"You're very welcome."
As soon as the door closed, Books put a hand in the envelope on the bed, found the photographer's fifty dollars, and cached it in the top drawer of the chiffonier. He went then slowly, in dread, to the washbowl, to the mirror to which he had traded himself for his image every day while shaving. The man in the glass and the man in the portrait could not be one and the same. Either the mirror or the camera had cheated him. He stared.
The mirror had.
He heard the front door open, and Gillom Rogers, drunk perhaps, stumble up the stairs. It was well after midnight.
He thought: I would give anything to have her here, to talk to her. If only I had met her eleven years ago instead of Serepta. But it is too late to love her or let her love me. I am coming to the end of my rope. Besides, it would not be love on her part. It would be pity. I will be damned before I accept pity, from her or anybody.
He took up his newspaper. Except for the advertisements, there was little in it he had not read by now. One of these interested him. He read it twice:
Sweet Cream,
Cream for coffee,
Cream for oatmeal,
Cream for applesass,
Cream for ice cream.
I am now delivering cream on
my wagon guaranteed with proper
care to keep 24 hours after
delivery. Telephone 156.
G. A. COBB
Proprietor, Missouri Dairy
A man named Steinmetz called on him the next day. He was shabbily dressed and spoke with an accent. He owned and operated an oddment emporium on San Antonio Street and might buy, he said, anything of a personal nature Books wished to sell, provided the asking price was not "oudlandish." Books had him get his black valise from the closet and appraise the contents. There was a shirt, spare underwear, two pairs of socks, several handkerchiefs, a set of gold cuff links, and a bottle of hair tonic, in addition to the valise itself.
"Dis iss all?"
"That is all."
"But you are a man of middle age. To haf lived your life —to haf nuzzing—"
"I traveled light."
"Zo."
"I have a watch." He handed it over. "And my shaving things—razor, brush, mug. But I will need them."
"You could now sell dem to me," said Steinmetz. "You could a bill of sale sign, und I would get dem lader."
Books pulled at an end of his mustache. "And I would have the money now?"
"Vy nod?"
"How much?"
Steinmetz calculated. "Ten dollars?"
"Hell no. Fifty."
"Too much."
"That's a good watch. Gold case and a real diamond. And it is J. B. Books's watch. It will fetch double for that reason, and so will the rest, and you know it."
"Twenty dollars?"
"Fifty. For the lot."
"Some guns you haf."
"They are not for sale."
"Thirty?"
"Fifty."
Steinmetz rose. "Goot day, Mr. Books." He bowed and left the room.
Seconds later someone knocked.
It was Steinmetz, hat in hand. "It iss true—you are dying, Mr. Books?"
"I am."
The secondhand man shook his head. He seemed on the verge of tears. "To haf lived zo long—to haf zo liddle. I am Chewish. I am a stranger in dis Texas, among too many goyim. I haf nod long from the Old Coundry come, but a wife I haf, und two sons, und my store, und already some land, und money in the bank. Yes, I will fifty dollars gif you."
Books looked out a window. He did not know whether to be offended by the comparison or gratified by the price. Part of that price was pity, he was sure—and he had sworn only last night not to accept it from anybody. Pain blurred his thinking. He wanted the fifty dollars desperately. It was not too dear for his possessions, but it assigned a pitifully low value to his pride. He swallowed it. "Sold," he said.
He thought: Day after tomorrow.
Squatting, staring fixedly at the noble Indian on the wall who sat astride his pony and surveyed a wilderness with sorrowful mien, he strained, hoping the row of china cherubs along the rim of the slop-jar would strike up their harps in happy paean to his ability to piss. They did not. His bladder cramped. He was past the point of simple strangury. He could no longer urinate at all.
He thought: Day after tomorrow. I have difficulty walking now. My lower back will not allow me to sit or stand more than a spell. This was the first day I could not shave myself. Tonight, when she brought my supper tray, I was not hungry. I can't take anything in at one end or let loose of anything at the other. So, if I intend to go out with my boots on instead of in a stinking sickbed, it is day after tomorrow. The laudanum should see me through till then. If I asked Hostetler for more, it would be a temptation to hang on. Besides, I have started getting ready. When the solid citizens of El Paso line up to gawp at me, they will have their money's worth. Beckum will put a mean look on my phiz and my clothes will be cleaned by dry process. Now for the next step. A clean cadaver.
Taking a towel and washcloth, he went to the door, opened it, listened. The house was still. She would be asleep at this hour, the boy would be over on Utah Street going to hell as fast as he was able.
He limped along the dark hall to the bathroom, turned on a light, and ran hot water into the tub. When it was half full he tempered it with cold, then leaned against a wall to extricate himself from his longjohns, then bending, both hands on the edges of the tub, somehow got into it and groaning, lowered himself until he could sit submerged to the waist.
There was soap in a rack, and he washed himself where he could reach. The heat of the water seemed to allay the pain, was pleasing, in fact, to his genitals. He sank back, enjoying the sensation. But when he sat up, the bath had weakened him. Try as he might, he was unable to pull himself into a squat. He was helpless. He whimpered.
"Bond," he whimpered.
She would not hear him, he was trapped, far from his room and his drug. He would sit in the tub until he roared in agony like a bear.
"Bond!" he yelled in panic. "Bond!"
A sound on the ceiling, her springing out of bed, and in another moment he could follow her rapid footsteps down the stairs.
The door opened. She wore a flannel bathrobe. Her hair was up in rag curlers. "What in the world?"
"I can't get out."
"John, why in heaven's name didn't you ask me to help in the first place?"
"Because God damn it I can take my own bath!"
"Obviously you can't."
"I didn't want you to see me."
"Do you think I haven't seen a man before?"
"Hell."
"Have you washed your back?"
"How in hell could I?"
"Men are such infants." She came to the tub and soaped the washcloth. "Now lean forward."
"Hell."
"And stop swearing."
"Well, you haven't seen a man with cancer before."
"I have now." She scrubbed his back retributively. "Are you in pain?"
"All the time now."
"You should have told me you wanted a bath."
"I said I would not be a burden to you."
"Hush."
She pulled the stopper, laid a hand towel on the tub bottom so that he could stand securely on it and, bustling, bringing a large towel, dried his upper body. "Now, take my hands. I'll pull you up."
"Don't look at me."
Together, adding her strength to what remained of his, they got him into a crouch, then upright, and she assisted him out, wrapping him in the towel.