Read Online Welcome to the Monkey House: The Special Edition by Gregory D. Sumner Kurt Vonnegut - Free Book Online
Authors: Gregory D. Sumner Kurt Vonnegut
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very beautiful there.”
“And what am I supposed to say—that you’re stunningly handsome? That I feel an overwhelming desire to throw myself into your manly arms?”
“If you wanted to make me happy, that would certainly be the way to do it.” He said that humbly.
“And what about
my
happiness?”
The question seemed to puzzle him. “Nancy—that’s what this is all about.”
“What if my idea of happiness doesn’t coincide with yours?”
“And what do you think my idea of happiness is?”
“I’m not going to throw myself into your arms, and I’m not going to drink that poison, and I’m not going to budge from here unless somebody makes me,” said Nancy. “So I think your idea of happiness is going to turn out to be eight people holding me down on that table, while you bravely hold a cocked pistol to my head—and do what you want. That’s the way it’s going to have to be, so call your friends and get it over with!”
Which he did.
· · ·
He didn’t hurt her. He deflowered her with a clinical skill she found ghastly. When it was all over, he didn’t seem cocky or proud. On the contrary, he was terribly depressed, and he said to Nancy, “Believe me, if there’d been any other way—”
Her reply to this was a face like stone—and silent tears of humiliation.
His helpers let down a folding bunk from the wall. It was scarcely wider than a bookshelf and hung on chains. Nancy allowed herself to be put to bed in it, and she was left alone with Billy the Poet again. Big as she was, like a double bass wedged onto that narrow shelf, she felt like a pitiful little thing. A scratchy, war-surplus blanket had been tucked in around her. It was her own idea to pull up a corner of the blanket to hide her face.
Nancy sensed from sounds what Billy was doing, which wasn’t much. He was sitting at the table, sighing occasionally, sniffing occasionally, turning the pages of a book. He lit a cigar and the stink of it seeped under her blanket. Billy inhaled the cigar, then coughed and coughed and coughed.
When the coughing died down, Nancy said loathingly through the blanket, “You’re so strong, so masterful, so healthy. It must be wonderful to be so manly.”
Billy only sighed at this.
“I’m not a very typical nothinghead,” she said. “I hated it—hated everything about it.”
Billy sniffed, turned a page.
“I suppose all the other women just loved it—couldn’t get enough of it.”
“Nope.”
She uncovered her face. “What do you mean, ‘Nope’?”
“They’ve all been like you.”
This was enough to make Nancy sit up and stare at him. “The women who helped you tonight——”
“What about them?”
“You’ve done to them what you did to me?”
He didn’t look up from his book. “That’s right.”
“Then why don’t they kill you instead of helping you?”
“Because they understand.” And then he added mildly, “They’re
grateful
.”
Nancy got out of bed, came to the table, gripped the edge of the table, leaned close to him. And she said to him tautly, “I am not grateful.”
“You will be.”
“And what could possibly bring about that miracle?”
“Time,” said Billy.
Billy closed his book, stood up. Nancy was confused by his magnetism. Somehow he was very much in charge again.
“What you’ve been through, Nancy,” he said, “is a typical wedding night for a strait-laced girl of a hundred years ago, when everybody was a nothinghead. The groom did without helpers, because the bride wasn’t customarily ready to kill him. Otherwise, the spirit of the occasion was much the same. These are the pajamas my great-great-grandfather wore on his wedding night in Niagara Falls.
“According to his diary, his bride cried all that night, and threw up twice. But, with the passage of time, she became a sexual enthusiast.”
It was Nancy’s turn to reply by not replying. She understood the tale. It frightened her to understand so easily that,
“And what am I supposed to say—that you’re stunningly handsome? That I feel an overwhelming desire to throw myself into your manly arms?”
“If you wanted to make me happy, that would certainly be the way to do it.” He said that humbly.
“And what about
my
happiness?”
The question seemed to puzzle him. “Nancy—that’s what this is all about.”
“What if my idea of happiness doesn’t coincide with yours?”
“And what do you think my idea of happiness is?”
“I’m not going to throw myself into your arms, and I’m not going to drink that poison, and I’m not going to budge from here unless somebody makes me,” said Nancy. “So I think your idea of happiness is going to turn out to be eight people holding me down on that table, while you bravely hold a cocked pistol to my head—and do what you want. That’s the way it’s going to have to be, so call your friends and get it over with!”
Which he did.
· · ·
He didn’t hurt her. He deflowered her with a clinical skill she found ghastly. When it was all over, he didn’t seem cocky or proud. On the contrary, he was terribly depressed, and he said to Nancy, “Believe me, if there’d been any other way—”
Her reply to this was a face like stone—and silent tears of humiliation.
His helpers let down a folding bunk from the wall. It was scarcely wider than a bookshelf and hung on chains. Nancy allowed herself to be put to bed in it, and she was left alone with Billy the Poet again. Big as she was, like a double bass wedged onto that narrow shelf, she felt like a pitiful little thing. A scratchy, war-surplus blanket had been tucked in around her. It was her own idea to pull up a corner of the blanket to hide her face.
Nancy sensed from sounds what Billy was doing, which wasn’t much. He was sitting at the table, sighing occasionally, sniffing occasionally, turning the pages of a book. He lit a cigar and the stink of it seeped under her blanket. Billy inhaled the cigar, then coughed and coughed and coughed.
When the coughing died down, Nancy said loathingly through the blanket, “You’re so strong, so masterful, so healthy. It must be wonderful to be so manly.”
Billy only sighed at this.
“I’m not a very typical nothinghead,” she said. “I hated it—hated everything about it.”
Billy sniffed, turned a page.
“I suppose all the other women just loved it—couldn’t get enough of it.”
“Nope.”
She uncovered her face. “What do you mean, ‘Nope’?”
“They’ve all been like you.”
This was enough to make Nancy sit up and stare at him. “The women who helped you tonight——”
“What about them?”
“You’ve done to them what you did to me?”
He didn’t look up from his book. “That’s right.”
“Then why don’t they kill you instead of helping you?”
“Because they understand.” And then he added mildly, “They’re
grateful
.”
Nancy got out of bed, came to the table, gripped the edge of the table, leaned close to him. And she said to him tautly, “I am not grateful.”
“You will be.”
“And what could possibly bring about that miracle?”
“Time,” said Billy.
Billy closed his book, stood up. Nancy was confused by his magnetism. Somehow he was very much in charge again.
“What you’ve been through, Nancy,” he said, “is a typical wedding night for a strait-laced girl of a hundred years ago, when everybody was a nothinghead. The groom did without helpers, because the bride wasn’t customarily ready to kill him. Otherwise, the spirit of the occasion was much the same. These are the pajamas my great-great-grandfather wore on his wedding night in Niagara Falls.
“According to his diary, his bride cried all that night, and threw up twice. But, with the passage of time, she became a sexual enthusiast.”
It was Nancy’s turn to reply by not replying. She understood the tale. It frightened her to understand so easily that,
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