunk anything stronger in his life — unless you could count ginger ale. The late Sam Schlosser, the S of F & S, had praised Mr. Martin at a staff meeting several years before for his temperate habits. «Our most efficient worker neither drinks nor smokes», he had said. «The results speak for themselves». Mr. Fitweiler had sat by, nodding approval.

Mr. Martin was still thinking about that red-letter day as he walked over to Schrafft’s on Fifth Avenue near Forty-sixth Street. He got there, as he always did, at eight o’clock. He finished his dinner and the financial page of the Sun at a quarter to nine, as he always did. It was his custom after dinner to take a walk. This time he walked down Fifth Avenue at a casual pace. His gloved hands felt moist and warm, his forehead cold. He transferred the Camels from his overcoat to a jacket pocket. He wondered, as he did so, if they did not represent an unnecessary strain. Mrs. Barrows smoked only Luckies^. It was his idea to puff a few puffs on a Camel (after the rubbing-out), stub it out in the ashtray holding her lipstick-stained Luckies, and thus drag a small red herring across the trail. Perhaps it was not a good idea. It would take time. He might even choke, too loudly.

Mr. Martin had never seen the house on West Twelfth Street where Mrs. Barrows lived, but he had a clear enough picture of it. Fortunately, she had bragged to everybody about her ducky first-floor apartment in the perfectly darling three-story red-brick. There would be no doorman or other attendants; just the tenants of the second and third floors. As he walked along, Mr. Martin realized that he would get there before nine-thirty. He had considered walking north on Fifth Avenue from Schrafft’s to a point from which it would take him until ten o’clock to reach the house. At that hour people were less likely to be coming in or going out. But the procedure would have made an awkward loop in the straight thread of his casualties, and he had abandoned it. It was impossible to figure when people would be entering or leaving the house, anyway. There was a great risk at any hour. If he ran into anybody, he would simply have to place the rubbing-out of Ulgine Barrows in the inactive file forever. The same thing would hold true if there were someone in her apartment. In that case he would just say that he had been passing by, recognized her charming house and thought to drop in.

 

It was eighteen minutes after nine when Mr. Martin turned into Twelfth Street. A man passed him, and a man and a woman talking. There was no one within fifty paces when he came to the house, halfway down the block. He was up the steps and in the small vestibule in no time, pressing the bell under the card that said «Mrs. Ulgine Barrows» When the clicking in the lock started, he jumped forward against the door. He got inside fast, closing the door behind him. A bulb in a lantern hung from the hall ceiling on a chain seemed to give a monstrously bright light. There was nobody on the stair, which went up ahead of him along the left wall. A door opened down the hall in the wall on the right. He went toward it swiftly, on tiptoe. «Well, for God’s sake, look who’s here!» bawled Mrs. Barrows, and her braying laugh rang out like the report of a shotgun. He rushed past her like a football tackle, bumping her. «Hey, quit shoving!», she said, closing the door behind them. They were in her living room, which seemed to Mr. Martin to be lighted by a hundred lamps. «What’s after you?», she said. «You’re as jumpy as a goat». He found he was unable to speak. His heart was wheezing in his throat. «I — yes», he finally brought out. She was jabbering and laughing as she started to help him off with his coat. «No, no», he said. «I’ll put it here». He took it off and put it on a chair near the door. «Your hat and gloves, too», she said. «You’re in a lady’s house». He put his hat on top of the coat. Mrs. Barrows seemed larger than he had thought. He kept his gloves on. «I was passing by», he said. «I recognized—is there anyone here?’’ She laughed louder than ever. «No», she said, «we’re all alone. You’re as white as a sheet, you funny man. Whatever has come over you? I’ 11 mix you a toddy.’’ She started toward a door across the room. «Scotch-and-soda be all right? But say, you don’t drink, do you?» She turned and gave him her amused look. Mr. Martin pulled himself together. «Scotch-and-soda will be all right», he heard himself say. He could hear her laughing in the kitchen.

Mr. Martin looked quickly around the living room for the weapon. He had counted on finding one there. There were andirons and a poker and something in a corner that looked like an Indian club. None of them would do. It couldn’t be that way. He began to pace around. He came to a desk. On it lay a metal paper knife with an ornate handle. Would it be sharp enough? He reached for it and knocked over a small brass jar. Stamps spilled out of it and it fell to the floor with a clatter. «Hey», Mrs. Barrows yelled from the kitchen, «are you tearing up the pea patch?» Mr. Martin gave a strange laugh Pick up the knife, he tried its point against his left wrist. It was blunt. lt wouldn’t do.

