J.D. Salinger
Just
Before the War with the Eskimos
FIVE STRAIGHT SATURDAY MORNINGS,
Ginnie Mannox had played tennis at the East Side Courts with Selena Graff, a
classmate at Miss Basehoar's. Ginnie openly considered Selena the biggest drip
at Miss Basehoar's--a school ostensibly abounding with fair-sized drips--but at
the same time she had never known anyone like Selena for bringing fresh cans of
tennis balls. Selena's father made them or something. (At dinner one night, for
the edification of the entire Mannox family, Ginnie had conjured up a vision of
dinner over at the Graffs'; it involved a perfect servant coming around to
everyone's left with, instead of a glass of tomato juice, a can of tennis
balls.) But this business of dropping Selena off at her house after tennis and
then getting stuck--every single time--for the whole cab fare was getting on
Ginnie's nerves. After all, taking the taxi home from the courts instead of the
bus had been Selena's idea. On the fifth Saturday, however, as the cab started
north in York Avenue, Ginnie suddenly spoke up.
"Hey, Selena. . ."
"What?" asked Selena, who
was busy feeling the floor of the cab with her hand. "I can't find the
cover to my racket!" she moaned.
Despite the warm May weather, both
girls were wearing topcoats over their shorts.
"You put it in your
pocket," Ginnie said. "Hey, listen--"
"Oh, God! You've saved my
life!"
"Listen," said Ginnie, who
wanted no part of Selena's gratitude.
"What?"
Ginnie decided to come right out
with it. The cab was nearly at Selena's street. "I don't feel like getting
stuck for the whole cab fare again today," she said. "I'm no
millionaire, ya know."
Selena looked first amazed, then
hurt. "Don't I always pay half?" she asked innocently.
"No," said Ginnie flatly.
"You paid half the first Saturday. Way in the beginning of last month. And
since then not even once. I don't wanna be ratty, but I'm actually existing on
four-fifty a week. And out of that I have to--"
"I always bring the tennis
balls, don't I?" Selena asked unpleasantly.
Sometimes Ginnie felt like killing
Selena. "Your father makes them or something," she said. "They
don't cost you anything. I have to pay for every single little--"
"All right, all right,"
Selena said, loudly and with finality enough to give herself the upper hand.
Looking bored, she went through the pockets of her coat. "I only have
thirty-five cents," she said coldly. "Is that enough?"
"No. I'm sorry, but you owe me
a dollar sixty-five. I've been keeping track of every--"
"I'll have to go upstairs and
get it from my mother. Can't it wait till Monday? I could bring it to gym with
me if it'd make you happy."
Selena's attitude defied clemency.
"No," Ginnie said. "I
have to go to the movies tonight. I need it."
In hostile silence, the girls stared
out of opposite windows until the cab pulled up in front of Selena's apartment
house. Then Selena, who was seated nearest the curb, let herself out. Just
barely leaving the cab door open, she walked briskly and obliviously, like
visiting Hollywood royalty, into the building. Ginnie, her face burning, paid
the fare. She then collected her tennis things--racket, hand towel, and sun
hat--and followed Selena. At fifteen, Ginnie was about five feet nine in her
9-B tennis shoes, and as she entered the lobby, her self-conscious rubber-soled
awkwardness lent her a dangerous amateur quality. It made Selena prefer to
watch the indicator dial over the elevator.
"That makes a dollar ninety you
owe me," Ginnie said, striding up to the elevator.
Selena turned. "It may just
interest you to know," she said, "that my mother is very ill."
"What's the matter with
her?"
"She virtually has pneumonia,
and if you think I'm going to enjoy disturbing her just for money . . ."
Selena delivered the incomplete sentence with all possible aplomb.
Ginnie was, in fact, slightly put
off by this information, whatever its degree of truth, but not to the point of
sentimentality. "I didn't give it to her," she said, and followed
Selena into the elevator.
When Selena had rung her apartment
bell, the girls were admitted--or rather, the door was drawn in and left
ajar--by a colored maid with whom Selena didn't seem to be on speaking terms.
Ginnie dropped her tennis things on a chair in the foyer and followed Selena.
In the living room, Selena turned and said, "Do you mind waiting here? I
may have to wake Mother up and everything."
"O.K.," Ginnie said, and
plopped down on the sofa.
"I never in my life would've
thought you could be so small about anything," said Selena, who was just
angry enough to use the word "small" but not quite brave enough to
emphasize it.
