Three Early Stories by J. D. Salinger

Author:J. D. Salinger
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Text Publishing Company
Published: 2014-11-18T16:00:00+00:00

ONCE A WEEK WON’T KILL YOU

He had a cigarette in his mouth while he packed, and his face squinted to avoid smoke in the eyes; so there was no way of telling by his expression whether he was bored or apprehensive, annoyed or resigned. The young woman sitting in the big man’s chair, looking like a guest, had her pretty face caught in a blotch of early morning sunshine; it did her no harm. But her arms were probably the best of her. They were brown and round and good.

“Sweetie,” she said, “I don’t see why Billy couldn’t be doing all that. I mean.”

“What?” said the young man. He had a thick, chain-smoker’s voice.

“I mean I don’t see why Billy couldn’t be doing all that.”

“He’s too old,” he answered. “How ’bout turning on the radio. There might be some canned music on at this time. Try 1010.”

The young woman reached behind her, using the hand with the gold band wedding ring and on the little finger beside it the incredible emerald; she opened some white compartment doors, snapped something, turned something. She sat back and waited, and suddenly, without any pretext, she yawned. The young man glanced at her.

“What a horrible time to start, I mean,” she said.

“I’ll tell them,” said the young man, examining a stack of folded handkerchiefs. “My wife says it’s a horrible time to start out.”

“Sweetie, I am going to miss you horribly.”

“I’ll miss you, too. I have more white handkerchiefs than this.”

“I mean, I will,” she said. “It’s all so stinking. I mean. And all.”

“Well, that’s that,” said the young man, closing the valise. He lighted a cigarette, looked at the bed, and dropped himself on it…

Just as he stretched himself out the tubes of the radio were warmed, and a Sousa march, featuring what seemed to be an unlimited fife section, triumphed voluminously into the room. His wife swung back one of her marvelous arms and put a stop to it.

“There might have been something else on.”

“Not at this crazy time.”

The young man blew a faulty smoke ring at the ceiling.

“You didn’t have to get up,” he told her.

“I wanted to.”

It had been three years and she had never stopped talking to him in italics.

“Not get up!” she said.

“Try 570,” he said. “There might be something there.”

His wife tried the radio again, and they both waited, he closing his eyes. In a moment some reliable jazz came through.

“Do you have enough time to lay down like that? I mean.”

“To lie down like that—yes. It’s early.”

His wife suddenly seemed to be struck with a rather serious conjecture. “I hope they put you in the Calvary. The Calvary’s lovely,” she said. “I’m mad about those little sword do-hickies they wear on their collars.

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