“An airplane,” I said.
“I don’t know what that’s like, either,” he said.
(There would be two airplanes, actually, because Father and Mother would never fly on the same plane; many parents are like that. I explained that to Egg, too, but he kept repeating. “I don’t know what it’ll be like.”)
Then Mother came into our room to comfort Egg and I fell back to sleep with them talking together, and woke up again as Mother was leaving; Egg was asleep. Mother came over to my bed and sat down beside me; her hair was loose and she looked very young; in fact, in the half-dark, she looked a lot like Franny.
“He’s only seven,” she said, about Egg. “You should talk to him more.”
“Okay,” I said. “Do you want to go to Vienna?”
And of course, she shrugged—and smiled—and said, “Your father is a good, good man.” For the first time, really, I could see them in the summer of 1939, with Father promising Freud that he
would
get married, and he
would
go to Harvard—and Freud asking Mother one thing: to forgive Father. Was this what she had to forgive him for? And was rooting us out of the terrible town of Dairy, and the wretched Dairy School—and the first Hotel New Hampshire, which wasn’t so hot a hotel (though nobody said so)—was that so bad a thing that Father was doing, really?
“Do you
like
Freud?” I asked her.
“I don’t really
know
Freud,” Mother said.
“But Father likes him,” I said.
“Your father likes him,” Mother said, “but he doesn’t really know him, either.”
“What do you think the bear will be like?” I asked her.
“I don’t know what the bear is
for,”
Mother whispered, “so I couldn’t guess what it could be
like.”
“What
could
it be for?” I asked, but she shrugged again—perhaps remembering what Earl had been like, and trying to remember what Earl could have been
for.
“We’ll all find out,” she said, and kissed me. It was an Iowa Bob thing to say.
“Good night,” I said to Mother, and kissed her.
“Keep passing the open windows,” she whispered, and I was asleep.
Then I had a dream that Mother died.
“No more bears,” she said to Father, but he misunderstood her; he thought she was asking him a question.
“No,
one
more bear,” he said. “Just one more. I promise.”
And she smiled and shook her head; she was too tired to explain. There was the faintest effort of her famous shrug, and the intention of a shrug in her eyes, which rolled up and out of sight, suddenly, and Father knew that the man in the white dinner jacket had taken Mother’s hand.
“Okay! No more bears!” Father promised, but Mother was aboard the white sloop, now, and she went sailing out to sea.
In the dream, Egg wasn’t there; but Egg was there when I woke up—he was still sleeping, and someone else was watching him. I recognized the sleek, black back—the fur thick and short and oily; the square back of his blundering head, and the half-cocked, no-account ears. He was sitting on his tail, as he used to do—in life—and he was facing Egg. Frank had probably made him smiling, or at least panting, witlessly, in that goofy way of dogs who repeatedly drop balls and sticks at your feet. Oh, the moronic but happy
fetchers
of this world—that was our old Sorrow: a fetcher and a farter. I crept out of bed to face the beast—from Egg’s point of view.
I could see at a glance that Frank had outdone himself at “niceness.” Sorrow sat on his tail with his forepaws touching and modestly hiding his groin; his face had a dippy, glazed happiness about it, his tongue lolled stupidly out of his mouth. He looked ready to fart, or wag his tail, or roll idiotically on his back; he looked like he was dying to be scratched behind his ears—he looked like a hopelessly slavish animal, forever in need of fondling attention. If it weren’t for the fact that he was dead, and that it was impossible to banish from memory Sorrow’s other manifestations,
this
Sorrow looked as harmless as Sorrow ever could have looked.
“Egg?” I whispered. “Wake up.” But it was Saturday morning—Egg’s morning for sleeping in—and I knew Egg had slept badly, or only a little, through the night. Out the window I saw our car driving between the trees of Elliot Park, treating the soggy park like a slalom course—at slow speed—and I knew that meant Frank was at the wheel; he’d just gotten his driver’s license, and he liked to practice by driving around the trees in Elliot Park. Also, Franny had just gotten her learner’s permit and Frank was teaching her to drive. I could tell it was Frank at the wheel because of the stately progress of the car through the trees, at limousine speed, at
hearse
speed—that was the way Frank always drove. Even when he drove Mother to the supermarket, he drove as if he were bearing the coffin of a queen past throngs of mourners seeking one last look. When Franny drove, Frank yelped beside her, cringing in the passenger seat; Franny liked to go fast.
