The kid was due in at eight and Joe and I had dinner together and a few drinks. Joe talked incessantly. “Crazy feeling, seeing Walt after all these years. Only three, but I mean... you know me, I say everything is in transit, flexible, so I didn't expect the boy to be the same, but...”
“Stop it. He'll be bigger, stronger, and after a while you'll find he's a k>t tougher—grown up,” I said.
“Hell, I'm not worrying,” Joe said. “But it's the small things. Like, how do I welcome him? He didn't say if he was coming by train or plane, so I'll meet him at the house, but this is a big deal for both of us, I want to make it a celebration. Do I take him out, or do we sit around the house and gab? If he was coming in earlier, like now, I'd take him out for a big feed, start from there. But eight o'clock... I don't even know if I should have a bottle around the house. You know Walt—always shy and reserved, and what the hell, he's still a kid and, well...”
“Take it easy. Bring in some beer and...”
“Beer? Great.” Joe boomed as if I'd really thought of something. “Sure, he certainly drinks beer. Beer and snacks, and we sit and shoot the breeze about Berlin, give the kid a chance to shoot his mouth off—they like that. Then you can leave—I'll be over the hurdle and don't ask me what hurdle. Think I ought to get the kid a job for the summer, or let him take it easy till school starts in September?”
“Why don't you ask him? And stop worrying.”
Joe grinned. “Want to know the truth—when Walt was little I used to hate his guts sometimes. I didn't blame him for Mady dying, but... he was a drag on me, especially not having a woman to look after him. But now, well by God, I'm the proudest father out. I haven't done bad with the company—think where I'd be if I'd of had a college education? Under the G.I. Bill, Walt can go to Harvard, Yale, any of them tony schools. Can you see the picture in a brace of years when I bring the kid down to the big boss. Walt will have one of them crew hair-cuts and be dressed casually—but expensive duds—and I tell the big boss, 'Sir, there's my son, Walter. Just graduated Amherst...' Hot damn!” Joe smacked his big hands together like a kid.
We bought several quarts of beer, pretzels and cold cuts. Joe wanted to buy cigars but said, “Kid probably doesn't smoke yet. He might smoke a rope to make me feel good and get himself sick.”
At Joe's apartment we spent a few minutes dusting the place. While I put the cold cuts and pretzels out, washed some glasses, Joe changed his tie and shirt, shaved. We sat around, listening to the radio and talking; Joe retelling stories about what a good kid Walt was... the time the teacher told Joe the kid must have a wonderful mother because the boy was so well mannered, and when Joe said he was a widower, she shook Joe's hand, said God bless him... and hot air like that.
At eight-thirty I was tired of Joe gassing about how lonely the apartment had been without the kid, not really a home... and when I thought of all the tramps Joe had had in the place...
By nine Joe was a nervous wreck, wondering why the kid didn't come, and rambling on and on, to keep himself from going to pieces. He was in the middle of a speech about train wrecks, maybe Walt was hurt on his way home... that's the way it always happens... when the bell rang.
We both jumped and ran for the door. Walt was standing there, his uniform neat and pressed, a high polish on his shoes. He was dragging a barracks bag that seemed almost as tall as the kid. He hadn't put on much weight or gained any height, but you only had to look at his sharp little face, the shrewd eyes, the cigarette carelessly pasted on his lip—to see he was a man, a tough little squirt. He and Joe hugged each other awkwardly, and as Joe shut the door, Walt straightened his shirt. Joe said, “Son, you remember Uncle George?”
“Sure. Howya, Jackson,” the kid said, brushing the corporal stripes on his sleeves as he shook hands with me. There was a strong odor of whiskey on his breath.
We sat down, Joe and I on one side of the room, the kid on the couch beneath the picture of his mother. He looked around, said, “Place looks the same.”
“You bet, haven't changed a thing. Wanted home to look exactly the way you remembered it,” Joe said. “Guess home looms pretty large to a soldier.”
“Yes and no,” Walt said. I was fascinated by the cigarette actually pasted to his lips, it went up and down when he spoke like a tail wagging. “Germany isn't rugged, at least not in Berlin.”
There was a moment of silence, then Joe suddenly bounced to his feet. “My God, I forgot the beer! You drink beer, Walt?”
“Yeah, I'll take an amber. Had a couple with some of the guys at the station, why I'm a little late.”
“Couple of what?” Joe asked, although he must have had a whiff of the kid's breath too.
“Whiskey. Bastards charge you fifty cents a shot here. Over in Berlin we get a goddamn glassful for a dime.”
Joe was staring at him bug-eyed, and I said brightly, “I'll get the beer.” I brought in three bottles and glasses. Joe poured and Walt held up his glass, said, “Here's to you, Pop. You, too, Jackson.”
We drank and Joe said, “Guess you must of had plenty of good German beer over there.”
Walt screwed up his thin face. “Kraut beer is a lot of crap. About the same as this, and the krauts are such hustlers, they'd water their own pee if they could grab a buck out of it. Hey Pop, still smoke a pipe?”
Joe nodded.
Walt reached over lazily, pulled the barracks bag to him. He dug out a box, threw it to Joe. “Jesus!” Joe said, opening it, his voice high with excitement. “George, look at this, a set of two meerschaum pipes! Genuine, meerschaum.”
I examined the white bowls and yellow stems, all set in a gaudy red plush box, carefully handed them back to Joe. “They'll color up nicely,” I said to make conversation.
“Walt, you didn't have to bring me nothing as expensive as this,” Joe said, so pleased I thought he'd burst with pride.
“Got lot more stuff,” Walt said, digging into the barracks bag again. He came up with a tan-leather camera case, handed it to Joe. “How's this? I got a couple of 'em.”
“Some camera,” Joe said, opening the case.
The kid laughed softly, said to me, “Get him—the square. Some camera. Pop that's a Leica, the camera. You can hock it for a hundred bucks any place in the world, sell it for two hundred. Five years ago you could have got a grand. Sure, I'm loaded with junk—including perfume you can give your girls.”
“What girls?” Joe asked a little too quickly.
“Aw come on, you ain't that old,” Walt said grinning. He pointed to the cigarette hanging from his thin lips. “In Germany this still means a girl, if you ain't too particular. Couple candy bars or a pack of butts means all night. For a carton of butts you can get a blonde midchen that's good as anything in the movies. Those kraut babes are built for it. Got you some perfume too, Jackson.”
“Thanks,” I said.