Rock Island Line David Rhodes (ereader iphone .txt) 📖

Where’s your cat? Bring him in here and we’ll get him some cream. What’s his name, anyway?”

“Bu-u-tch,” said July, his mouth full.

“An appropriate name, if I do say so. Where is he, did you say? Outside? Bring him in by all means. Wait—Dwane will bring him in. That was certainly a good roll—how about another?” July’s was not yet half finished. “Of course, mouth too dry. Dwane! Hey, Dwane!” Dwane stuck his head out of the kitchen. “Something to drink here. What will it be? Chocolate milk by all means. A glass of chocolate milk . . . two glasses! And another roll if you please—the same kind.” Everyone else in the diner was looking at them, but he seemed not to notice and went on waving his fork and talking.

“It was too wet for him,” said July when he got a chance. “He doesn’t like to get wet, so he stayed home.”

“Home,” said Carroll. “And where’s home? That is, where do you live? Perhaps I know some people in your neighborhood. I know thousands of people, or at least they know me. It’s a pity your cat isn’t here. I like animals, and would have a hundred myself if Rose wasn’t allergic to them. They make her sneeze, don’t you know. Very curious. So where do you live?”

“Oh, clear over on the south side,” said July, as he’d learned to say whenever he was asked, unless, that is, he was on the south side (which he rarely was), when he’d answer something different. Carroll’s food arrived and was set before him steaming up from the plate. With the fork he’d been holding ever since it was put in front of him, he dove into the eggs and potatoes, taking two bites of toast for every one of anything else, complaining, “Toast must be eaten quickly. Darn stuff gets cold too fast.” Between mouthfuls, when his fork was empty, he would wave it around in small circles. He continued: “Thesouth side. I know that neighborhood. What street do you live on? Parnassus, perhaps. Say, we need some more food here. Dwane! What’ll it be? Oh, never mind, waffles then. Waffles, Dwane, two plates. Hurry! So I was saying, what street was that you said?”

“Parnassus.”

“Here, have some of this toast. It’s beginning to get cold. Take the jelly too. I detest these little packages. Who wants to take the time to open them?” He shoved two pieces of toast over at July, and six packages of grape jelly. “Parnassus, huh? What block?”

“Sixteenth.”

“Parnassus doesn’t have a sixteenth block,” he said, swinging the fork. “Therefore, you’re lying. Take my advice, never lie unless you know it can’t be found out. Otherwise, tell ’em the truth or clam up. Where’re the waffles anyway? Don’t use a spoon to spread jelly. My God! Here, Dwane, bring a clean knife. Heavens. And tea. Do you like tea?”

“No,” said July.

“You’ll grow into it. Excuse me, these sausages are getting cold.” He forked them in separately, chewing each about four times before swallowing. July couldn’t help but feel a little smug sitting there next to him, thinking everyone’s eyes were on them, and that he must be quite a fellow to have such an opulent friend. The waffles arrived. Mr. Carroll deftly flopped two of them over onto the second plate and set it before July. The syrup arrived in a glass pitcher with a flat metal finger which kept it closed when not in use. More milk arrived in Dixie cups. July began pouring the syrup.

“No, wait!” exclaimed Mr. Carroll. “Butter first. Always butter first—tastes too dry without it. Here, take these.” He slid over a handful of butter pats. “Dwane, bring some more butter, please. It’s a shame your cat isn’t here. Anything interesting in the paper?”

“Commies arrested,” said July.

“In other words, you don’t know.”

“I never read them,” said July. Then shoved his mouth full again. He wasn’t really hungry, yet the idea of something free, the tiny hunger that he did have, the taste of the syrup and a desire to be able to keep up with Mr. Carroll kept him at it.

“I never read them either when I sold papers: just look at the headlines and get an idea of what the first-page features are about. That’s all you need. Then I got a job digging ditches. Here, look.” He put down his fork, wiped off his hands with two napkins, pushed his sleeve back several inches and held out his hands and wrists for July to inspect. “See, the left arm is bigger, hand and everything. Comes from digging ditches. Everyone told me then, ‘Hey, Frank, don’t dig ditches. Let’s go to the tavern. Let’s go get some girls. Working’s for clods. Let’s go down to Atlantic City.’ But they did and I didn’t, and sometimes when they’d see me down in some ditch they’d holler, ‘Keep it up, chump.’ But after I had earned the money I wanted, I quit and went into business. The first years were hard and nobody knew me ‘cause I had my nose to the grindstone all the time and hardly ever came out of the store. But I stuck it out. Everyone said, ‘There’s no money to be made in selling furniture—like yesterday’s newspaper.’ But now they look at me and what do they see?”

July looked at him with his mouth full, and lifted his eyebrows a little.

“They see this suit, worth over three hundred dollars. They see my house and my wife—Miss New Jersey, 1936. They see, in short, what they wanted to be but didn’t have the stamina to work for. Dwane, cream for this tea, please.”

July glanced outside and saw Earl Schmidt still standing across the street. He didn’t think anything of it.

“What does your father do?”

July had learned to avoid telling anyone about his parents being dead, because every time he did the person he was talking to would retreat as if in revulsion. But he had a strong desire to tell