“Egg!” I said more loudly, and he stirred a little. There was a slamming of doors outside, a changing of drivers in our car in Elliot Park; I could tell Franny had taken the wheel when the car began to careen between the trees, great slithers of the spring mud flying—and the wild, half-seen gestures of Frank’s arms waving in what is popularly called the death seat.
“Jesus God!” I heard Father yell, out another window. Then he shut the window and I heard him raving at Mother—about the way Franny drove, about having to replant the grass in Elliot Park, about having to chip the mud off the car with a chisel—and while I was still watching Franny racing among the trees, Egg opened his eyes and saw Sorrow. His scream jammed my thumbs against the windowsill and made me bite my tongue. Mother ran into the room to see what was the matter and greeted Sorrow with a shriek of her own.
“Jesus God,” said Father. “Why does Frank have to
spring
the damn dog on everyone? Why can’t he just say, ‘Now I’m going to show you Sorrow,’ and carry the damn thing into a room—when we’re all
ready
for it, for Christ’s sake!”
“Sorrow?” said Egg, peering from under his bedclothes.
“It’s just Sorrow, Egg,” I said. “Doesn’t he look nice?” Egg smiled cautiously at the foolish-looking dog.
“He
does
look nice,” Father said, suddenly pleased.
“He’s
smiling
!” Egg said.
Lilly came into Egg’s room and hugged Sorrow; she sat down and leaned back against the upright dog. “Look, Egg,” she said, “you can use him like a backrest.”
Frank came in the room, looking awfully proud.
“It’s terrific, Frank,” I said.
“It’s really nice,” said Lilly.
“A remarkable job, son,” Father said; Frank was just beaming. Franny came in the room, talking before she came in.
“Honestly, Frank is such a chicken shit in the car,” she complained. “You’d think he was giving me stagecoach lessons!” Then she saw Sorrow. “Wow!” she cried. And why did we all wait so quietly for what Franny would say? Even when she was not quite sixteen, my whole family seemed to regard her as the real authority—as the last word. Franny circled Sorrow, almost as if she were another dog—sniffing him. Franny put her arm around Frank’s shoulder, and he stood tensed for her verdict. “The King of Mice has produced a fucking
masterpiece
,” Franny announced; a spasm of a smile crossed Frank’s anxious face, “Frank,” Franny said to him sincerely, “you’ve really done it, Frank. This really
is
Sorrow,” she said. And she got down and patted the dog—the way she used to, in the old days, hugging his head and rubbing behind his ears. This seemed completely reassuring to Egg, who began to hug Sorrow without reserve. “You may be an asshole in an automobile, Frank,” Franny told him, “but you’ve done an absolutely first-rate job with Sorrow.”
Frank looked as if he were going to faint, or just fall over, and everyone began talking at once, and pounding Frank on the back, and poking and scratching Sorrow—everyone but Mother, we suddenly noticed; she was standing by the window, looking out at Elliot Park.
“Franny?” she said.
“Yes,” Franny said.
“Franny,” Mother said, “you’re not to drive like that in the park again—do you understand?”
“Okay,” Franny said.
“You may go out to the delivery entrance,
now
,” Mother said, “and get Max to help you find the lawn hose. And get some buckets of
hot
,
soapy
water. You’re going to wash all the mud off the car before it dries.”
“Okay,” Franny said.
“Just look at the park,” Mother told her. “You’ve torn up the new grass.”
“I’m sorry,” Franny said.
“Lilly?” Mother said, still looking out the window—she was through with Franny, now.
“Yes?” Lilly said.
“Your room, Lilly,” Mother said. “What am I going to say about your room?”
“Oh,” Lilly said. “It’s a mess.”
“For a
week
it’s been a mess,” Mother said. “Today, please, don’t leave your room until it’s better.”
