The Catcher in the Rye - 12

restaurant somewhere and you see some old guy take his little kid out on the dance floor.
Usually they keep yanking the kid's dress up in the back by mistake, and the kid can't
dance worth a damn anyway, and it looks terrible, but I don't do it out in public with
Phoebe or anything. We just horse around in the house. It's different with her anyway,
because she can dance. She can follow anything you do. I mean if you hold her in close
as hell so that it doesn't matter that your legs are so much longer. She stays right with
you. You can cross over, or do some corny dips, or even jitterbug a little, and she stays
right with you. You can even tango, for God's sake.
We danced about four numbers. In between numbers she's funny as hell. She stays
right in position. She won't even talk or anything. You both have to stay right in position
and wait for the orchestra to start playing again. That kills me. You're not supposed to
laugh or anything, either.
Anyway, we danced about four numbers, and then I turned off the radio. Old
Phoebe jumped back in bed and got under the covers. "I'm improving, aren't I?" she
asked me.
"And how," I said. I sat down next to her on the bed again. I was sort of out of
breath. I was smoking so damn much, I had hardly any wind. She wasn't even out of
breath.
"Feel my forehead," she said all of a sudden.
"Why?"
"Feel it. Just feel it once."
I felt it. I didn't feel anything, though.
"Does it feel very feverish?" she said.
"No. Is it supposed to?"
"Yes--I'm making it. Feel it again."
I felt it again, and I still didn't feel anything, but I said, "I think it's starting to,
now." I didn't want her to get a goddam inferiority complex.
She nodded. "I can make it go up to over the thermoneter."
"Thermometer. Who said so?"
"Alice Holmborg showed me how. You cross your legs and hold your breath and
think of something very, very hot. A radiator or something. Then your whole forehead
gets so hot you can burn somebody's hand."
That killed me. I pulled my hand away from her forehead, like I was in terrific
danger. "Thanks for telling me," I said.
"Oh, I wouldn't've burned your hand. I'd've stopped before it got too--Shhh!"
Then, quick as hell, she sat way the hell up in bed.
She scared hell out of me when she did that. "What's the matter?" I said.
"The front door!" she said in this loud whisper. "It's them!"
I quick jumped up and ran over and turned off the light over the desk. Then I
jammed out my cigarette on my shoe and put it in my pocket. Then I fanned hell out of
the air, to get the smoke out--I shouldn't even have been smoking, for God's sake. Then I
grabbed my shoes and got in the closet and shut the door. Boy, my heart was beating like
a bastard.
I heard my mother come in the room.
"Phoebe?" she said. "Now, stop that. I saw the light, young lady."
"Hello!" I heard old Phoebe say. "I couldn't sleep. Did you have a good time?"
"Marvelous," my mother said, but you could tell she didn't mean it. She doesn't
enjoy herself much when she goes out. "Why are you awake, may I ask? Were you warm
enough?"
"I was warm enough, I just couldn't sleep."
"Phoebe, have you been smoking a cigarette in here? Tell me the truth, please,
young lady."
"What?" old Phoebe said.
"You heard me."
"I just lit one for one second. I just took one puff. Then I threw it out the
window."
"Why, may I ask?"
"I couldn't sleep."
"I don't like that, Phoebe. I don't like that at all," my mother said. "Do you want
another blanket?"
"No, thanks. G'night!" old Phoebe said. She was trying to get rid of her, you could
tell.
"How was the movie?" my mother said.
"Excellent. Except Alice's mother. She kept leaning over and asking her if she felt
grippy during the whole entire movie. We took a taxi home."
"Let me feel your forehead."
"I didn't catch anything. She didn't have anything. It was just her mother."
"Well. Go to sleep now. How was your dinner?"
"Lousy," Phoebe said.
"You heard what your father said about using that word. What was lousy about it?
You had a lovely lamb chop. I walked all over Lexington Avenue just to--"
"The lamb chop was all right, but Charlene always breathes on me whenever she
puts something down. She breathes all over the food and everything. She breathes on
everything."
