Read Online We All Killed Grandma by Fredric Brown - Free Book Online Page B

grand?”
    “Take a trip, a vacation, a sea change. See South America or Africa or—Paris. What’s wrong with Paris?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “What
is
wrong with Paris?”
    The waitress brought my doughnuts and coffee and refilled Arch’s cup. When she’d gone he said, “I mean it, Rod. Seriously, it’s just exactly what you ought to do. You can’t kid me—I know this thing, the burglary and murder and your amnesia, has got you rocking on your heels. You’re all mixed up—and God knows why you don’t want a psychiatrist to straighten you out. But the next best thing is to take yourself a nice long vacation. So all right, you want to go back and write advertising, but what’s the hurry about it? Travel awhile.”
    “And get away from it all? There’s only one catch, Arch, I don’t want to.”
    He looked disgusted, and maybe I was being disgusting. I couldn’t explain, certainly, why I didn’t want to do what he suggested. Not that I’m allergic to travel, although covering North America in the Linc would appeal to me more than foreign travel. But not now, not under these circumstances. I’d be running away from things and trying to run away from myself. And that doesn’t work. The best place to find something is where you lost it.
    Arch was shaking his head, “How you’re even a
half
  brother of mine escapes me. I couldn’t even put you in a play; nobody would believe me. Here you are suddenly rich, and hell-bent to get back to a two-hundred-a-week job.”
    I hadn’t known, or thought to ask anybody, how much I’d been earning, but two hundred a week sounded reasonable to me.
    I asked, “Do you intend to travel, Arch?”
    “Next summer, not this one, Too late this season for what I want to do, now that I can. Spend my summers in New England where there’s a lot of summer theater so Ican get a play or two of mine on the boards. Lots of producers from New York see summer theater plays up there.”
    I wondered, just out of curiosity, whether Arch really had anything on the ball as a playwright. It’s a tough racket to crash, much tougher than writing books for instance. I don’t know whether a play’s harder to write than a book or not, but there are hundreds of books published to every play that actually reaches the stage. Well, if that was what Arch wanted to do, that was his business, not mine.
    My mind went back to last night, to that look on Robin’s face.
    “Arch,” I said, “I’ve asked you before how much you know about what went wrong between Robin and me.”
    “And I told you that I don’t know very much about it. Neither of you cried on my shoulder or confided in me. All I know is, Rod, she wasn’t good for you. You tried not to show it, but you were pretty damned unhappy for quite a while. Whatever was wrong with your marriage, you’re better off out of it.”
    “You told me that,” I said. “Here’s what I want to ask now. Do you think I might ever have given Robin cause to fear me, physically? Hit her or been cruel to her in any way? Or threatened her?”
    For seconds he looked at me blankly. Then, suddenly, he put his head back and howled with laughter. He laughed so hard that people sitting at the soda counter turned and looked at us.
    It was real laughter, genuine amusement.
    “
You
, Rod?” he said, when he’d managed to quit laughing. “The boy who wouldn’t go fishing because you hated to hurt a fish with a hook. And who grew up into a guy who’s more careful about hurting the feelings of a shoeshine boy than most people are about hurting the feelings of their bosses. And now you ask me if you might have beaten your wife! Listen, if anything, the trouble was the other way around.”
    I wasn’t feeling funny but I couldn’t resist asking, “You mean she beat me?”
    Arch grinned. “That wasn’t quite what I meant. Listen,it’s ten o’clock. We’d better go upstairs. Don’t want to keep Hennig waiting since I’m going to make a