I noticed that Father slunk quietly away, with Lilly—and Franny went to wash the car. Frank seemed bewildered that his moment of success had been cut so short! He seemed unwilling to leave Sorrow, now that he had re-created him.
“Frank?” said Mother.
“Yes!” Frank said.
“Now that you’re finished with Sorrow, perhaps
you
could straighten up
your
room, too?” Mother asked.
“Oh, sure,” Frank said.
“I’m sorry, Frank,” Mother said.
“Sorry?” Frank said.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t like Sorrow, Frank,” Mother said.
“You don’t
like
him?” Frank said.
“No, because he’s
dead
, Frank,” Mother said. “He’s very
real
, Frank, but he’s dead, and I don’t find dead things amusing.”
“I’m sorry,” Frank said.
“Jesus God!” I said.
“And
you
, please,” Mother said to me, “will you watch your
language
? Your language is terrible,” Mother told me. “Especially when you pause to consider that you share a room with a seven-year-old. I am tired of the ‘fucking’ this and the ‘fucking’ that,” Mother said. “This house is not a locker room.”
“Yes,” I said, and noticed that Frank was gone—the King of Mice had slipped away.
“Egg,” Mother said—her voice winding down.
“What?” Egg said.
“Sorrow is not to leave your room, Egg,” Mother said. “I don’t like to be
startled
,” she said, “and if Sorrow leaves this room—if I see him anyplace but where I expect to see him, which is right here—then that’s it, then he’s gone for good.”
“Right,” said Egg. “But can I take him to Vienna? When we go, I mean—can Sorrow come?”
“I suppose he’ll
have
to come,” Mother said. Her voice had the same resignation in it that I’d heard in her voice in my dream—when Mother had said, “No more bears,” and then drifted away on the white sloop.
“Holy cow,” said Junior Jones, when he saw Sorrow sitting on Egg’s bed, one of Mother’s shawls around Sorrow’s shoulders, Egg’s baseball cap on Sorrow’s head. Franny had brought Junior to the hotel to see Frank’s miracle. Harold Swallow had come along with Junior, but Harold was lost somewhere; he’d made a wrong turn on the second floor, and rather than come into our apartment, he was wandering around the hotel. I was trying to work at my desk—I was studying for my German exam, and was trying not to ask Frank for help. Franny and Junior Jones went off looking for Harold, and Egg decided against Sorrow’s present costume; he undressed the dog and started over.
Then Harold Swallow found his way to our door and peered in at Egg and me—and at Sorrow sitting naked on Egg’s bed. Harold had never seen Sorrow before—dead or alive—and he called the dog over to the doorway.
“Here, dog!” he called. “Come here! Come on!”
Sorrow sat smiling at Harold, his tail itching to wag—but motionless.
“Come on! Here, doggy!” Harold cried. “Good dog, nice doggy!”
“He’s supposed to stay in this room,” Egg informed Harold Swallow.
“Oh,” said Harold, with an impressive roll of his eyes to me. “Well, he’s very well behaved,” Harold Swallow said. “He ain’t budging, is he?”
And I went to take Harold Swallow down to the restaurant, where Junior and Franny were looking for him; I saw no reason to tell Harold that Sorrow was dead.
“That your little brother?” Harold asked me, about Egg.
“Right,” I said.
“And you got a nice dog, too,” Harold said.
“Shit,” Junior Jones said to me, later; we were standing outside the gymnasium, which the Dairy School had tried to decorate like a building of parliament—for the weekend of Junior’s graduation. “Shit,” Junior said, “I’m really worried about Franny.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Something’s bothering her,” Junior said. “She won’t sleep with me,” he said. “Not even as just a way of saying good-bye, or something. She won’t even do it
once
! Sometimes I think she doesn’t
trust
me,” Junior said.
“Well,” I said. “Franny’s only sixteen, you know.”
“Well, she’s an
old
sixteen, you know,” he said. “I wish you’d speak to her.”
“
Me
?” I said. “What should I say?”
“I wish you’d ask her why she won’t sleep with me,” Junior Jones said.
