He finished the last of his wine and stood, speaking of a tiredness brought on by the unanticipated but very much appreciated dining diversion. He thanked the assembled for their friendly company and excused himself. After he left, Alice asked if she might also be excused as she had, she explained, plans to see a movie with a friend. Mr. More said that it was important for a young lady to keep her appointments but wondered if she had been getting quite enough rest these last days. Alice countered that young people did not need hardly any rest at all to carry on, and she quoted a doctor she’d heard on the radio who made the claim that sleep deprivation, in moderation, was actually regenerative. Mr. More said he wasn’t buying what Alice was selling but that he admired her spryness of mind, and Alice said thank you, and departed. Ida asked Mr. More about the possibility for coffee, as she and June planned to rehearse into the night, and Mr. More raised a finger and went away to the kitchen, soon returning with the coffee and cups on a tray. He poured out one cup, and then another, while June and Ida watched him, liking him.
Ida said, “How did you lose your arm, Mr. More?”
“I lost it in the First World War, Ida,” he answered, passing her her coffee. “You knew that, didn’t you?”
“I must have, and yet I’m surprised to think of it. What a thing that must be, to lose an arm.”
“Very much a thing, yes,” said Mr. More.
June said, “May I ask if it was your good arm?”
“Anyway it was not a bad one. I think the truth is that once an arm is taken from you, you can’t help but recall it as the arm to end all arms.”
Ida said, “Where do you think they put it?”
“I don’t know. Some pit somewhere. But it’s not like I wanted it back later. What am I going to do with it? Swaddle it? Wear it like a stole?” He made the face of amused suspicion. “I do hope that our conversation isn’t moving in the pacifistic direction?”
Ida drew back in her seat. “Me, pacifistic? Honestly, Mr. More, how could you say such a thing? Why, when I think of the violence that exists inside my own heart.”
Mr. More shook his head, and he said, “I fear you’re being clever with me, dear Ida.”
“Cleverness I’ll admit to,” she said.
June asked, “What do you think of this current concern, Mr. More?”
“Which concern do you mean?”
“World War the Second.”
Mr. More said, “I think standing under the chill shadow of any nation’s flag is a dicey proposition, is what I think.” He began stacking dirty plates. “Now, why don’t you both take your coffees and get to your rehearsals.”
“May we help you with the dishes?” Ida asked.
“You may not.”
“Are you sure?” said June. “We really don’t mind.”
“No, no. You’ve got your work to do, and to tell the truth I’ve entered into a period of my life where I actually enjoy doing the dishes, and by myself. Which is odd when I consider to what degree I always loathed the practice before; but recently it feels like time well spent. What does it mean?” Bob was nearly asleep in his chair; Mr. More gently crushed his foot under the table and said, “Someday, Bob, when you’re an aged specimen like me, and you find yourself suddenly enamored of folding the laundry or edging your lawn, remember your long-gone friend Leslie More telling you to accept whatever happiness passes your way, and in whatever form.”
“Okay,” said Bob.
“Because it’s a fool who argues with happiness, while the wiser man accepts it as it comes, if it comes at all.”
“Okay.”
THE NEXT DAY BOB RETURNED TO THE BEACH TO PRACTICE HIS PRESS rolls. The first performance was scheduled to take place thirty-six hours hence; with this in mind, Bob endeavored to arrive at a place where he could achieve the percussive effect without thinking of it. An hour and a half passed, and he paused, looking out to sea and having looking-out-to-sea thoughts. He imagined he heard his name on the wind and turned to find Ida leaning out the window of the tilted tower; her face was green as spinach puree, and she was waving at him that he should come up. Bob held the drum above his head, and she nodded that he should bring it with him.
He crossed the road and climbed the stairs to the tower. Ida answered the door and Bob now saw that she was wearing a full and realistic witch costume, with pointy hat and flowing rags, a prosthetic nose and chin, and her teeth were blackened and she said, “Good morning, Bob. Come inside, please.” Bob entered to find a room exploded with clothing and costumes and props and banners. The dogs nosed through the wreckage; they too were dressed as witches. June was sitting on an unmade bed, telephone in hand, and she was dressed as half-a-witch: she wore the same green makeup but no nose or chin, a hat but no flowing rags. “How’s life on old planet Earth, Bob?” she asked, but before Bob could answer, she was speaking into the telephone: “Operator? Yes, good morning. May I ask you, what’s the name of the newspaper in this area?” She waited. “There’s two,” she told Ida, who wasn’t listening, busy as she was making evil faces in a mirror on the wall. June asked the operator, “Which of the two is the smarter outfit? Oh, you know, larger, better, stronger. Which is more widely read, I guess is the question. All right, that’s fine. Will you please connect me with their front office? Bless you.” While she waited, she watched Ida, lost in her engagement with her reflection. “Ida has bewitched herself,” she told Bob, before resuming the telephone conversation: “Yes, hello, I should like to speak with whichever reporter is responsible for the coverage of arts in your area. Oh, the moving arts. The talking arts. Singing arts, sort of, sometimes. We also possess dogs who can do any number of clever things. That’s right, we throw it all into a pot and hope for the best.” June was watching Bob standing there with the drum in his hands; covering the phone, she whispered, “Ida, release yourself.” Ida looked away from the mirror and asked, “What?” June pointed at Bob, then uncovered the phone and said, “Either man sounds fine to me. May I ask you a favor, though, woman to woman? Will you put me in touch with the lesser bastard?” June held the phone out; the woman on the line was laughing hard enough that it was audible across the room. Ida led Bob into the bathroom and shut the door behind them.
“You’ve been practicing?”
“Yes.”
“Will you show me?”
She lowered the toilet seat and gestured that Bob should sit, and so he did, resting the drum on his lap and readying his sticks. When Ida bowed, Bob leaned over and commenced with his audition. Having spent so many minutes and hours recently banging on the drum, in returning to the act, it felt familiar in some elusive way, as though he were re-creating something that had already occurred. This time-confusion marred Bob’s coordination, and the press roll began falling to pieces. “Stop,” said Ida. Bob stopped and watched her. “Start again.” He started again. He was focusing with all his might; Ida held up her hand and Bob ceased playing. She told him, “I’m aware of your struggle.” “Thank you,” said Bob, and Ida shook her head. “I’m not complimenting you. What I want is to think only of the sound produced by the drum, but not of the emotional truth of the drummer. Do you understand? Your problems are not my problems. Keep them to yourself, hidden away. Take a breath and try again.” Bob tried again and was playing well, but peripherally he could see that Ida was distracted; her head was bent toward the closed door and after a time she held up a hand and said, again, “Stop.” Bob stopped. “Did you call out to me?” she asked, through the door.