Читать книгу The Complete Collection - William Wharton, Уильям Уортон - Страница 24

Jesus, the next day Renaldi tells me the baseballs have actually arrived. They were shipped down on a military plane. The box was opened by the T-4 slob. He’s the one who tells Renaldi. He probably thinks they’ve been shipped down so he can practice his spitball.

Renaldi tells me the T-4’s name is Ronsky and he keeps spitting because he always has a bad taste in his mouth. He hit the beaches at Normandy and flipped on D plus 3. He was in the wards here for months and used to keep spitting so much his room was soaking wet all the time. They couldn’t keep him from dehydrating.

Before you know it, if you’re not careful, you can get to feeling sorry for everybody and there’s nobody left to hate.

I never really thought the balls would actually come. I wonder if Birdy’s old lady has been stashing those baseballs away all these years or if she went out and bought a lot of old balls to ship down.

‘I’d like two hundred used baseballs, sir, so I can ship them down to the loony bin and help my crazy little boy who thinks he’s a canary.’

Renaldi says they’re mostly a motley collection of baseballs. They go all the way from some that are almost new to some that are just black-taped. He says they’re covered with mold. These must be the original balls and she’s kept them all this time.

What the hell could she’ve been thinking of? Keeping baseballs wasn’t going to make the ball field go away. She wasn’t making anything out of it, stealing all those balls, except enemies. It doesn’t make sense. Hardly anything seems to make sense anymore.

Why the hell is Birdy in there trying to grow feathers and I’m hiding behind these bandages. I’m beginning to know I don’t want to come out, barefaced, into the open. It’s not because of the way I’ll look, either. The docs at Dix say everything’s fine. I’ll look OK, hardly any scars even.

But, I have this crazy idea in the back of my mind that I’m going to come out of the bandages like a butterfly when I used to be a caterpillar. I’m still not finished being a caterpillar. I know I’m really a butterfly now and all the caterpillar part is finished, but I’m not ready to come out.

I’ll have the one more operation, then a month of bandages, then I’ll be discharged. I’ll have to go back to the old neighborhood. Everybody will see me. They tell me I’ll get thirty or forty percent disability. I’ll be eligible for Public Law 16. This means I can rake in the dough just by going to school. I have no idea what to study. The only thing I was ever good at in school was PE. Maybe I’ll be a PE teacher. That sounds like as dumb a way as any to spend the rest of my life.

Or, maybe I’ll start wearing a mask and cape like Zorro and charge up and down the street. I’ll challenge all the kids under twelve to duels with plastic swords. That way I can work up the disability to ninety or a hundred percent. The mask part sounds good anyway.

After breakfast, I walk over to Birdy. I pull my chair into place and make myself comfortable. Birdy turns around when I sit down. He’s still squatting flat-footed, but instead of his arms at his sides, he has them folded across his chest. He feeds himself completely now. There’s no trouble with it at all. He takes the dishes and shovels it in.

I try to look into his eyes. He isn’t more than two paces from me. It’s like looking into the eyes of a dog or a baby. After a while, you can’t do it anymore because you know you’re hurting them, burning holes in their souls. They don’t know enough to turn away, but they’re scared. I look away.

‘You know, Birdy, this is really a fucked-over situation. Who the hell would’ve thought we’d wind up like this? What went wrong? I have the feeling we haven’t had anything to do with making our own lives; we’re just examples of the way we’re supposed to be. We’re a little bit different, but in the end, we were as usable as everybody else. You might be the nut and I’m the bolt but we’re all part of the plan, and it’s all worked out before we have anything to say about it.’

I was always so damned sure about being myself and how nobody was going to make me be, or do, anything I didn’t want; now here I am. I’m not much different from my old man when you come to think about it. There’s nobody original and there’s nothing left so we can even fool ourselves.