“Shit,” I said, but I asked her—later: when the Dairy School was empty, when Junior Jones had gone home for the summer (to whip himself into shape for playing football at Penn State), when the old campus, and especially the path through the woods that the football players always used, reminded Franny and me of what seemed like years ago (to us). “Why didn’t you ever sleep with Junior Jones?” I asked her.
“I’m only sixteen, John,” Franny said.
“Well, you’re an
old
sixteen, you know,” I said, not exactly sure what this might mean. Franny shrugged, of course.
“Look at it this way,” she said. “I’ll see Junior again; we’re going to write letters, and all that. We’re staying friends. Now, someday—when I’m older, and if we
do
stay friends—it might be the perfect thing to do: to sleep with him. I wouldn’t want to have used it up.”
“Why couldn’t you sleep with him
twice
?” I asked her.
“You don’t get it,” she said.
I was thinking it had to do with her having been raped, but Franny could always read me like a book.
“No, kid,” she said. “It’s got nothing to do with being raped. Sleeping with someone is very different—provided it
means
something. I just don’t know what it would
mean
—with Junior. Not yet.
Also
,” she said, with a big sigh—and she paused. “Also,” she said, “I don’t have exactly a lot of experience, but it seems that once someone—or
some
people—get to have you, you don’t ever hear from them again.”
Now, it seemed to me, she
had
to be talking about her rape; I was confused. I said, “Who do you mean, Franny?” And she bit her lip a while.
Then she said, “It surprises me that I have not heard one word—not a single word—from Chipper Dove. Can you imagine that?” she asked. “All this time and not one word.”
Now I was
really
confused; it seemed amazing to me that she would have thought she’d
ever
hear from
him
. I couldn’t think of anything to say, except a stupid joke, so I said. “Well, Franny, I don’t suppose you’ve written to him, either.”
Twice,” Franny said. “I think that’s enough.”
“
Enough
?” I cried. “Why the fuck did you write him at
all
?” I yelled.
She looked surprised. “Why, to tell him how I was, and what I was doing,” she said. I just stared at her, and she looked away. “I was in
love
with him, John,” she whispered to me.
“Chipper Dove raped you, Franny,” I said. “Dove and Chester Pulaski and Lenny Metz—they gang-banged you.”
“It’s not necessary to say that,” she snapped at me. “I’m talking about Chipper Dove,” she said. “Just him.”
“He raped you,” I said.
“I was in love with him,” she said, keeping her back to me. “You don’t understand. I was in
love
—and maybe I still am,” she said. “Now,” she added, brightly, “would you like to tell Junior
that
? Do you think
I
should tell Junior that?” she asked. “Wouldn’t Junior just love that?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“No, I thought not, too,” Franny said. “So I just thought that—under the circumstances—I wouldn’t sleep with him. Okay?” she asked.
“Okay,” I said, but I wanted to tell her that certainly Chipper Dove had not loved
her
.
“Don’t tell me,” Franny said. “Don’t tell me that he didn’t love
me
. I think I know. But do you know what?” she asked me. “One day,” Franny said, “Chipper Dove might fall in love with me. And you know what?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Maybe if that happens,
if
he falls in love with me,” Franny said, “maybe—by then—I won’t love him anymore. And then I’ll
really
get him, won’t I?” she asked me. I just stared at her; she was, as Junior Jones had observed, a very
old
sixteen indeed.
I felt suddenly that we all couldn’t get to Vienna soon enough—that we all needed time to grow older, and wiser (if that’s what really was involved in the process). I know that I wanted a chance to pull even with Franny, if not ever ahead of her, and I thought I needed a new hotel for that.
It suddenly occurred to me that Franny might have been thinking of Vienna in somewhat the same way: of
using
it—to make herself smarter and tougher and (somehow) grown-up
enough
for the world that neither of us understood.
“Keep passing the open windows,” was all I could say to her, at the moment. We looked at the stubbly grass on the practice field, and knew that in the fall it would be punctured everywhere with cleats, churned by knees striking the ground, and clawing fingers—and that,
this
fall, we would not be in Dairy to see it, or to look away from it. Somewhere else all that—or something like it—would be going on, and we would be watching, or taking part in, whatever it was.
