Now what should I do? he asked himself.
He hung up the receiver. Should I call her back? But there’s nothing I can do over the phone; I can’t make her drive out here, or come out on the bus. If she won’t come then that’s it. And when she says it’s my fault she’s right.
But I don’t see how she can’t come, he thought to himself. I would have thought she’d jump right in the car and drive on out. Didn’t she drive all over Pocatello that night searching for orange juice for him? And it’s an easy car to drive. And she’s familiar with it.
Leaving the motel office he looked around outside, among the cabins, for the owner. He found her in an empty cabin, fixing fresh towels. “Can I get some change from you?” he asked her. “For the phone.”
“Did you find out from your friend what he has wrong with him?” she asked, as they returned to the office.
“It’s nephritis,” he said. “It’s not contagious.”
Back in the office she changed a five-dollar bill for him. “Has he got a family?” she said “A wife?”
“I think so,” he said. Putting money into the phone he called Susan in Boise. The motel woman hung around for a moment, and then she left the office. “I have some bad news,” he said into the phone. “I’m up here in Washington with Milt Lumky, and he’s sick.” He explained to her along the lines that he had explained to the motel woman, but she interrupted him.
“I know about Milt’s kidney trouble,” she said.
“He’s apparently had it most of his life,” he said.
“You better stay with him,” Susan said. “Do you have enough money with you? I can wire you some.” They had arranged it so that when the time came for him to buy she would wire him the money.
“I’ll be okay,” he said.
“When he has an attack he’s usually laid up flat on his back for a couple of days,” she said. “And it’s very painful.”
“I had plenty of warning,” he said. “The girl he’s been living with in Pocatello told me, and when I got there he was already sick. So I have nobody to blame; I certainly can’t blame him.”
“You can to this extent,” Susan said, in a careful, rational tone. “He’s the one who’s in the position to judge, and if he went along with you, then it’s not your fault. You have to assume he knows what he’s doing; he’s a grown man. You can’t be expected to make judgments about somebody else’s illness, especially somebody you barely know. Why doesn’t she come out and take care of him, this girl?”
“I talked to her on the phone,” he said, “but she said she didn’t feel like it.”
“It’s not your worry,” Susan said. “Unless you want to make it your worry. Unless you feel responsible. There’s the intangible aspect to it.”
He said, “I feel it’s my fault, because if I hadn’t started talking to him about the typewriters he wouldn’t have come along; after all, this trip is so I can get the typewriters. He gets nothing out of it. It’s a favor he’s doing for me.”
“You can’t afford to be bogged down very long,” she pointed out.
“True,” he said. “But I feel I have to.”
“Okay,” she said. “Keep in touch with me.”
“I’ll call you again,” he said. He told her not to worry and then he hung up. After a moment or so he left the motel office and trudged back in the direction of the cabin.
It’s just one of those things, he thought. When a person is ill it takes precedence over everything else, especially questions of what’s practical. You can’t always do simply what you consider to be in your own best interest. Nobody can live like that. Economic gain isn’t everything, he thought. Or even the most important thing. I know if it was me who was sick Milt would stay.
That’s why he’s here in the first place, he thought. Because he put his friendship with me over practical considerations. So that’s the hell of it, he thought. And there’s just nothing that can be done.
When he opened the cabin door Milt, in the bed, murmured, “I feel better. This god damn business comes and goes.” He had propped himself up to a sitting position, the pillow behind him. “Close the door,” he said. “The light’s blinding.”
Closing the door, Bruce said, “The motel people are afraid it’s the bubonic plague.”
“Then tell them to start fleeing,” Milt said. “Listen,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about this. Maybe you should drive on. Look in my coat pocket in my wallet. I’ve got the name of the man written down on me back of a card. The guy who owns the machines.”
“That’s okay,” Bruce said. “I’ll stick around.”
“Bring it,” Milt said.
Carrying the wallet over to the bed he handed it to Milt. Grunting with effort, Milt sorted through the cards and folded slips of paper; as he examined each he took an interest in it, halting to ponder and recall what it meant and why he had kept it. Some of the cards had stuck together, and he put his eyes close to them as he cautiously pulled them apart. One of the cards sent him off into reverie, and for a considerable time he neither spoke nor moved.
Finally he resumed and found the one he wanted. “Phil Baranowski,” he said, reading the back of the card. “Here’s his address and phone number. Phil is a funny guy. I met him at a wholesalers’ party. Then later on he showed me the machines, among me rest of the junk he had hold of that he wanted to peddle. That was six or seven months ago. He’s probably still got all of it plus a ton more.” .
“I’m not going,” Bruce said. “Partly because it’s obvious that if you’re not along he won’t sell me the machines, and partly because I don’t think you should be left alone. I don’t think you’re well enough.”
“He’ll sell them if you use your intelligence. Make it clear that you know me.”
In the end he wound up accepting the card. But the worry continued to nag him. He might make the trip by himself, arrive at Seattle, and have Baranowski refuse to do business with him. Even though he did not intend to go, even though he meant to remain in the motel with him, he said, “Could you write some sort of note to him? Or phone him?”
Milt shrugged. “Not necessary,” he said, scowling.
“If we get to discussing it, can I have him phone you?” He felt guilty, but he could not afford to take chances with the matter.
Rousing himself, Milt said, “If you want. If you can get hold of me. There’s no phone here.”
“There’s one in the motel office.”
Milt nodded.
Seating himself in the chair in the corner, facing Milt in the bed, he tried to relax. But his restlessness grew. “Listen,” he said, standing up. “I think I’ll go roam around and maybe buy something to read. Do you want anything? A magazine or a book?”
Gradually Milt had sunk down in the bed. He opened his eyes and regarded him and then he said, “Bruce, there’s something I’ve been going to say to you. I’ve been thinking about it, trying to figure out what it is that’s wrong with you, why you’re the way you are. I think I’ve finally got you figured out. You don’t believe in God, do you?”
This time he did laugh. This time the question was too inane and too seriously asked; he began to giggle and once he had started he could not stop. He found himself lying back in his chair, his hand over his eyes, wheezing and weeping, gasping, while across from him Milt continued to watch him somberly. And still he could not stop. The more he tried to stop, the harder it became to stop. At last he lost the ability to make any sound at all. Even his laughing was soundless. Not since his grammar school days, not since Saturday afternoon at the Kiddies’ Matinee at the Luxury, watching a Three Stooges comedy: he had not laughed so much since then. He knew that Milt was kidding. Now he realized that Milt had been kidding before, in the car. The whole time he had been kidding straight-faced. Looking back, realizing that Milt had been pulling his leg, he laughed harder and harder, until his ribs ached and he had exhausted himself and become dizzy.