"Now you know," said Ginnie,
and opened a copy of Vogue in front of her face. She kept it in this position
till Selena had left the room, then put it back on top of the radio. She looked
around the room, mentally rearranging furniture, throwing out table lamps,
removing artificial flowers. In her opinion, it was an altogether hideous
room--expensive but cheesy.
Suddenly, a male voice shouted from
another part of the apartment, "Eric? That you?"
Ginnie guessed it was Selena's
brother, whom she had never seen. She crossed her long legs, arranged the hem
of her polo coat over her knees, and waited.
A young man wearing glasses and
pajamas and no slippers lunged into the room with his mouth open. "Oh. I
thought it was Eric, for Chrissake," he said. Without stopping, and with
extremely poor posture, he continued across the room, cradling something close
to his narrow chest. He sat down on the vacant end of the sofa. "I just
cut my goddam finger," he said rather wildly. He looked at Ginnie as if he
had expected her to be sitting there. "Ever cut your finger? Right down to
the bone and all?" he asked. There was a real appeal in his noisy voice,
as if Ginnie, by her answer, could save him from some particularly isolating
form of pioneering.
Ginnie stared at him. "Well,
not right down to the bone," she said, "but I've cut myself." He
was the funniest-looking boy, or man--it was hard to tell which he was--she had
ever seen. His hair was bed-dishevelled. He had a couple of days' growth of
sparse, blond beard. And he looked-well, goofy. "How did you cut it?"
she asked.
He was staring down, with his slack
mouth ajar, at his injured finger. "What?" he said.
"How did you cut it?"
"Goddam if I know," he
said, his inflection implying that the answer to that question was hopelessly
obscure. "I was lookin' for something in the goddam wastebasket and it was
fulla razor blades."
"You Selena's brother?"
Ginnie asked.
"Yeah. Christ, I'm bleedin' to
death. Stick around. I may need a goddam transfusion."
"Did you put anything on
it?"
Selena's brother carried his wound
slightly forward from his chest and unveiled it for Ginnie's benefit.
"Just some goddam toilet paper," he said. "Stopsa bleeding. Like
when you cut yourself shaving." He looked at Ginnie again. "Who are
you?" he asked. "Friend of the jerk's?"
"We're in the same class."
"Yeah? What's your name?"
"Virginia Mannox."
"You Ginnie?" he said,
squinting at her through his glasses. "You Ginnie Mannox?"
"Yes," said Ginnie,
uncrossing her legs.
Selena's brother turned back to his
finger, obviously for him the true and only focal point in the room. "I
know your sister," he said dispassionately. "Goddam snob."
Ginnie arched her back.
"Who is?"
"You heard me."
"She is not a snob!"
"The hell she's not," said
Selena's brother.
"She is not!"
"The hell she's not. She's the
queen. Queen of the goddam snobs."
Ginnie watched him left up and peer
under the thick folds of toilet paper on his finger.
"You don't even know my
sister."
"Hell I don't."
"What's her name? What's her
first name?" Ginnie demanded.
"Joan. . . . Joan the
Snob."
Ginnie was silent. "What's she
look like?" she asked suddenly.
No answer.
"What's she look like?"
Ginnie repeated.
"If she was half as
good-looking as she thinks she is, she'd be goddam lucky," Selena's
brother said. This had the stature of an interesting answer, in Ginnie's secret
opinion.
"I never heard her mention
you," she said.
"That worries me. That worries
hell outa me."
"Anyway, she's engaged,"
Ginnie said, watching him. "She's gonna be married next month."
"Who to?" he asked,
looking up.
Ginnie took full advantage of his
having looked up. "Nobody you know."
He resumed picking at his own
first-aid work. "I pity him," he said.
Ginnie snorted.
"It's still bleedin' like mad.
Ya think I oughta put something on it? What's good to put on it? Mercurochrome
any good?"
"Iodine's better," Ginnie
said. Then, feeling her answer was too civil under the circumstances, she
added, "Mercurochrome's no good at all for that."
"Why not? What's the matter
with it?"
"It just isn't any good for
that stuff, that's all. Ya need iodine."
He looked at Ginnie. "It stings
a lot, though, doesn't it?" he asked. "Doesn't it sting a helluva
lot?"
"It stings," Ginnie said,
"but it won't kill you or anything."
Apparently without resenting
Ginnie's tone, Selena's brother turned back to his finger. "I don't like
it when it stings," he said.
"Nobody does."
He nodded in agreement.
"Yeah," he said.
Ginnie watched him for a minute.
"Stop touching it," she said suddenly.
