Kelby shrugged. “Once a fullback, always a fullback,” he said.
“But what did he mean?” she persisted.
Kelby turned on her. “He loves marshmallows!” he shouted. “He dotes on them, he’s crazy about them. They are responsible for his wonderful physique and his mushy brain. Didn’t you know that?”
Elizabeth took a dozen steps in silence; then, “I won’t talk to you when you’re like this,” she said in the artificially calm tone he knew so well. She kept her promised silence until they had crossed the green. “I never saw Bob Stevenson eat a single marshmallow in my whole life,” she announced.
Kelby wasn’t listening. He was back in school again, on an afternoon before the First World War. As he got to the driveway of their house, he caught Zeke Leonard a staggering blow directly between the eyes.
Elizabeth noted that his right fist was doubled and she saw the hard glint in his eyes. “What is the matter with you?” she demanded.
“Nothing’s the matter with me,” said Kelby. “I feel fine. You want to call up the Blakes and go over to Belleville?”
“Certainly not,” said Elizabeth. “We’ve got a lovely roast of lamb, and we’re going to stay right here. Besides, you’d be sure to get into one of your senseless arguments with Sam, and nobody would have any fun.”
“We’ll have another drink, then, before dinner,” said Kelby. He could see her lips forming a firm protest. “I said we’d have another drink!” he almost shouted. She decided not to argue with him.
It was on Sunday, two days later, that Kelby, out for a walk, came upon young Bob Stevenson following Elbert truculently down Elm Street, increasing his cadence as his victim walked faster and faster. Elbert was almost at a dog-trot when he passed Kelby, who noticed that the boy’s face was pale, and saw the hint of panic in his eyes.
“Hey, Ella!” Bob kept calling after the smaller boy.
Kelby was going to stop Bob and give him a sharp talking-to, and then something decided him to let the boy continue his pursuit. Bob passed Kelby without acknowledging that he saw him, calling “Hey, Ella!” in a mocking tone that had picked up an octave. Kelby turned around and followed the boys, but at a slower pace than theirs. Bob overhauled his quarry at the corner of Maple Street, and Kelby saw him reach out and whirl the smaller boy around. By the time Kelby came up to them, Bob, his back to the man, had flipped Elbert’s cap off with a swift, insolent gesture. “You want to make anything out of it?” Bob was challenging. Elbert, panting, reached for his cap. “Leave it lay,” said Bob, ruffling the boy’s hair with his left hand. The future tackle stepped to where the cap lay and place-kicked it into the street. Then he strolled indolently toward the other boy, like a cop closing in on a traffic violator. He put out his hand slowly and took hold of Elbert’s nose.
Kelby took two quick steps, grabbed Bob by the shoulder, and flung him around.
“Cut it out!” Bob said.
“Go on home!” snapped Kelby. “Go on!”
Bob scowled, and his lower lip stuck out. For three seconds, he tried to stare Kelby down; then he shrugged, made a noise with his lips, and started to saunter away.
“Wait a minute!” said Kelby harshly. Bob turned in surprise. “Pick up his cap and give it to him,” said Kelby.
Bob glared. “Let him pick up his own cap,” he said. “It ain’t mine.”
“Pick it up,” yelled Kelby, “or, by God, I’ll hold you over it by your ankles and make you pick it up with your teeth!”
Bob’s eyebrows went up. He looked at Kelby’s face and then away from it. He walked slowly to the cap in the street, spat neatly past it, and swept it up with his right hand. He tossed it at Elbert, who missed it. “So long, Ella,” said Bob. “Keep your nose clean.” He moved off down the street, whistling.
Through this scene, Elbert had stood where he was when the cap was knocked off his head. He was sniffling and whimpering. “Shut up!” shouted Kelby. “Shut up!” But the boy kept on. Kelby looked at his quivering lower lip and at the convulsion of his stomach. Elbert was fighting to gain control of himself, but he lost the battle and began to weep unrestrainedly. Kelby was suddenly upon him. He grabbed him tightly by the shoulders and shook him until his head bobbed back and forth. He let go of the boy’s left shoulder and slapped him on the cheek. “You little crybaby!” sobbed Kelby. “You goddam little coward!”