"Well. Go to sleep. Give Mother a kiss. Did you say your prayers?"
"I said them in the bathroom. G'night!"
"Good night. Go right to sleep now. I have a splitting headache," my mother said.
She gets headaches quite frequently. She really does.
"Take a few aspirins," old Phoebe said. "Holden'll be home on Wednesday, won't
he?"
"So far as I know. Get under there, now. Way down."
I heard my mother go out and close the door. I waited a couple of minutes. Then I
came out of the closet. I bumped smack into old Phoebe when I did it, because it was so
dark and she was out of bed and coming to tell me. "I hurt you?" I said. You had to
whisper now, because they were both home. "I gotta get a move on," I said. I found the
edge of the bed in the dark and sat down on it and started putting on my shoes. I was
pretty nervous. I admit it.
"Don't go now," Phoebe whispered. "Wait'll they're asleep!"
"No. Now. Now's the best time," I said. "She'll be in the bathroom and Daddy'll
turn on the news or something. Now's the best time." I could hardly tie my shoelaces, I
was so damn nervous. Not that they would've killed me or anything if they'd caught me
home, but it would've been very unpleasant and all. "Where the hell are ya?" I said to old
Phoebe. It was so dark I couldn't see her.
"Here." She was standing right next to me. I didn't even see her.
"I got my damn bags at the station," I said. "Listen. You got any dough, Phoeb?
I'm practically broke."
"Just my Christmas dough. For presents and all. I haven't done any shopping at all
yet."
"Oh." I didn't want to take her Christmas dough.
"You want some?" she said.
"I don't want to take your Christmas dough."
"I can lend you some," she said. Then I heard her over at D.B.'s desk, opening a
million drawers and feeling around with her hand. It was pitch-black, it was so dark in the
room. "If you go away, you won't see me in the play," she said. Her voice sounded funny
when she said it.
"Yes, I will. I won't go way before that. You think I wanna miss the play?" I said.
"What I'll do, I'll probably stay at Mr. Antolini's house till maybe Tuesday night. Then I'll
come home. If I get a chance, I'll phone ya."
"Here," old Phoebe said. She was trying to give me the dough, but she couldn't
find my hand.
"Where?"
She put the dough in my hand.
"Hey, I don't need all this," I said. "Just give me two bucks, is all. No kidding--
Here." I tried to give it back to her, but she wouldn't take it.
"You can take it all. You can pay me back. Bring it to the play."
"How much is it, for God's sake?"
"Eight dollars and eighty-five cents. Sixty-five cents. I spent some."
Then, all of a sudden, I started to cry. I couldn't help it. I did it so nobody could
hear me, but I did it. It scared hell out of old Phoebe when I started doing it, and she
came over and tried to make me stop, but once you get started, you can't just stop on a
goddam dime. I was still sitting on the edge of the bed when I did it, and she put her old
arm around my neck, and I put my arm around her, too, but I still couldn't stop for a long
time. I thought I was going to choke to death or something. Boy, I scared hell out of poor
old Phoebe. The damn window was open and everything, and I could feel her shivering
and all, because all she had on was her pajamas. I tried to make her get back in bed, but
she wouldn't go. Finally I stopped. But it certainly took me a long, long time. Then I
finished buttoning my coat and all. I told her I'd keep in touch with her. She told me I
could sleep with her if I wanted to, but I said no, that I'd better beat it, that Mr. Antolini
was waiting for me and all. Then I took my hunting hat out of my coat pocket and gave it
to her. She likes those kind of crazy hats. She didn't want to take it, but I made her. I'll bet
she slept with it on. She really likes those kind of hats. Then I told her again I'd give her a
buzz if I got a chance, and then I left.
It was a helluva lot easier getting out of the house than it was getting in, for some
reason. For one thing, I didn't give much of a damn any more if they caught me. I really
didn't. I figured if they caught me, they caught me. I almost wished they did, in a way.
