The Laughing Matter by William Saroyan Page B

Eva,” Red said, “I just
said
I was.” He turned away from Eva to the woman, who was standing now. “I wish you’d seen me, Mama. Papa saw me. I wish you’d seen me, too.”
    â€œThe man phoned,” the woman said, her voice itself saying
help me
.
    â€œWhat man?”
    â€œI forget his name. He said he was sorry but the children wanted to go away.”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œThe one you asked to dinner. He said they couldn’t come.”
    â€œWho is it, Papa?” Red said.
    â€œWarren Walz,” the man said.
    â€œYes, that’s the one,” the woman said. “He said they’d love us to go to their house sometime.” She looked at him, to ask for help again, but again he couldn’t look at her. He’d glanced at her when he’d come in, and then he’d not looked at her again. “I’ve got lunch for the children on the table,” she said. “I wonder if they both shouldn’t have naps after lunch. It’s a hot day and so many things have happened, I wonder if—— Wouldn’t you like to lie down and rest after lunch, Red?”
    â€œWell,” Red said. “Well, Mama, I didn’t think of it, but I
could
go to my room and close the door and just be there a while, I guess. I
might
lie down, too. I don’t know.”
    â€œI thought,” she said to the man, “perhaps we could speak quietly while they rested.”
    The boy watched them, feeling, but not understanding, what was going on. The smell of the locomotive was still with him—the smell of coal, fire, steam, and steel—but he could still smell the rocks, too, only he hadn’t found any rocks in the house. He smelled something else now, too. It was something that didn’t come from things but from people. It wasn’t a glad thing at all.
    â€œI thought——” she said.
    â€œHow about washing up, Red?” the man said. “You, too, Eva.”
    Red and Eva went off together to the bathroom.
    They were alone in the parlor, the woman waiting for him to look at her, but he couldn’t. All he could do was stand there. He couldn’t go, or talk.
    â€œI thought——” she said again.
    â€œYou didn’t think anything,” he said. He spoke quietly, perhaps because there was no other way to talk to her now, or because he didn’t want the children to hear.
    â€œYou didn’t think anything, so just shut up.”
    She went to the kitchen, and he went out to the front porch, but that was where she’d told him, so he went down the steps, across the lawn, and then into the vineyard. The vines he saw were ribiers. The grapes would be ready in another couple of weeks. Some of them were ready now. They were a magnificent grape, big and black. He pushed leaves aside to look at some of the bunches that were hidden and found a number that were ready and just about perfect. The leaves were drying now, but they were still green, especially the shaded ones.
    Have pity, he thought. What’s the good of not having pity?
    I’ll have Dade find somebody to help her, he thought. He’ll know somebody. Somebody in San Francisco. I’ll take her there. I can’t help her. Whoever helps her, he won’t know who she is, he won’t know who I am, and he won’t know why he’s helping her, he’ll just help her. He’s helped others. He does it every day. It happens every day. It happens to all kinds of people.
    He wandered among the vines and came at last to the end of the vineyard, bordered by a row of alternating pomegranate and olive trees. The pomegranates were still small, their casings still whole, not burst as they would be when they ripened. They were red, their crowns small and perfect, the spears straight now, not curved as they would be later on. The olives were small and green, the branches heavy with them. He wandered down the row until he