Mr. Reynolds, who rounded the corner at that moment, had considerable difficulty pulling the grown man off the little boy. “I’ve seen some bullies in my time,” Mr. Reynolds told the elder Stevenson later, “but I never saw anything to match that.” Robert Stevenson, Sr., slowly struck a match and slowly lighted a cigarette. He put on his expression of profound wisdom, his lips tightening, his head slightly to one side. “Young Bob tells me Kelby threatened him, too,” he said. He took in an enormous lungful of smoke and let it out gradually, studying its pattern on the air. “You never know about a man, Reynolds,” he said. “You just never know.”
FROM
THURBER’S DOGS
An Introduction
LEAFING through Plutarch’s Lives, on a winter’s day, I came upon the story of Xanthippus and his dog. It seems that the old Greek, fleeing Athens one time by ship, left his dog behind—or thought he left him behind. To his amazement and delight, the dog, in the finest whither-thou-goest tradition known to the animal kingdom, plunged into the sea and swam after the galley all the way to Salamis, a feat of which even a seal might well be proud. When the dog died, Xanthippus built a conspicuous tomb for it, high on a windy cliff, that men, infirm of purpose, weak of heart, might be reminded of the miracles which can be wrought by courage, loyalty, and resolution.
Man first gained superiority over the other animals not because of his mind, but because of his fingers. He could pick up rocks and throw them, and he could wield a club. Later he developed the spear and the bow and arrow. It is my theory that the other animals, realizing they were as good as cooked if they came within range of Man’s weapons, decided to make friends with him. He probably tried to make a pet and companion out of each species in turn. (It never occurred to him, in those days, to play or go hunting with Woman, a peculiarity which has persisted down to the present time.)
It did not take Man long—probably not more than a hundred centuries—to discover that all the animals except the dog were impossible around the house.* One has but to spend a few days with an aardvark or a llama, command a water buffalo to sit up and beg, or try to housebreak a moose, to perceive how wisely Man set about his process of elimination and selection. When the first man brought the first dog to his cave (no doubt over and above his wife’s protests), there began an association by which Man has enormously profited. It is conceivable that the primordial male held the female, as mate or mother, in no aspect of esteem whatsoever, and that the introduction of the dog into the family circle first infected him with that benign disease known as love. Certain it is that the American male of today, in that remarkable period between infancy and adolescence, goes through a phase, arguably atavistic, during which he views mother, sister, and the little girl next door with cold indifference, if not, indeed, outspoken disdain, the while he lavishes wholehearted affection on Rex or Rover. In his grief over the loss of a dog, a little boy stands for the first time on tiptoe, peering into the rueful morrow of manhood. After this most inconsolable of sorrows, there is nothing life can do to him that he will not be able somehow to bear.
If Man has benefited immeasurably by his association with the dog, what, you may ask, has the dog got out of it? His scroll has, of course, been heavily charged with punishments: he has known the muzzle, the leash, and the tether; he has suffered the indignities of the show bench, the tin can on the tail, the ribbon in the hair; his love life with the other sex of his species has been regulated by the frigid hand of authority, his digestion ruined by the macaroons and marshmallows of doting women. The list of his woes could be continued indefinitely. But he has also had his fun, for he has be
en privileged to live with and study at close range the only creature with reason, the most unreasonable of creatures.
The dog has got more fun out of Man than Man has got out of the dog, for the clearly demonstrable reason that Man is the more laughable of the two animals. The dog has long been bemused by the singular activities and the curious practices of men, cocking his head inquiringly to one side, intently watching and listening to the strangest goings-on in the world. He has seen men sing together and fight one another in the same evening. He has watched them go to bed when it is time to get up, and get up when it is time to go to bed. He has observed them destroying the soil in vast areas, and nurturing it in small patches. He has stood by while men built strong and solid houses for rest and quiet, and then filled them with lights and bells and machinery. His sensitive nose, which can detect what’s cooking in the next township, has caught at one and the same time the bewildering smells of the hospital and the munitions factory. He has seen men raise up great cities to heaven and then blow them to hell.