 

When Mrs. Barrows reappeared, carrying two highballs, Mr. Martin, standing there with his gloves on, became acutely conscious of the fantasy lie had wrought. Cigarettes in his pocket, a drink prepared for him—it was all too grossly improbable. It was more than that; it was impossible. Somewhere in the back of his mind a vague idea stirred, sprouted. «For heaven’s sake, take off those gloves», said Mrs. Barrows. «I always wear t hem in the house,’’ said Mr. Martin. The idea began to bloom, strange and wonderful. She put the glasses on a coffee table in front of a sofa and sat on the sofa. «Come over here, you odd little man», she said. Mr. Martin went over and sat beside her. It was difficult getting a cigarette out of the pack of Camels, but he managed it. She held a match for him, laughing. «Well,’’ she said, handing him his drink, «this is perfectly marvelous. You with a drink and a cigarette».

Mr. Martin puffed, not too awkwardly, and took a gulp of the highball. I drink and smoke all the time», he said. He clinked his glass against hers. «Here’s nuts to that old windbag, Fitweiler», he said, and gulped; again. The stuff tasted awful, but he made no grimace. «Really, Mr. Martin», she said, her voice and posture changing, «you are insulting our employer». Mrs. Barrows was now all special adviser to the president. «I am preparing a bomb», said Mr. Martin, «which will blow the old goat higher than hell». He had only had a little of the drink, which was not strong. It couldn’t be that. «Do you take dope or something?» Mrs. Harrows asked coldly. «Heroin», said Mr. Martin. «I’llbe coked to the gills when I bump that old buzzard off». «Mr. Martin!» she shouted, setting to her feet. «That will be all of that. You must go at once». Mr. Martin took another swallow of his drink. He tapped his cigarette out in the ashtray and put the pack of Camels on the coffee table. Then he got up. She stood glaring at him. He walked over and put on his hat and coat. «Not a word about this», he said, and laid an index finger against his lips. All Mrs. Barrows could bring out was «Really!» Mr. Martin put his hand on the doorknob. «I’m sitting in the catbird seat», he said. He stuck his tongue out at her and left. Nobody saw him go.

Mr. Martin got to his apartment, walking, well before eleven. No one saw him go in. He had two glasses of milk after brushing his teeth, and he felt elated. It wasn’t tipsiness, because he hadn’t been tipsy. Anyway, the walk had worn off all effects of the whiskey. He got in bed and read a magazine for a while. He was asleep before midnight.

 

Mr. Martin got to the office at eight-thirty the next morning, as usual. At a quarter to nine, Ulgine Barrows, who had never arrived at work before len, swept into his office. «I’m reporting to Mr. Fitweiler now!» she shouted. «If he turns you over to the police, it’s no more than you deserve!» Mr. Martin gave her a look of shocked surprise. «I beg your pardon?» he said. Mrs. Barrows snorted and bounced out of the room, leaving Miss Panel anil Joey Hail staring alter her. «What’s the mullet with that old devil now?» asked Miss Paird.
«I have no idea», said Mr. Mail in, resuming his work. The other two looked at him and then at each other. Miss Paird got up and went out. She walked slowly past the closed door of Mr. Fitweiler’s office. Mrs. Barrows was yelling inside, but she was not braying. Miss Paird could not hear what the woman was saying. She went back to her desk.

