Let No Man Write My Epitaph by Willard Motley

Author:Willard Motley
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9789997411853
Publisher: Random House
Published: 1958-05-15T05:00:00+00:00

They gathered together in counsel and strategy, Judge, Max, Phil, Juan and Norman. They gathered in a tavern.

"The kid knows and he's disappeared."

Norm said that he had seen him last night. He wouldn't say where. Just in the neighborhood.

Max ordered a round of drinks.

Behind them the juke box said in an old, scratchy voice:

I want to go

NORTH!

EAST!

SOUTH!

WEST!

Everywhich way

Long as ahm movin'

Long as ahm movin'

Long as ahm movin', ba-be

Ah don't care . . .

They sat and they drank. They felt sad.

"Yeah, but he had to find out sometime."

"Yeah, that's right."

"Where do you think he is?"

Shoulders shrugged.

"Now what do we do?"

Shoulders shrugged.

They drank more and more.

Old Judge Sullivan sat, his head bowed, his gnarled cane between his gnarled hands. His mustache hung, weedy, over his bottom lip. "Not I, not anyone," he said, "can travel that road for you. You must travel it for yourself."

"Oh," Max said, "the alcohol is beginning to tickle you, huh?" His curly hair, in his weaving on the stool, brushed Judge Sullivan's forehead. Max said, "But what are we going to do, just sit here?"

"Shut up, Max," Phil said, "you're drunk."

"Awww!" Max said. And he laughed loudly, his head thrown back. But there was no humor in his laugh.

"Maximiliano! Maximiliano!" Judge said sadly. "Don't you understand the significance of those words? And the truth. The beauty."

"I am a child beneath your knees," Max said repentantly.

"There is no beauty without truth," Judge said.

"That sonofabitch!" Juan said.

"Who?"

"The Wolf!"

"We could go beat the sonofabitch up," Max said. He smiled a tight smile of approval and half stood up before his weight flopped him down again.

"That's an idea that has a lot of alcohol in it," Judge said.

"Yeah—more alcohol!" Max said, ordering.

Judge Sullivan didn't object.

"Let me cue you in straight," Phil said. "We got to stick by this kid. You better believe it. We've known him since he was a baby."

"And he ain't like us," Max said.

They nodded.

"He can amount to something," Norm said.

They nodded assent.

"You better believe it."

"The kid's all screwed up and we're the only ones who can help him."

"Who give a damn."

"Now let me fill you in," Phil said. "Pick up on this. Nellie, there's nothin' we can do about her—but the kid—"

"Yeah." They nodded assent.

"You better believe it."

"Do you know about his father?" Juan asked.

"No," Phil and Norm and Judge Sullivan said.

"Well, I'll tell you."

He told them.

"May I have something stronger than beer?" Judge asked.

"Sure. Whiskey!" Max yelled at the waiter, and his elbow slipped off the table, his head nearly hit his bottle, ordering.

And the whole bottle of whiskey stood there on the table.

Judge Sullivan silently poured himself a second, silently drank it; a third. Then he stood, erect, though weaving. "One of us should be with Nellie," he said. "I'll go there. But keep me informed." He wiped a few tears. Of age. Of liquor. Of love.

The old cane and the old man went slowly toward the tavern door.

And the whiskey bottle went around. It was finished and a second was set on the table.

And they were drunk.

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