I took Franny’s hand and we walked along the path the football players always used, pausing only briefly by the turn we remembered—the way into the woods, where the ferns were; we didn’t need to see them. “Bye-bye,” Franny whispered to that holy and unholy place; I squeezed her hand—she squeezed back, then she broke our grip—and we tried to speak only German to each other, all the way back to the Hotel New Hampshire. It would be our new language very soon, after all, and we weren’t very good at it. We both knew that we needed to get better in order to be free of Frank.
Frank was taking his hearse-driving tour through the trees when we returned to Elliot Park. “Want a lesson?” he asked Franny. She shrugged, and Mother sent them both on an errand—Franny driving, Frank praying and flinching beside her.
That night, when I went to bed, Egg had put Sorrow in my bed—and dressed him in my running clothes. Getting Sorrow out of my bed—and getting Sorrow’s
hair
out of my bed—I thoroughly woke myself up again. I went down to the restaurant and bar to read. Max Urick was having a drink, sitting in one of the screwed-down chairs.
“How many times did old Schnitzler give it to Jeanette What’s Her Name?” Max asked me.
“Four hundred and sixty-four,” I said.
“Isn’t that something!” he cried.
When Max stumbled upstairs to bed, I sat listening to Mrs. Urick putting away some pans. Ronda Ray was not around; she was out—or maybe she was in; it hardly mattered. It was too dark to take a run—and Franny was asleep, so I couldn’t lift weights. Sorrow had ruined my bed for a while, so I just tried to read. It was a book about the 1918 flu—about all the famous and the unfamous people who were wiped out by it. It seemed like one of the saddest times in Vienna. Gustav Klimt, who once called his own work ‘Pig shit,’ died; he had been Schiele’s teacher. Schiele’s wife died—her name was Edith—and then Schiele himself died, when he was very young. I read a whole chapter in the book about what pictures Schiele
might
have painted if the flu hadn’t got him. I was beginning to get the rather fuzzy idea that the whole book was about what Vienna might have become if the flu hadn’t come to town, when Lilly woke me up.
“Why aren’t you sleeping in your room?” she asked. I explained about Sorrow.
“I can’t sleep because I can’t imagine what my room
over there
is going to be like,” Lilly explained. I told her about the 1918 flu, but she wasn’t interested. “I’m worried,” Lilly admitted. “I’m worried about the violence.”
“
What
violence?” I asked her.
“In Freud’s hotel,” Lilly said. “There’s going to be violence.”
“
Why
, Lilly?” I asked.
“Sex and violence,” Lilly said.
“You mean the whores?” I asked her.
“The
climate
of them,” Lilly said, sitting pretty in one of the screwed-down chairs, rocking slightly in her seat—her feet, of course, not reaching the floor.
“The climate of whores?” I said.
“The climate of sex and violence,” Lilly said. “That’s what it sounds like to me. That whole city,” she said. “Look at Rudolf—killing his girl friend, then killing himself.”
“That was in the last century, Lilly,” I reminded her.
“And that man who fucked that woman four hundred and sixty-four times,” Lilly said.
“Schnitzler,” I said. “Almost a century ago, Lilly.”
“It’s probably worse now,” Lilly said. “Most things are.”
That would have been Frank—who told her that—I knew.
“And the flu,” said Lilly, “
and
the wars. And the Hungarians,” she said.
“The revolution?” I asked her. “That was last year, Lilly.”
“And all the rape in the Russian Sector,” Lilly said. “Franny will get raped again. Or I will,” she said, adding, “if someone
small
enough catches me.”
“The occupation is over,” I said.
“A violent climate,” Lilly repeated. “All the repressed sexuality.”
“That’s the
other
Freud, Lilly,” I said.
“And what will the bear do?” Lilly asked. “A hotel with whores and bears and spies.”
“Not
spies
, Lilly,” I said. I knew she meant the East-West relations people. “I think they’re just intellectuals,” I told her, but this didn’t appear to comfort her; she shook her head.
