Emory said. “That’s my belief.”
“Well, maybe not.”
Saul inhaled from the cigarette, and Emory came closer toward him and sat down on the floor. He gave off the smell of turpentine, and he had two or three tiny flecks of white paint in his hair close to his ear. He rubbed at his boy’s beard again. “Do you remember me from school?”
Saul leaned back. He tried to think. “Sure, of course I do. You sat in the back and you played with a ballpoint pen. You used to sketch the other kids in the class. Once when we were doing the First World War, you said it didn’t make any sense no matter how much you read about it. I remember your report on the League of Nations. You stared out the window a lot. You sat near Annie in my class, and you passed notes to her.”
“I didn’t think you’d notice that much about me. Or remember.” Emory whistled toward the dog, who thumped her tail and waddled over toward Emory’s lap. “I wasn’t very good. I thought it was a waste of time, no offense. I wanted to get married, that’s all. I wanted to get married to Anne, and I wanted to be outside, not stuck inside, doing something, making a living, earning money. The thing is, I’m different now.” He stood up, as if he were about to demonstrate how different he had become or had thought of something important to say.
“How are you different?”
“I’m real happy,” Emory said, looking toward the kitchen. “I bet you don’t believe that. I bet you think: Here’s this kid and his wife and baby, out here, ignorant as a couple of plain pigs, and how could they be happy? But it’s weird. You can’t tell about anything.” He was looking away from Saul. “Schools tell you that people like me aren’t supposed to be happy or . . . what’s that word you used in class all the time? ‘Fulfilled’? Yeah, that’s it.” He sneered at Saul so quickly that it was like a flashbulb popping. “We’re not supposed to be that. But we’re doing okay. But then I’m not trying to tell you anything.”
“I know, Emory. I know that.” Saul raised his hand to his scalp and touched his bald spot.
“Hell,” Emory said, apparently building up steam, “you could work all your life to be as happy as Anne and me, and you might not do it. People . . . they try to be happy. They work at it. But it doesn’t always take.” He laughed. “I shouldn’t be talking to you this way, Mr. Bernstein, and I wouldn’t be, except it’s the middle of the night, and I’m saying stuff. You know, I respected you. But now here you are, in my living room, and I remember the grades you gave me, all those D’s, like you thought I’d never do anything in life except fail. But you can’t hurt me now because I’m not in school anymore. So I apologize. See, I apologize for messing up in school and I forgive you for flunking me out.”
Emory held out his hand, and Saul stood up and took it, thinking that he might be making a mistake.
“You shouldn’t flunk people out of school,” Emory said, “if you’re going to get drunk and roll cars.”
Saul held on to Emory’s hand and tried to grip hard and diligently in return. “I didn’t get drunk, Emory. I fell asleep. And you didn’t
flunk
out. You
dropped
out.”
Emory released his hand. “Well, I don’t care,” he said. “I was sleeping when you came to our door. I don’t go to parties anymore because I have to get up and work. I sleep because I’m married and working. I can’t see anything outside of that.”
Saul suddenly wanted Patsy back in this room, so that they could go. Who the hell did this boy think he was, anyway?
“Well, none of this is nothing,” Emory said at last. “I don’t blame you for anything at all. Maybe you did me a favor. I had to do something in my life, so I rented this farm. I’m reading up on horticulture.” He pronounced the word carefully and proudly. “You want to sleep on the floor, you can, or on the sofa there. And there’s a spare
“Well, maybe not.”
Saul inhaled from the cigarette, and Emory came closer toward him and sat down on the floor. He gave off the smell of turpentine, and he had two or three tiny flecks of white paint in his hair close to his ear. He rubbed at his boy’s beard again. “Do you remember me from school?”
Saul leaned back. He tried to think. “Sure, of course I do. You sat in the back and you played with a ballpoint pen. You used to sketch the other kids in the class. Once when we were doing the First World War, you said it didn’t make any sense no matter how much you read about it. I remember your report on the League of Nations. You stared out the window a lot. You sat near Annie in my class, and you passed notes to her.”
“I didn’t think you’d notice that much about me. Or remember.” Emory whistled toward the dog, who thumped her tail and waddled over toward Emory’s lap. “I wasn’t very good. I thought it was a waste of time, no offense. I wanted to get married, that’s all. I wanted to get married to Anne, and I wanted to be outside, not stuck inside, doing something, making a living, earning money. The thing is, I’m different now.” He stood up, as if he were about to demonstrate how different he had become or had thought of something important to say.
“How are you different?”
“I’m real happy,” Emory said, looking toward the kitchen. “I bet you don’t believe that. I bet you think: Here’s this kid and his wife and baby, out here, ignorant as a couple of plain pigs, and how could they be happy? But it’s weird. You can’t tell about anything.” He was looking away from Saul. “Schools tell you that people like me aren’t supposed to be happy or . . . what’s that word you used in class all the time? ‘Fulfilled’? Yeah, that’s it.” He sneered at Saul so quickly that it was like a flashbulb popping. “We’re not supposed to be that. But we’re doing okay. But then I’m not trying to tell you anything.”
“I know, Emory. I know that.” Saul raised his hand to his scalp and touched his bald spot.
“Hell,” Emory said, apparently building up steam, “you could work all your life to be as happy as Anne and me, and you might not do it. People . . . they try to be happy. They work at it. But it doesn’t always take.” He laughed. “I shouldn’t be talking to you this way, Mr. Bernstein, and I wouldn’t be, except it’s the middle of the night, and I’m saying stuff. You know, I respected you. But now here you are, in my living room, and I remember the grades you gave me, all those D’s, like you thought I’d never do anything in life except fail. But you can’t hurt me now because I’m not in school anymore. So I apologize. See, I apologize for messing up in school and I forgive you for flunking me out.”
Emory held out his hand, and Saul stood up and took it, thinking that he might be making a mistake.
“You shouldn’t flunk people out of school,” Emory said, “if you’re going to get drunk and roll cars.”
Saul held on to Emory’s hand and tried to grip hard and diligently in return. “I didn’t get drunk, Emory. I fell asleep. And you didn’t
flunk
out. You
dropped
out.”
Emory released his hand. “Well, I don’t care,” he said. “I was sleeping when you came to our door. I don’t go to parties anymore because I have to get up and work. I sleep because I’m married and working. I can’t see anything outside of that.”
Saul suddenly wanted Patsy back in this room, so that they could go. Who the hell did this boy think he was, anyway?
“Well, none of this is nothing,” Emory said at last. “I don’t blame you for anything at all. Maybe you did me a favor. I had to do something in my life, so I rented this farm. I’m reading up on horticulture.” He pronounced the word carefully and proudly. “You want to sleep on the floor, you can, or on the sofa there. And there’s a spare
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