As though responding to an electric
shock, Selena's brother pulled back his uninjured hand. He sat up a trifle
straighter--or rather, slumped a trifle less. He looked at some object on the
other side of the room. An almost dreamy expression came over his disorderly
features. He inserted the nail of his uninjured index finger into the crevice
between two front teeth and, removing a food particle, turned to Ginnie.
"Jeat jet?" he asked.
"What?"
"Jeat lunch yet?"
Ginnie shook her head. "I'll
eat when I get home," she said. "My mother always has lunch ready for
me when I get home."
"I got a half a chicken
sandwich in my room. Ya want it? I didn't touch it or anything."
"No, thank you. Really."
"You just played tennis, for
Chrissake. Aren'tcha hungry?"
"It isn't that," said
Ginnie, crossing her legs. "It's just that my mother always has lunch
ready when I get home. She goes insane if I'm not hungry, I mean."
Selena's brother seemed to accept
this explanation. At least, he nodded and looked away. But he turned back
suddenly. "How 'bout a glassa milk?" he said.
"No, thanks.... Thank you,
though."
Absently, he bent over and scratched
his bare ankle. "What's the name of this guy she's marrying?" he
asked.
"Joan, you mean?" said
Ginnie. "Dick Heffner."
Selena's brother went on scratching
his ankle.
"He's a lieutenant commander in
the Navy," Ginnie said.
"Big deal."
Ginnie giggled. She watched him
scratch his ankle till it was red. When he began to scratch off a minor skin
eruption on his calf with his fingernail, she stopped watching.
"Where do you know Joan
from?" she asked. "I never saw you at the house or anything."
"Never been at your goddam
house."
Ginnie waited, but nothing led away
from this statement. "Where'd you meet her, then?" she asked.
"Party," he said.
"At a party? When?"
"I don't know. Christmas,
'42." From his breast pajama pocket he two-fingered out a cigarette that
looked as though it had been slept on. "How 'bout throwing me those
matches?" he said. Ginnie handed him a box of matches from the table
beside her. He lit his cigarette without straightening out its curvature, then
replaced the used match in the box. Tilting his head back, he slowly released
an enormous quantity of smoke from his mouth and drew it up through his
nostrils. He continued to smoke in this "French-inhale" style. Very
probably, it was not part of the sofa vaudeville of a showoff but, rather, the
private, exposed achievement of a young man who, at one time or another, might
have tried shaving himself lefthanded.
"Why's Joan a snob?"
Ginnie asked.
"Why? Because she is. How the
hell do I know why?"
"Yes, but I mean why do you say
she is?"
He turned to her wearily.
"Listen. I wrote her eight goddam letters. Eight. She didn't answer one of
'em."
Ginnie hesitated. "Well, maybe
she was busy."
"Yeah. Busy. Busy as a little
goddam beaver."
"Do you have to swear so
much?" Ginnie asked.
"Goddam right I do."
Ginnie giggled. "How long did
you know her, anyway?" she asked.
"Long enough."
"Well, I mean did you ever
phone her up or anything? I mean didn't you ever phone her up or
anything?"
"Naa."
"Well, my gosh. If you never
phoned her up or any--"
"I couldn't, for
Chrissake!"
"Why not?" said Ginnie.
"Wasn't in New York."
"Oh! Where were you?"
"Me? Ohio."
"Oh, were you in college?"
"Nope. Quit."
"Oh, were you in the
Army?"
"Nope." With his cigarette
hand, Selena's brother tapped the left side of his chest. "Ticker,"
he said.
"Your heart, ya mean?"
Ginnie said. "What's the matter with it?"
"I don't know what the hell's
the matter with it. I had rheumatic fever when I was a kid. Goddam pain in
the--"
"Well, aren't you supposed to
stop smoking? I mean aren't you supposed to not smoke and all? The doctor told
my--"
"Aah, they tellya a lotta
stuff," he said.
Ginnie briefly held her fire. Very
briefly. "What were you doing in Ohio?" she asked.
"Me? Working in a goddam
airplane factory."
"You were?" said Ginnie.
"Did you like it?"
"'Did you like it?'" he
mimicked. "I loved it. I just adore airplanes. They're so cute."
Ginnie was much too involved now to
feel affronted. "How long did you work there? In the airplane
factory."
"I don't know, for Chrissake.
Thirty-seven months." He stood up and walked over to the window. He looked
down at the street, scratching his spine with his thumb. "Look at
'em," he said. "Goddam fools."
"Who?" said Ginnie.
"I don't know. Anybody."
"Your finger'll start bleeding
more if you hold it down that way," Ginnie said.