I walked all the way downstairs, instead of taking the elevator. I went down the
back stairs. I nearly broke my neck on about ten million garbage pails, but I got out all
right. The elevator boy didn't even see me. He probably still thinks I'm up at the
Dicksteins'.
24
Mr. and Mrs. Antolini had this very swanky apartment over on Sutton Place, with
two steps that you go down to get in the living room, and a bar and all. I'd been there
quite a few times, because after I left Elkton Hills Mr. Antoilni came up to our house for
dinner quite frequently to find out how I was getting along. He wasn't married then. Then
when he got married, I used to play tennis with he and Mrs. Antolini quite frequently, out
at the West Side Tennis Club, in Forest Hills, Long Island. Mrs. Antolini, belonged there.
She was lousy with dough. She was about sixty years older than Mr. Antolini, but they
seemed to get along quite well. For one thing, they were both very intellectual, especially
Mr. Antolini except that he was more witty than intellectual when you were with him,
sort of like D.B. Mrs. Antolini was mostly serious. She had asthma pretty bad. They both
read all D.B.'s stories--Mrs. Antolini, too--and when D.B. went to Hollywood, Mr.
Antolini phoned him up and told him not to go. He went anyway, though. Mr. Antolini
said that anybody that could write like D.B. had no business going out to Hollywood.
That's exactly what I said, practically.
I would have walked down to their house, because I didn't want to spend any of
Phoebe's Christmas dough that I didn't have to, but I felt funny when I got outside. Sort of
dizzy. So I took a cab. I didn't want to, but I did. I had a helluva time even finding a cab.
Old Mr. Antolini answered the door when I rang the bell--after the elevator boy
finally let me up, the bastard. He had on his bathrobe and slippers, and he had a highball
in one hand. He was a pretty sophisticated guy, and he was a pretty heavy drinker.
"Holden, m'boy!" he said. "My God, he's grown another twenty inches. Fine to see you."
"How are you, Mr. Antolini? How's Mrs. Antolini?"
"We're both just dandy. Let's have that coat." He took my coat off me and hung it
up. "I expected to see a day-old infant in your arms. Nowhere to turn. Snowflakes in your
eyelashes." He's a very witty guy sometimes. He turned around and yelled out to the
kitchen, "Lillian! How's the coffee coming?" Lillian was Mrs. Antolini's first name.
"It's all ready," she yelled back. "Is that Holden? Hello, Holden!"
"Hello, Mrs. Antolini!"
You were always yelling when you were there. That's because the both of them
were never in the same room at the same time. It was sort of funny.
"Sit down, Holden," Mr. Antolini said. You could tell he was a little oiled up. The
room looked like they'd just had a party. Glasses were all over the place, and dishes with
peanuts in them. "Excuse the appearance of the place," he said. "We've been entertaining
some Buffalo friends of Mrs. Antolini's . . . Some buffaloes, as a matter of fact."
I laughed, and Mrs. Antolini yelled something in to me from the kitchen, but I
couldn't hear her. "What'd she say?" I asked Mr. Antolini.
"She said not to look at her when she comes in. She just arose from the sack.
Have a cigarette. Are you smoking now?"
"Thanks," I said. I took a cigarette from the box he offered me. "Just once in a
while. I'm a moderate smoker."
"I'll bet you are," he said. He gave me a light from this big lighter off the table.
"So. You and Pencey are no longer one," he said. He always said things that way.
Sometimes it amused me a lot and sometimes it didn't. He sort of did it a little bit too
much. I don't mean he wasn't witty or anything--he was--but sometimes it gets on your
nerves when somebody's always saying things like "So you and Pencey are no longer
one." D.B. does it too much sometimes, too.
"What was the trouble?" Mr. Antolini asked me. "How'd you do in English? I'll
show you the door in short order if you flunked English, you little ace composition
writer."
