ahead.”
“Right,” ’Bama said, and made as if to get out of the booth. He seemed jitterish to get going. “And we’ll go from there to Smitty’s.” He got out so Dave could sit back down. He did not have a topcoat.
“Where’s Smitty’s?” Dave said.
“Another bar. Out north.” ’Bama was now standing motionless, his hands jammed under his coat skirts in his pants pockets, looking out through the window up front at the wet streets and damp cars, the shining Stetson still just exactly where it had been ever since he’d pushed it back with his thumb when Dave first met him.
Dave had again that strange feeling of having been dumped unceremoniously into the middle of this town, right square into the middle of its personalities and conflicts and allegiances. Dumped like a chunk of beef, down into a yowling pack of cats. He sat down.
“It’s funny,” he said aloud, “me showing up back here, and meeting people, and finding out so much about so many others. I never had any idea there was as much going on in this town as there seems to be.”
“Oh, this is quite a town,” Dewey said almost protectively. “There’s a lot more goes on in this town than an out-of-stater drivin through might think. And sooner or later, this place right here is where it all winds up and where the business all gets done.
“Unless of course you belong to the Elks or Country Club,” he said.
“Here or Smitty’s,” the standing ’Bama said indifferently.
“There don’t seem to be much winding up here right now,” Dave said.
“This is working hours now. Wait’ll this afternoon. And after supper,” Dewey said. “This is where your old man hangs out most the time,” he added.
Dave grinned. “Pop?” Again he felt that pointless desire to laugh. “Has he changed his name yet?” he asked.
“Nope, not yet,” Dewey said. “It’s still Herschmidt. Old Man Herschmidt, that’s what everybody calls him.”
“I figured he hadn’t,” Dave said. “I bet that makes Frank happy,” he said.
“I bet it does,” Dewey said. “After he went to all that trouble to get it changed. Why the hell would anybody want to get his name changed? I might could see changing it to something different maybe. But to change it from Herschmidt to Hirsh!”
“He did that when Pop ran off,” Dave said. He grinned. “I guess he thought it sounded higher class. And you say this is where the old man hangs out, hunh?”
“Yeah. Whenever he can scrounge up the price of a beer,” Dewey said. “He’s on the old age pension now.”
What a family Dave thought, and I’m part of it.
“As a matter of fact,” ’Bama said from where he still stood motionless, “I think that’s him coming in the door right now.” He took his hands out of his pockets and turned and leaned on his arm over the booth back facing the room, impassive, at ease, and all ready to watch.
Oh no, Dave thought, Not now. Not right on top of all that other. All the old hate, and the child’s hurt inability to understand, that was all gone. But what a fitting climax to a lovely afternoon and he even had an audience.
He had not been watching, and his first inclination was to jerk his head around to look. But something in ’Bama’s voice stopped him, some deliberate understatement. Casually, after a moment, he turned his head toward the door, where the stooped stringy looking figure dressed in overalls, work shoes, high railroader’s cap and a red-blanket mackinaw was coming in out of the light. The others were looking, too.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard his first name,” Dewey said. “What is it?”
“Victor,” Dave said, watching his father. “But I don’t think I ever heard him called that,” he said. “Except maybe by the old lady when I was a kid.”
“I’d never heard it,” Dewey said. “I guess I told you they still weren’t speaking, didn’t I?”
‘Yeah,” Dave said, “But then that’s been goin on for twenty years or
“Right,” ’Bama said, and made as if to get out of the booth. He seemed jitterish to get going. “And we’ll go from there to Smitty’s.” He got out so Dave could sit back down. He did not have a topcoat.
“Where’s Smitty’s?” Dave said.
“Another bar. Out north.” ’Bama was now standing motionless, his hands jammed under his coat skirts in his pants pockets, looking out through the window up front at the wet streets and damp cars, the shining Stetson still just exactly where it had been ever since he’d pushed it back with his thumb when Dave first met him.
Dave had again that strange feeling of having been dumped unceremoniously into the middle of this town, right square into the middle of its personalities and conflicts and allegiances. Dumped like a chunk of beef, down into a yowling pack of cats. He sat down.
“It’s funny,” he said aloud, “me showing up back here, and meeting people, and finding out so much about so many others. I never had any idea there was as much going on in this town as there seems to be.”
“Oh, this is quite a town,” Dewey said almost protectively. “There’s a lot more goes on in this town than an out-of-stater drivin through might think. And sooner or later, this place right here is where it all winds up and where the business all gets done.
“Unless of course you belong to the Elks or Country Club,” he said.
“Here or Smitty’s,” the standing ’Bama said indifferently.
“There don’t seem to be much winding up here right now,” Dave said.
“This is working hours now. Wait’ll this afternoon. And after supper,” Dewey said. “This is where your old man hangs out most the time,” he added.
Dave grinned. “Pop?” Again he felt that pointless desire to laugh. “Has he changed his name yet?” he asked.
“Nope, not yet,” Dewey said. “It’s still Herschmidt. Old Man Herschmidt, that’s what everybody calls him.”
“I figured he hadn’t,” Dave said. “I bet that makes Frank happy,” he said.
“I bet it does,” Dewey said. “After he went to all that trouble to get it changed. Why the hell would anybody want to get his name changed? I might could see changing it to something different maybe. But to change it from Herschmidt to Hirsh!”
“He did that when Pop ran off,” Dave said. He grinned. “I guess he thought it sounded higher class. And you say this is where the old man hangs out, hunh?”
“Yeah. Whenever he can scrounge up the price of a beer,” Dewey said. “He’s on the old age pension now.”
What a family Dave thought, and I’m part of it.
“As a matter of fact,” ’Bama said from where he still stood motionless, “I think that’s him coming in the door right now.” He took his hands out of his pockets and turned and leaned on his arm over the booth back facing the room, impassive, at ease, and all ready to watch.
Oh no, Dave thought, Not now. Not right on top of all that other. All the old hate, and the child’s hurt inability to understand, that was all gone. But what a fitting climax to a lovely afternoon and he even had an audience.
He had not been watching, and his first inclination was to jerk his head around to look. But something in ’Bama’s voice stopped him, some deliberate understatement. Casually, after a moment, he turned his head toward the door, where the stooped stringy looking figure dressed in overalls, work shoes, high railroader’s cap and a red-blanket mackinaw was coming in out of the light. The others were looking, too.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard his first name,” Dewey said. “What is it?”
“Victor,” Dave said, watching his father. “But I don’t think I ever heard him called that,” he said. “Except maybe by the old lady when I was a kid.”
“I’d never heard it,” Dewey said. “I guess I told you they still weren’t speaking, didn’t I?”
‘Yeah,” Dave said, “But then that’s been goin on for twenty years or
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