‘You know, Birdy, it wouldn’t matter if I hadn’t been doing such a good job kidding myself all those years. I wouldn’t care so much; but I feel like such a jerk. You’re the same, you know. It’s terrible to see how easy it is for them to make us like everybody else. They put some clothes on us, give us a rifle, teach us some tricks and then we’re just names on a company roster, somebody to schedule for K.P. or guard duty or a patrol. They finish us off with a discharge or put us on a casualty list or whatever happens and it doesn’t matter who we are or were.’

It’s going to take me a long time to convince myself that Alfonso Columbato is anything but another piece of moving meat with a fancy electronic control system. It’ll be hard for me to believe in myself as something separate again.

‘And what the hell does any of it matter? Where’s it all leading to anyhow? Look at you! Either you stay like this and they feed you and keep you warm all your life or you get better; join the human race again. If you stay back there in that fake bird-brain of yours, they have it all worked out, you’ll be written into some budget as a loss. If you come back, so you go to school, or take a job, or start raising canaries again; it doesn’t matter. Everything’s been arranged for. You’ll be fit in before you can think about it.

‘Even if you could reach down and bite your own jugular vein, they have a whole system with forms to fill out and everything; it’s just another kind of thing they expect. I don’t even know who they are except all other human beings, including us.’

I stop. What’s the use talking about it. I only want Birdy to know he’s not alone thinking the world is shitty. Maybe if he knows I’m with him, that he’s not the only one who knows, it might help.

‘Look, Birdy. I’m going to have another operation on my face next week. That means I’ll have to leave here. I’ll only be staying around another day or two. If I stay any longer, they’ll probably lock me up in one of these rooms. That shit, Weiss, is getting close. I don’t know what he’ll think if he ever gets a really good look into my head.

‘You watch out for him, Birdy, he’s one smart son-of-a-bitch. He gets inside when you aren’t expecting it. He’s got you figured for at least one paper at the next psychiatric convention. He doesn’t want to cure you, he wants to keep you just like this. Your advantage is, he doesn’t know you’re a bird. When he figures that one out, you’re in trouble.

‘He’ll probably have some kind of giant bird cage made for you, with perches, feeding cups, and everything. He’ll search out that old pigeon suit of yours and have you shipped air freight at army expense to the big conference. He’ll keep you in this cage and lecture on the “bird boy”. When he’s finished with you he’ll probably sell you to a circus.

‘I can see it all. There’s the blare of trumpets and an elephant, all dressed in sequins, pulling a little cart. The cart is painted red and black; on top is a golden bird cage. The circus orchestra is playing “He’s Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage”, and there you are, all decked out in a bird costume, only this time it’s a canary costume. Ten thousand canaries will have been defeathered to make this costume. You’ll hop from perch to perch, do some peeping and maybe warble a few songs for the people. They’ll have a giant-sized nest and you’ll jump into it and try hatching some eggs the size of medicine balls. As a finale, a dwarf clown jumps out of one of these balls, dressed like a miniature bird, and thumps you on the head with a rubber worm. You’ll get all the birdseed you can eat.’

I’m winding down but Birdy is definitely smiling.

‘You know, Birdy; your old lady actually sent all those baseballs here? Having them sent was my idea; I hope you don’t mind. I told Weiss it might help you come around. Now I don’t know what the hell to tell him. He’s liable to put those baseballs and you together and figure it out.

‘Think of it. She had those balls all the time. Renaldi says they’re moldy, so she must’ve had them buried. Maybe she had them buried down where we hunted for the treasure. Maybe she ran down just before us and dug them up. It’d explain the depression in the ground.’

Birdy’s watching me. He’s giving me his ‘you must be crazy’ look. I’m beginning to believe he’s been right about that all the time. I can see them sending Birdy up to Dix in about two weeks. There I am hunkering around in the ‘altogether’, throwing shit at anybody who comes near me. He’s sitting with a garbage lid for a shield talking to me about raising pigeons and running away to Wildwood, and ice skating, all that crap.

God, it’d be great; just to let go and stop pretending; to let it all out; holler, scream, give Tarzan yells, run up walls or punch them; to spit or piss or shit at anybody who comes near! God, that’d be good! What keeps me from doing it? I’ve been hurt enough; I could do it if I really wanted to. Nobody could blame me.