“I can’t stand violence,” Lilly said. “And Vienna
reeks
of it,” she said; it was as if she’d been studying the tourist map and had found all the corners where Junior Jones’s
gangs
hung out. “The whole place
shouts
of violence,” Lilly said. “It absolutely
broadcasts
it,” Lilly said; it was as if she had taken these words into her mouth to suck on them:
reeks, shouts, broadcasts
. “The whole idea of going over there just
shivers
with violence,” Lilly said, shivering. Her tiny knees gripped the seat of the screwed-down chair, her slender legs whipped back and forth, violently fanning the floor. She was only eleven, and I wondered where she’d found all the
words
she used, and why her imagination seemed much older than she was. Why were the women in our family either wise, like Mother, or an “
old
sixteen”—as Junior Jones said of Franny—or like Lilly: small and soft, but bright beyond her years? Why should
they
get all the brains? I wondered, thinking of Father; although Mother and Father were both thirty-seven, Father seemed ten years younger to me—“and ten years dumber,” Franny said. And what was
I
? I wondered, because Franny—and even Lilly—made me feel I would be fifteen forever. And Egg was immature—a seven-year-old with five-year-old habits. And Frank was Frank, the King of Mice, able to bring back dogs from the dead, able to master a different language, and able to put the oddities of history to his personal use; but in spite of his obvious abilities, I felt that Frank—in many other categories—was operating with a mental age of four.
Lilly sat with her head down and her little legs swinging. “I
like
the Hotel New Hampshire,” Lilly said. “In fact, I
love
it; I don’t want to leave here,” she said, the predictable tears in her eyes. I gave her a hug and picked her up; I could have bench-pressed Lilly while the seasons changed. I carried her back to her room.
“Think of it this way,” I told her. “We’ll just be going to
another
Hotel New Hampshire, Lilly. The same thing, but another country.” But Lilly cried and cried.
“I’d rather stay with the circus called Fritz’s Act,” she bawled. “I’d rather stay with them, and I don’t even know what they
do
!”
Soon we
would
know what they did, of course. Too soon. It was summer, then, and before we were packed—before we’d even made the airplane reservations—the four-foot forty-one-year-old named Frederick “Fritz” Worter paid us a visit. There were some papers to sign, and some of the other members of Fritz’s Act wished to have a look at their future home.
One morning, when Egg was sleeping beside Sorrow, I looked out our window at Elliot Park. At first nothing seemed strange; some men and women were getting out of a Volkswagen bus. They were all, more or less, the same size. We were still a hotel, after all, and I thought they might be guests. Then I realized that there were
five
women and
eight
men—yet they quite comfortably spilled out of one Volkswagen bus—and when I recognized Frederick “Fritz” Worter as one of them, I realized that they were all the same size as
him
.
Max Urick, who’d been shaving while looking out his fourth-floor window, screamed and cut himself. “A fucking
busload
of midgets,” he told us later. “It’s not what you expect to see when you’re just getting up.”
It is impossible to say what Ronda Ray might have done, or said, if she had seen them; but Ronda was still in bed. Franny, and my barbells, were lying untouched in Franny’s room; Frank—whether he was dreaming, studying German, or reading about Vienna—was in a world of his own. Egg was sleeping with Sorrow, and Mother and Father—who would be embarrassed about it, later—were having fun in old 3E.
I ran into Lilly’s room, knowing she would want to see the arrival of at least the
human
part of Fritz’s Act, but Lilly was already awake and watching them through her window; she was wearing an old-fashioned nightgown that Mother had bought her in an antique store—it completely enveloped Lilly—and she was hugging her Raggedy Ann doll to her chest. “It’s a
small
circus, just like Mr. Worter said,” Lilly whispered, adoringly. In Elliot Park we watched the midgets gathering beside the Volkswagen bus; they were stretching and yawning; one of the men did a handstand; one of the women did a cartwheel. One of them started moving on all fours, like a chimpanzee, but Fritz clapped his hands, scolding such foolishness; they drew together, like a miniature football team having a huddle (with two extra players); then they started marching, in an orderly fashion, toward our lobby door.
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