The effect upon the dog of his life with Man is discernible in his eyes, which frequently are capable of a greater range of expression than Man’s. The eyes of the sensitive French poodle, for example, can shine with such an unalloyed glee and darken with so profound a gravity as to disconcert the masters of the earth, who have lost the key to so many of the simpler magics. Man has practiced for such a long time to mask his feelings and to regiment his emotions that some basic quality of naturalness has gone out of both his gaiety and his solemnity.
The dog is aware of this, I think. You can see it in his eyes sometimes when he lies and looks at you with a long, rueful gaze. He knows that the bare foot of Man has been too long away from the living earth, that he has been too busy with the construction of engines, which are, of all the things on earth, the farthest removed from the shape and intention of nature. I once owned a wise old poodle who used to try to acquaint me with the real facts of living. It was too late, though. I would hastily turn on the radio or run out and take a ride in the car.
The dog has seldom been successful in pulling Man up to its level of sagacity, but Man has frequently dragged the dog down to his. He has instructed it in sloth, pride, and envy; he has made it, in some instances, neurotic; he has even taught it to drink. There once lived in Columbus, Ohio, on Franklin Avenue, a dog named Barge. He was an average kind of dog, medium in size and weight, ordinary in markings. His master and mistress and their two children made up a respectable middle-class family. Some of the young men in the neighborhood, however, pool-shooting, motorcycle-riding bravos, lured Barge into a saloon one day and set before him a saucer of beer. He lapped it up and liked it. From there it was but an easy step to whisky.
Barge was terribly funny, the boys thought, when he got stiff. He would bump into things, hiccup, grin foolishly, and even raise his muzzle on high in what passed for “Sweet Adeline.” Barge’s coat became shabby, his gait uncertain, and his eyes misty. He took to staying out in the town all night, raising hell. His duties as watchdog in the home of his owners were completely neglected. One night, when Barge was off on one of his protracted bats, burglars broke in and made off with his mistress’ best silver and cut glass.
He goes with his owner into bars.
Barge, staggering home around noon of the next day, sniffed disaster when he was still a block away. His owners were waiting for him grimly on the front porch. They had not straightened up after the burglars. The sideboard drawers were pulled out, the floor littered with napkins and napkin rings. Barge’s ears, chops, and tail fell as he was led sternly into the house to behold the result of his wicked way of life. He took one long, sad look around, and the cloudiness cleared from his head. He realized that he was not only a ne’er-do-well but a wrongo. One must guard the house at night, warn the family of fire, pull drowning infants out of the lake. These were the sacred trusts, the inviolable laws. Man had dragged Barge very far down, but there was still a spark of doghood left in him. He ran quickly and quietly upstairs, jumped out of an open window, and killed himself. This is a true and solemn legend of Franklin Avenue.
* There is no deliberate intention here to offend admirers of the cat, although I don’t really much care whether I do or not.
FROM
FURTHER FABLES FOR OUR TIME
The Bluebird and His Brother
IT WAS SAID of two bluebirds that they were unlike as two brothers could be, that one was a pearl in a pod and the other a pea. Pearl was happy-go-lucky, and Pea was gloomy-go-sorry.
“I am in love with love and life,” sang the glad bird.
“I am afraid of sex and flight,” sang the sad bird.
Pearl flaunted his gay colors like a bonnie blue flag, and his song was as bold as the Rebel yell. He went South every winter alone, and came North every spring with a different female. His gay philosophy freed his psyche of the stains of fear and the stresses of guilt, and he attained a serenity of spirit that few male birds and even fewer male human beings ever reach. He did not worry because some of his children were also his nieces, the daughters of one of his sisters. He sat loose, sang pretty, and slept tight, in a hundred honey locusts and cherry trees and lilac bushes. And every winter he went South alone, and every spring he came North with a different female. He did not worry because some of his grandchildren were also his grandnephews, the grandsons of one of his sisters.
At sunset in summertime, the gay bluebird flew higher than the lark or the wild goose, and he was pleased to note that, like himself, heaven wore blue, with a tinge of red.
