fired.”
“Oh, come on, kid,” Marty said. “You’re not being fired. You’ll still be on salary. Not as much, of course—I can’t afford that—but enough to keep you and Lou going. This’ll be over soon, kid. And—well, Christ, the GI loan’ll be coming through any day now anyway, and then—”
Scott’s feet thudded on the top of the wicker table. Without pausing, he started across the wide expanse, lips set tightly in the thick blond wreathing of his beard.
Why did he have to see that newspaper and go off on another fruitless journey to the past? Memory was such a worthless thing, really. Nothing it dealt with was attainable. It was concerned with phantom acts and feelings, with all that was uncapturable except in thought. It was without satisfaction. Mostly it hurt.…
He stood at the edge of the tabletop, wondering how he was going to get down to the hanging strap. He stood indecisively, shifting from leg to leg, wriggling the toes of the lifted foot gingerly. His feet were getting cold again. The ache in his right leg was returning, too; he’d almost forgotten it while he was collecting crumbs, the constant movement loosening and warming him. And his throat was getting sore again.
He walked behind the paint can whose handle he had grabbed before and, bracing his back against it, pushed. The can didn’t move. Turning around, he planted his feet firmly and pushed with all his strength. The can remained fixed. Scott walked around it, breathing hard with strain. With great effort, he was able to draw the handle outslightly so that it protruded over the edge of the table.
He rested for a moment, then swung over the space and dangled there until his searching feet found the strip and pressed down on it.
Cautiously he put one hand on the tabletop. Then, after a moment of feeling for balance, he let go of the paint-can handle and lowered himself quickly. His feet slipped off the ledge, but his convulsively thrusting arms caught hold of it and he clambered back on.
After a few seconds he leaped across to the spar arrangement.
The descent along the rod-spaced incline was simple; too simple to prevent the return of memories. As he slid and edged down the length of the incline, he thought of the afternoon he’d come home from the shop after the talk with Marty.
He remembered how still the apartment was, Lou and Beth out shopping. He remembered going into the bedroom and sitting on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring down at his dangling legs.
He didn’t know how long it had been before he’d looked up and seen a suit of his old clothes hanging on the back of the door. He’d looked at it, then got up and gone over to it. He’d had to stand on a chair to reach it. For a moment he held the dragging weight of it in his arms. Then, not knowing why, he pulled the jacket off the hanger and put it on.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror, looking at himself.
That’s all he did at first, just stood looking—at his hands, lost deep in the sagging hollow of the dark sleeves; at the hem of the coat, far below his calves; at the way the coat hung around him like a tent. It didn’t strike him then; the disparity was too severe. He only stared at himself, his face blank.
Then it did strike him, as if for the first time.
It was his own coat he wore.
A wheezing giggle puffed out his cheeks. It disappeared. Silence while he gaped at his reflection.
He snickered hollowly at the child playing grownup. His chest began to shake with restrained laughs. They sounded like sobs.
He couldn’t hold them back. They poured up his throat and pushed out between shaking lips. Sobbing laughter burst out against the mirror. He felt his body trembling with it. The room began to resound with his taut, shrill laughter.
He looked at the mirror again, tears raining down his cheeks. Hedid a little dance step and the coat puffed out, the sleeve ends flapping. Screeching with a deranged appreciation, he flailed
“Oh, come on, kid,” Marty said. “You’re not being fired. You’ll still be on salary. Not as much, of course—I can’t afford that—but enough to keep you and Lou going. This’ll be over soon, kid. And—well, Christ, the GI loan’ll be coming through any day now anyway, and then—”
Scott’s feet thudded on the top of the wicker table. Without pausing, he started across the wide expanse, lips set tightly in the thick blond wreathing of his beard.
Why did he have to see that newspaper and go off on another fruitless journey to the past? Memory was such a worthless thing, really. Nothing it dealt with was attainable. It was concerned with phantom acts and feelings, with all that was uncapturable except in thought. It was without satisfaction. Mostly it hurt.…
He stood at the edge of the tabletop, wondering how he was going to get down to the hanging strap. He stood indecisively, shifting from leg to leg, wriggling the toes of the lifted foot gingerly. His feet were getting cold again. The ache in his right leg was returning, too; he’d almost forgotten it while he was collecting crumbs, the constant movement loosening and warming him. And his throat was getting sore again.
He walked behind the paint can whose handle he had grabbed before and, bracing his back against it, pushed. The can didn’t move. Turning around, he planted his feet firmly and pushed with all his strength. The can remained fixed. Scott walked around it, breathing hard with strain. With great effort, he was able to draw the handle outslightly so that it protruded over the edge of the table.
He rested for a moment, then swung over the space and dangled there until his searching feet found the strip and pressed down on it.
Cautiously he put one hand on the tabletop. Then, after a moment of feeling for balance, he let go of the paint-can handle and lowered himself quickly. His feet slipped off the ledge, but his convulsively thrusting arms caught hold of it and he clambered back on.
After a few seconds he leaped across to the spar arrangement.
The descent along the rod-spaced incline was simple; too simple to prevent the return of memories. As he slid and edged down the length of the incline, he thought of the afternoon he’d come home from the shop after the talk with Marty.
He remembered how still the apartment was, Lou and Beth out shopping. He remembered going into the bedroom and sitting on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring down at his dangling legs.
He didn’t know how long it had been before he’d looked up and seen a suit of his old clothes hanging on the back of the door. He’d looked at it, then got up and gone over to it. He’d had to stand on a chair to reach it. For a moment he held the dragging weight of it in his arms. Then, not knowing why, he pulled the jacket off the hanger and put it on.
He stood in front of the full-length mirror, looking at himself.
That’s all he did at first, just stood looking—at his hands, lost deep in the sagging hollow of the dark sleeves; at the hem of the coat, far below his calves; at the way the coat hung around him like a tent. It didn’t strike him then; the disparity was too severe. He only stared at himself, his face blank.
Then it did strike him, as if for the first time.
It was his own coat he wore.
A wheezing giggle puffed out his cheeks. It disappeared. Silence while he gaped at his reflection.
He snickered hollowly at the child playing grownup. His chest began to shake with restrained laughs. They sounded like sobs.
He couldn’t hold them back. They poured up his throat and pushed out between shaking lips. Sobbing laughter burst out against the mirror. He felt his body trembling with it. The room began to resound with his taut, shrill laughter.
He looked at the mirror again, tears raining down his cheeks. Hedid a little dance step and the coat puffed out, the sleeve ends flapping. Screeching with a deranged appreciation, he flailed
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