Forty-five minutes later, Mrs. Barrows left the president’s office and went into her own, shutting the door. It wasn’t until half an hour later that Mr. Fitweiler sent for Mr. Martin. The head of the filing department, neat, quiet, attentive, stood in front of the old man’s desk. Mr. Fitweiler was pale and nervous. He took his glasses off and twiddled them. He made a small, bruffing sound in his throat. «Martin», he said, «you have been with us more than twenty years». «Twenty-two, sir», said Mr. Martin. «In that time», pursued the president, «your work and your — uh — manner have been exemplary». «I trust so, sir», said Mr. Martin. «I have understood, Martin», said Mr. Fitweiler, «that you have never taken a drink or smoked». «That is correct, sir», said Mr. Martin. «Ah, yes». Mr. Fitweiler polished his glasses. «You may describe what you did after leaving the office yesterday, Mr. Martin», he said. Mr. Martin allowed less than a second for his bewildered pause. «Certainly, sir», he said. «I walked home. Then I went to Schrafft’s for dinner. Afterward I walked home again.
I went to bed early, sir, and read a magazine for a while. I was asleep before eleven. «Ah, yes», said Mr. Fitweiler again. He was silent for a moment, searching for the proper words to say to the head of the filing department. «Mrs. Barrows», he said finally, «Mrs. Barrows has worked hard, Martin, very hard. It grieves me to report that she has suffered a severe breakdown. It has taken the form of a persecution complex accompanied by distressing hallucinations». «I am very sorry, sir», said Mr. Martin. «Mrs. Barrows is under the delusion», continued Mr. Fitweiler, «that you visited her last evening and behaved yourself in an — uh — unseemly manner». He raised his hand to silence Mr. Martin’s little pained outcry. «It is the nature of these psychological diseases», Mr. Fitweiler said, «to fix upon the least likely and most innocent party as the — uh — source of persecution. These matters are not for the lay mind to grasp, Martin. I’ve just had my psychiatrist, Dr. Fitch, on the phone. He would not, of course, commit himself, but he made enough generalizations to substantiate my suspicions. I suggested to Mrs. Barrows when she had completed her — uh — story to me this morning, that she visit Dr. Fitch, for I suspected a condition at once. She flew, I regret to say, into a rage, and demanded — uh — requested that I call you on the carpet. You may not know, Martin, but Mrs. Barrows had planned a reorganization of your department — subject to my approval, of course, subject to my approval. This brought you, rather than anyone else, to her mind — but again that is a phenomenon for Dr. Fitch and not for us. So, Martin, I am afraid Mrs. Barrows’ usefulness here is at an end». «I am dreadfully sorry, sir», said Mr. Martin.

Il was at this point that the door to the oilier blew open with the suddenness of a gas-main explosion and Mrs. Barrows catapulted through it «Is the little rat denying it?» she screamed. «He can’t get away with that!» Mr. Martin got up and moved discreetly to a point beside Mr. Fitweiler’s chair. «You drank and smoked at my apartment», she bawled at Mr. Martin, «and you know it! You called Mr. Fitweiler an old windbag and said you were going to blow him up when you got coked to the gills on your heroin!» She stopped yelling to catch her breath and a new glint came into her popping eyes. «If you weren’t such a drab, ordinary little man», she said, «I’d think you’d planned it all. Sticking your tongue out, saying you were sitting in the catbird seat, because you thought no one would believe me when I told it! My God, it’s really too perfect!» She brayed loudly and hysterically, and the fury was on her again. She glared at Mr. Fitweiler. «Can’t you see how he has tricked us, you old fool? Can’t you see his little game?» But Mr. Fitweiler had been surreptitiously pressing all the buttons under the top of his desk and employees of F & S began pouring into the room. «Stockton», said Mr. Fitweiler, «you and Fishbein will lake Mrs. Barrows to her home. Mrs. Powell, you will go with them». Stockton, who had played a little football in high school, blocked Mrs. Marrows as she made for Mr. Martin. It took him and Fishbein together to force her out of the door into the hall, crowded with stenographers and office boys. She was still screaming imprecations at Mr. Martin, tangled and contradictory imprecations. The hubbub finally died out down the corridor.

«I regret that this has happened», said Mr. Fitweiler. «I shall ask you lo dismiss it from your mind, Martin». «Yes, sir», said Mr. Martin, anticipating his chief’s «That will be all» by moving to the door. «I will dismiss it». He went out and shut the door, and his step was light and quick in the hall. When he entered his department he had slowed down lo his customary gait, and he walked quietly across the room to the W20 file, wearing a look of studious concentration.

Exploring Ideas and Questions for Discussion

1. Why does the author use so many legal terms that suggest the image of a courtroom (reviewed his case, crimes, peccadillos, entering an objection and sustaining it...) in the story? Find the terms and explain their use in relation to the story.

2. What language does the author use to describe Mr. Martin and Mrs. Barrows? In what case is the language highly expressive? What are the expressive means the author employs? What adds to the negative characteristics of Mrs. Barrows and to the positive characteristics of Mr. Martin?

3. What are the peculiarities of the composition of the story? How different are various parts of the story?

4. Analyse the words of the story and try to define the genre of it. Is the «Catbird seat» a believable story? Do you think the author intended it to be?

 

4

Michael Foster

Later

It’s queer, the things you remember. When life has crumbled suddenly, and left you standing there, alone. It’s not the big important things that you remember when you come to that: not the plans of years, not the love nor the hopes you’ve worked so hard for. It’s the little things that you remember then: the little things you hadn’t noticed at the time. The way a hand touched yours, and you too busy to notice; the hopeful little inflection of a voice you didn’t really bother to listen to...