He heard her. He put his left foot
up on the window seat and rested his injured hand on the horizontal thigh. He
continued to look down at the street. "They're all goin' over to the goddam
draft board," he said. "We're gonna fight the Eskimos next. Know
that?"
"The who?" said Ginnie.
"The Eskimos.... Open your
ears, for Chrissake."
"Why the Eskimos?"
"I don't know why. How the hell
should I know why? This time all the old guys're gonna go. Guys around sixty.
Nobody can go unless they're around sixty," he said. "Just give 'em
shorter hours is all. ... Big deal."
"You wouldn't have to go,
anyway," Ginnie said, without meaning anything but the truth, yet knowing
before the statement was completely out that she was saying the wrong thing.
"I know," he said quickly,
and took his foot down from the window seat. He raised the window slightly and
snapped his cigarette streetward. Then he turned, finished at the window.
"Hey. Do me a favor. When this guy comes, willya tell him I'll be ready in
a coupla seconds? I just gotta shave is all. O.K.?"
Ginnie nodded.
"Ya want me to hurry Selena up
or anything? She know you're here?"
"Oh, she knows I'm here,"
Ginnie said. "I'm in no hurry. Thank you."
Selena's brother nodded. Then he
took a last, long look at his injured finger, as if to see whether it was in
condition to make the trip back to his room.
"Why don't you put a Band-Aid
on it? Don't you have any Band-Aid or anything?"
"Naa," he said.
"Well. Take it easy." He wandered out of the room.
In a few seconds, he was back,
bringing the sandwich half.
"Eat this," he said.
"It's good."
"Really, I'm not at all--"
"Take it, for Chrissake. I
didn't poison it or anything."
Ginnie accepted the sandwich half.
"Well, thank you very much," she said.
"It's chicken," he said,
standing over her, watching her. "Bought it last night in a goddam
delicatessen."
"It looks very good."
"Well, eat it, then."
Ginnie took a bite.
"Good, huh?"
Ginnie swallowed with difficulty.
"Very," she said.
Selena's brother nodded. He looked
absently around the room, scratching the pit of his chest. "Well, I guess
I better get dressed.... Jesus! There's the bell. Take it easy, now!" He
was gone.
Left alone, Ginnie looked around,
without getting up, for a good place to throw out or hide the sandwich. She
heard someone coming through the foyer. She put the sandwich into her polo-coat
pocket.
A young man in his early thirties,
neither short nor tall, came into the room. His regular features, his short
haircut, the cut of his suit, the pattern of his foulard necktie gave out no
really final information. He might have been on the staff, or trying to get on
the staff, of a news magazine. He might have just been in a play that closed in
Philadelphia. He might have been with a law firm.
"Hello," he said,
cordially, to Ginnie. "Hello."
"Seen Franklin?" he asked.
"He's shaving. He told me to
tell you to wait for him. He'll be right out."
"Shaving. Good heavens."
The young man looked at his wristwatch. He then sat down in a red damask chair,
crossed his legs, and put his hands to his face. As if he were generally weary,
or had just undergone some form of eyestrain, he rubbed his closed eyes with
the tips of his extended fingers. "This has been the most horrible morning
of my entire life," he said, removing his hands from his face. He spoke
exclusively from the larynx, as if he were altogether too tired to put any
diaphragm breath into his words.
"What happened?" Ginnie
asked, looking at him.
"Oh. . . . It's too long a
story. I never bore people I haven't known for at least a thousand years."
He stared vaguely, discontentedly, in the direction of the windows. "But I
shall never again consider myself even the remotest judge of human nature. You
may quote me wildly on that."
"What happened?" Ginnie
repeated.
"Oh, God. This person who's
been sharing my apartment for months and months and months--I don't even want
to talk about him.... This writer," he added with satisfaction, probably
remembering a favorite anathema from a Hemingway novel.
"What'd he do?"
"Frankly, I'd just as soon not
go into details," said the young man. He took a cigarette from his own
pack, ignoring a transparent humidor on the table, and lit it with his own
lighter. His hands were large. They looked neither strong nor competent nor
sensitive. Yet he used them as if they had some not easily controllable
aesthetic drive of their own. "I've made up my mind that I'm not even
going to think about it. But I'm just so furious," he said. "I mean
here's this awful little person from Altoona, Pennsylvania--or one of those
places. Apparently starving to death. I'm kind and decent enough--I'm the
original Good Samaritan--to take him into my apartment, this absolutely
microscopic little apartment that I can hardly move around in myself. I
introduce him to all my friends. Let him clutter up the whole apartment with
his horrible manuscript papers, and cigarette butts, and radishes, and whatnot.
