Read Online Some Came Running by James Jones - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Jones
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more. They weren’t speaking when I left here.”
His father stumped straight to the bar without looking around, took off the mackinaw, and sat down. He ordered a beer. Under the overall straps, he wore a light blue workman’s shirt, scrupulously clean. In fact, all his clothes were clean Dave noted with surprise, all except the weathered red mackinaw. They didn’t look like the clothes of a workingman. But then why should they? he thought, he’s been living on the pension almost ten years.
It was hard to believe, sitting here and looking at him (and aware of the others watching) that this old man was his father, his flesh-and-blood parent. They really had had so very little to do with each other, and Dave didn’t really feel anything about him, nothing at all. Nothing except that the thought of the word father, the abstraction, sent blood pounding against the backs of his eyeballs. Thinking about the old man coldly was one thing, but seeing him in front of you was another, not so objective.
Of course, part of the emotion was due to knowing these three men were sitting here watching him intently.
Actually, to all intents and purposes, he had never really had a father. From the time he was in the fifth grade, Brother Frank had been the only father he had had. But even before that he had known he hadn’t had one. A lot of times, he had surprised upon the face of the old man that look that he, the child, couldn’t make out but intuitively understood. Later on, he, the adult, had seen the same look on the faces of other men a great many more than our civic leaders are willing to admit, he thought, and remembering had been able to understand it. They these other men would sit and tell him all about their wonderful sons and daughters and display their photographs, and upon their faces would be the same look that once had been on the old man’s face, when he would sit around in the flimsy (but comfortable) workingman’s house in the evening after work and stare at his six offspring with a look of bewildered ire as if wondering where they had come from and what connection could they possibly have with such a simple thing as a Saturday night lay.
But at least, Dave thought, he didn’t pretend to love us with that mealy-mouthed virtue, or put on pompous airs about his family responsibility, or expect us to love him—all of which Brother Frank had immediately done when, hating them all for cramping him, he had been forced by their existence and by the circumstances of social approval to become the family’s sole caretaker.
From the corner of his eye, he became aware of Dewey Cole opening his mouth to say something further and he turned back to him.
“What I don’t see is why they never got a divorce,” Dewey said.
For a moment, Dave couldn’t figure out what he was talking about. He had to think back, way back, to what he himself had last said, before he realized that Dewey was only carrying on the conversation.
“Why?” he said. “They both seem to be satisfied as they are. Besides, the old lady don’t believe in it.”
“Hell, I thought that was only Catholics,” Dewey grinned. “That’s no kind of woman to be married to.”
“There used to be a lot more of them,” Dave said. “They were just products of their time. I think I’ll go over and say hello to the old son of a bitch,” he said with a grin, and got up, and walked over to the bar. He said the first thing that came into his head. “Hello. How’s the welding business?”
The old man at the bar, who resembled a caricature of his father, looked up at him piercingly. He is over seventy, Dave thought. He had been stocky once, but age had wizened him and made him look birdlike. The long scrawny neck and beak of a German nose and the unwinking eyes under the domed railroader’s cap all made him look like a topknotted kingfisher.
“I ain’t in it no more,” he said. “I’m retard.” If he recognized his youngest son, he hid it well.
His father stumped straight to the bar without looking around, took off the mackinaw, and sat down. He ordered a beer. Under the overall straps, he wore a light blue workman’s shirt, scrupulously clean. In fact, all his clothes were clean Dave noted with surprise, all except the weathered red mackinaw. They didn’t look like the clothes of a workingman. But then why should they? he thought, he’s been living on the pension almost ten years.
It was hard to believe, sitting here and looking at him (and aware of the others watching) that this old man was his father, his flesh-and-blood parent. They really had had so very little to do with each other, and Dave didn’t really feel anything about him, nothing at all. Nothing except that the thought of the word father, the abstraction, sent blood pounding against the backs of his eyeballs. Thinking about the old man coldly was one thing, but seeing him in front of you was another, not so objective.
Of course, part of the emotion was due to knowing these three men were sitting here watching him intently.
Actually, to all intents and purposes, he had never really had a father. From the time he was in the fifth grade, Brother Frank had been the only father he had had. But even before that he had known he hadn’t had one. A lot of times, he had surprised upon the face of the old man that look that he, the child, couldn’t make out but intuitively understood. Later on, he, the adult, had seen the same look on the faces of other men a great many more than our civic leaders are willing to admit, he thought, and remembering had been able to understand it. They these other men would sit and tell him all about their wonderful sons and daughters and display their photographs, and upon their faces would be the same look that once had been on the old man’s face, when he would sit around in the flimsy (but comfortable) workingman’s house in the evening after work and stare at his six offspring with a look of bewildered ire as if wondering where they had come from and what connection could they possibly have with such a simple thing as a Saturday night lay.
But at least, Dave thought, he didn’t pretend to love us with that mealy-mouthed virtue, or put on pompous airs about his family responsibility, or expect us to love him—all of which Brother Frank had immediately done when, hating them all for cramping him, he had been forced by their existence and by the circumstances of social approval to become the family’s sole caretaker.
From the corner of his eye, he became aware of Dewey Cole opening his mouth to say something further and he turned back to him.
“What I don’t see is why they never got a divorce,” Dewey said.
For a moment, Dave couldn’t figure out what he was talking about. He had to think back, way back, to what he himself had last said, before he realized that Dewey was only carrying on the conversation.
“Why?” he said. “They both seem to be satisfied as they are. Besides, the old lady don’t believe in it.”
“Hell, I thought that was only Catholics,” Dewey grinned. “That’s no kind of woman to be married to.”
“There used to be a lot more of them,” Dave said. “They were just products of their time. I think I’ll go over and say hello to the old son of a bitch,” he said with a grin, and got up, and walked over to the bar. He said the first thing that came into his head. “Hello. How’s the welding business?”
The old man at the bar, who resembled a caricature of his father, looked up at him piercingly. He is over seventy, Dave thought. He had been stocky once, but age had wizened him and made him look birdlike. The long scrawny neck and beak of a German nose and the unwinking eyes under the domed railroader’s cap all made him look like a topknotted kingfisher.
“I ain’t in it no more,” he said. “I’m retard.” If he recognized his youngest son, he hid it well.
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