John Carmody found that out, staring through the living-room window at the cheerful Tuesday-afternoon life of the street. He kept trying to think about the big, important things, lost now — the years and the plans, and the hopes. And the love. But he couldn’t quite get them focused sharply in his mind, just now. Not this afternoon.

They, those important things, were like a huge but nebulous background in his mind. All he could remember, now, was a queer little thing: nothing, really, if you stopped and thought about it in the light of the years and the plans and the — the great love. It was only something his little girl had said to him. One evening, two — perhaps three weeks ago. Nothing, if you looked at it rationally. The sort of thing that kids are always saying. But it was what he was remembering, now.

That particular night, he had brought home from the office a finished draft of the annual stockholders’ report. Very important, it was. Things being as they were, it meant a great deal—to his future; to the future of his wife and his little girl. He sat down to reread it before dinner. It had to be right: it meant so much.

And just as he turned a page, Marge, his little girl, came with a book under her arm. It was a green-covered book, with a fairy-tale picture pasted on it. And she said: «Look, Daddy». He glanced up and said: «Oh, fine. A new book, eh?» «Yes, Daddy», she said. «Will you read me a story in it?» «No, dear. Not just now», he said.

Marge just stood there, and he read through a paragraph which told the stockholders about certain replacements in the machinery of the factory. And Marge’s voice, with timid and hopeful little inflections, was saying: «But Mummy said you probably would, Daddy». He looked up over the top of the typescript. «I’m sorry», he answered. Maybe Mummy will read it to you. I’m busy, Dear». «No», Marge said politely. «Mummy is much busier, upstairs. Won’t you read me just one story? Look it has a picture. See? Isn’t it a lovely picture, Daddy?»

«Oh, yes. Beautiful», he said. «Now, that picture has class, hasn’t it? But I do have to work tonight. Some other time»...

After that, there was quite a long silence. Marge just stood there, with the book open at the lovely picture. It was a long time before she said anything else. He read through two more pages explaining in full detail, as he had directed, the shift in markets over the past twelve months, the plans outlined by the sales department for meeting these problems which, after all, could safely be ascribed to local conditions, and the advertising program which after weeks of conferences had been devised to stabilize and even increase the demand for their products.

«But it is a lovely picture, Daddy. And the story looks so exciting», Marge said.

«I know», he said. «Ah... mmmmmmm. Some other time. Run along, now».

«I’m sure you’d enjoy it, Daddy», Marge said.

«Eh? Yes, I know I would. But later».

«Oh», Marge said. «Well, some other time, then. Will you, Daddy? Some other time?»

«Oh, of course», he said. «You bet».

But she didn’t go away. She still stood there quietly, like a good child. And after a long time, she put the book down on the stool at his feet, and said:

«Well, whenever you get ready, just read it to yourself. Only read it loud enough so I can hear, too».

«Sure», he said. «Sure. Later».

And that was what John Carmody was remembering. Now. Not the long plans of love and care for the years ahead. He was remembering the way a well-mannered child had touched his hand with timid little fingers, and said:

«Just read it to yourself. Only read it loud enough so I can hear, too».

And that was why, now, he put his hand on the book. From the corner table where they had piled some of Marge’s playthings, picking them up from the floor where she had left them.

The book wasn’t new any more; and the green cover was dented and thumbed. He opened it to the lovely picture.

And reading that story, his lips moving stiffly with anguish to form the words, he didn’t try to think any more, as he should be thinking, about the important things: about his careful and shrewd and loving plans for the years to come; and for a little while he forgot, even, the horror and bitterness of his hate for the half-drunken punk kid who had careened down the street in a secondhand car—and who was now in jail on manslaughter charges.

He didn’t even see his wife, white and silent, dressed for Marge’s funeral, standing in the doorway, trying to make her voice say calmly: «I’m ready, dear. We must go».

Because John Carmody was reading:

«Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived in a woodcutter hut, in the Black Forest. And she was so fair that the birds forgot their singing from the bough, looking at her. And there came a day when...»

He was reading it to himself. But loud enough for her to hear, too. Maybe.

Exploring Ideas and Questions for Discussion

1. What are the compositional peculiarities of the story? What’s the essence of the first paragragh of the story?

2. What’s the topical word of the story? How do you know it?

3. What’s the function of the syntactic repetition in the story?

4. What does the title of the story mean? What about the contextual and the dictionary meanings of the word «latеr»?

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