Introduce him to every theatrical producer in New York. Haul his filthy shirts
back and forth from the laundry. And on top of it all--" The young man
broke off. "And the result of all my kindness and decency," he went
on, "is that he walks out of the house at five or six in the
morning--without so much as leaving a note behind--taking with him anything and
everything he can lay his filthy, dirty hands on." He paused to drag on
his cigarette, and exhaled the smoke in a thin, sibilant stream from his mouth.
"I don't want to talk about it. I really don't." He looked over at
Ginnie. "I love your coat," he said, already out of his chair. He
crossed over and took the lapel of Ginnie's polo coat between his fingers.
"It's lovely. It's the first really good camel's hair I've seen since the
war. May I ask where you got it?"
"My mother brought it back from
Nassau."
The young man nodded thoughtfully
and backed off toward his chair. "It's one of the few places where you can
get really good camel's hair." He sat down. "Was she there
long?"
"What?" said Ginnie.
"Was your mother there long?
The reason I ask is my mother was down in December. And part of January.
Usually I go down with her, but this has been such a messy year I simply
couldn't get away."
"She was down in
February," Ginnie said.
"Grand. Where did she stay? Do
you know?"
"With my aunt."
He nodded. "May I ask your
name? You're a friend of Franklin's sister, I take it?"
"We're in the same class,"
Ginnie said, answering only his second question.
"You're not the famous Maxine
that Selena talks about, are you?"
"No," Ginnie said.
The young man suddenly began
brushing the cuffs of his trousers with the flat of his hand. "I am dog
hairs from head to foot," he said. "Mother went to Washington over
the weekend and parked her beast in my apartment. It's really quite sweet. But
such nasty habits. Do you have a dog?"
"No."
"Actually, I think it's cruel
to keep them in the city." He stopped brushing, sat back, and looked at
his wristwatch again. "I have never known that boy to be on time. We're
going to see Cocteau's 'Beauty and the Beast' and it's the one film where you
really should get there on time. I mean if you don't, the whole charm of it is
gone. Have you seen it?"
"No."
"Oh, you must! I've seen it
eight times. It's absolutely pure genius," he said. "I've been trying
to get Franklin to see it for months." He shook his head hopelessly.
"His taste. During the war, we both worked at the same horrible place, and
that boy would insist on dragging me to the most impossible pictures in the
world. We saw gangster pictures, Western pictures, musicals--"
"Did you work in the airplane
factory, too?" Ginnie asked.
"God, yes. For years and years
and years. Let's not talk about it, please."
"You have a bad heart,
too?"
"Heavens, no. Knock wood."
He rapped the arm of his chair twice. "I have the constitution of--"
As Selena entered the room, Ginnie
stood up quickly and went to meet her halfway. Selena had changed from her
shorts to a dress, a fact that ordinarily would have annoyed Ginnie.
"I'm sorry to've kept you
waiting," Selena said insincerely, "but I had to wait for Mother to
wake up.... Hello, Eric."
"Hello, hello!"
"I don't want the money
anyway," Ginnie said, keeping her voice down so that she was heard only by
Selena.
"What?"
"I've been thinking. I mean you
bring the tennis balls and all, all the time. I forgot about that."
"But you said that because I
didn't have to pay for them--"
"Walk me to the door,"
Ginnie said, leading the way, without saying goodbye to Eric.
"But I thought you said you
were going to the movies tonight and you needed the money and all!" Selena
said in the foyer.
"I'm too tired," Ginnie
said. She bent over and picked up her tennis paraphernalia. "Listen. I'll
give you a ring after dinner. Are you doing anything special tonight? Maybe I
can come over."
Selena stared and said,
"O.K."
Ginnie opened the front door and
walked to the elevator. She rang the bell. "I met your brother," she
said.
"You did? Isn't he a
character?"
"What's he do, anyway?"
Ginnie asked casually. "Does he work or something?"
"He just quit. Daddy wants him
to go back to college, but he won't go."
"Why won't he?"
"I don't know. He says he's too
old and all."
"How old is he?"
"I don't know. Twenty-four."
The elevator doors opened.
"I'll call you laterl" Ginnie said.
Outside the building, she started to
walk west to Lexington to catch the bus. Between Third and Lexington, she
reached into her coat pocket for her purse and found the sandwich half. She
took it out and started to bring her arm down, to drop the sandwich into the
street, but instead she put it back into her pocket. A few years before, it had
taken her three days to dispose of the Easter chick she had found dead on the
sawdust in the bottom of her wastebasket.
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