The gloomy bluebird went South alone in the winter and came North alone in the spring, and never flew higher than you could throw a sofa. While still in his prime he developed agoraphobia and went to live underground, to the surprise and dismay of families of frogs and foxes and moles and gophers and crickets and toads, and of the bewildered dog who dug him up one day while burying a bone, and then hastily buried him again, without ceremony or sorrow.
MORAL: It is more dangerous to straight-arm life than to embrace it.
The Lover and His Lass
AN ARROGANT gray parrot and his arrogant mate listened, one African afternoon, in disdain and derision, to the lovemaking of a lover and his lass, who happened to be hippopotamuses.
“He calls her snooky-ookums,” said Mrs. Gray. “Can you believe that?”
“No,” said Gray. “I don’t see how any male in his right mind could entertain affection for a female that has no more charm than a capsized bathtub.”
“Capsized bathtub, indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Gray. “Both of them have the appeal of a coastwise fruit steamer with a cargo of waterlogged basketballs.”
But it was spring, and the lover and his lass were young, and they were oblivious of the scornful comments of their sharp-tongued neighbors, and they continued to bump each other around in the water, happily pushing and pulling, backing and filling, and snorting and snaffling. The tender things they said to each other during the monolithic give-and-take of their courtship sounded as lyric to them as flowers in bud or green things opening. To the Grays, however, the bumbling romp of the lover and his lass was hard to comprehend and even harder to tolerate, and for a time they thought of calling the A.B.I., or African Bureau of Investigation, on the ground that monolithic lovemaking by enormous creatures who should have become decent fossils long ago was probably a threat to the security of the jungle. But they decided instead to phone their friends and neighbors and gossip about the shameless pair, and describe them in mocking and monstrous metaphors involving skidding buses on icy streets and overturned moving vans.
Late that evening, the hippopotamus and the hippopotama were surprised and shocked to hear the Grays exchanging terms of endearment. “Listen to those squawks,” wuffled the male hippopotamus.
“What in the world can they see in each other?” gurbled the female hippopotamus.
“I would as soon live with a pair of unoiled garden shears,” said her inamoratus.
> They called up their friends and neighbors and discussed the incredible fact that a male gray parrot and a female gray parrot could possibly have any sex appeal. It was long after midnight before the hippopotamuses stopped criticizing the Grays and fell asleep, and the Grays stopped maligning the hippopotamuses and retired to their beds.
MORAL: Laugh and the world laughs with you, love and you love alone.
The Bachelor Penguin and the Virtuous Mate
ONE SPRING a bachelor penguin’s fancy lightly turned, as it did in every season, to thoughts of illicit love. It was this gay seducer’s custom to make passes at the more desirable females after their mates had gone down to the sea to fish. He had found out that all the females in the community made a ritual of rearranging the sitting-room furniture, putting it back where it had been the day before, and they were only too glad to have a strong male help them move the heavier pieces. Their mates had grown less and less interested in housework and more and more addicted to fishing, as time went on. The bachelor penguin proved handy at putting on or taking off screen doors, removing keys wedged in locks meant for other keys, and rescuing the females from other quandaries of their own making. After a few visits, the feathered Don Juan induced the ladies to play Hide-in-the-Dark with him, and Guess Who This Is?, and Webfooty-Webfooty.
As the seasons rolled on, the handsome and well-groomed Casanova became a little jaded by his routine successes with the opposite sex. Then one morning, after the other male penguins had gone to the seashore to fish as usual, Don J. Penguin spied the prettiest female he had ever seen, trying, all by herself, to move a sitting-room sofa back to the spot where it had been the day before. Don gallantly offered to help the matron in distress and she gladly accepted, with a shy look and a faint blush. The next morning the bachelor, who knew how to play his cards, came back and helped the house-penguin put on the screen door, and the following day he fixed the broken catch of her necklace, and the day after that he tightened the glass top of her percolator. Each time that he suggested playing Hide-in-the-Dark or Guess Who This Is?, the object of his desire thought of something else for him to fix, or loosen, or tighten, or take off, or put on. After several weeks of this, the amorist began to suspect that he was being taken, and his intended victim corroborated his fears.