"Oh, I passed English all right. It was mostly literature, though. I only wrote about
two compositions the whole term," I said. "I flunked Oral Expression, though. They had
this course you had to take, Oral Expression. That I flunked."
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know." I didn't feel much like going into It. I was still feeling sort of
dizzy or something, and I had a helluva headache all of a sudden. I really did. But you
could tell he was interested, so I told him a little bit about it. "It's this course where each
boy in class has to get up in class and make a speech. You know. Spontaneous and all.
And if the boy digresses at all, you're supposed to yell 'Digression!' at him as fast as you
can. It just about drove me crazy. I got an F in it."
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know. That digression business got on my nerves. I don't know. The
trouble with me is, I like it when somebody digresses. It's more interesting and all."
"You don't care to have somebody stick to the point when he tells you
something?"
"Oh, sure! I like somebody to stick to the point and all. But I don't like them to
stick too much to the point. I don't know. I guess I don't like it when somebody sticks to
the point all the time. The boys that got the best marks in Oral Expression were the ones
that stuck to the point all the time--I admit it. But there was this one boy, Richard
Kinsella. He didn't stick to the point too much, and they were always yelling 'Digression!'
at him. It was terrible, because in the first place, he was a very nervous guy--I mean he
was a very nervous guy--and his lips were always shaking whenever it was his time to
make a speech, and you could hardly hear him if you were sitting way in the back of the
room. When his lips sort of quit shaking a little bit, though, I liked his speeches better
than anybody else's. He practically flunked the course, though, too. He got a D plus
because they kept yelling 'Digression!' at him all the time. For instance, he made this
speech about this farm his father bought in Vermont. They kept yelling 'Digression!' at
him the whole time he was making it, and this teacher, Mr. Vinson, gave him an F on it
because he hadn't told what kind of animals and vegetables and stuff grew on the farm
and all. What he did was, Richard Kinsella, he'd start telling you all about that stuff--then
all of a sudden he'd start telling you about this letter his mother got from his uncle, and
how his uncle got polio and all when he was forty-two years old, and how he wouldn't let
anybody come to see him in the hospital because he didn't want anybody to see him with
a brace on. It didn't have much to do with the farm--I admit it--but it was nice. It's nice
when somebody tells you about their uncle. Especially when they start out telling you
about their father's farm and then all of a sudden get more interested in their uncle. I
mean it's dirty to keep yelling 'Digression!' at him when he's all nice and excited. I don't
know. It's hard to explain." I didn't feel too much like trying, either. For one thing, I had
this terrific headache all of a sudden. I wished to God old Mrs. Antolini would come in
with the coffee. That's something that annoys hell out of me--I mean if somebody says
the coffee's all ready and it isn't.
"Holden. . . One short, faintly stuffy, pedagogical question. Don't you think there's
a time and place for everything? Don't you think if someone starts out to tell you about
his father's farm, he should stick to his guns, then get around to telling you about his
uncle's brace? Or, if his uncle's brace is such a provocative subject, shouldn't he have
selected it in the first place as his subject--not the farm?"
I didn't feel much like thinking and answering and all. I had a headache and I felt
lousy. I even had sort of a stomach-ache, if you want to know the truth.
"Yes--I don't know. I guess he should. I mean I guess he should've picked his
uncle as a subject, instead of the farm, if that interested him most. But what I mean is,
lots of time you don't know what interests you most till you start talking about something
that doesn't interest you most. I mean you can't help it sometimes. What I think is, you're
supposed to leave somebody alone if he's at least being interesting and he's getting all
excited about something. I like it when somebody gets excited about something. It's nice.
You just didn't know this teacher, Mr. Vinson. He could drive you crazy sometimes, him
and the goddam class. I mean he'd keep telling you to unify and simplify all the time.
Some things you just can't do that to. I mean you can't hardly ever simplify and unify
something just because somebody wants you to. You didn't know this guy, Mr. Vinson. I
mean he was very intelligent and all, but you could tell he didn't have too much brains."
"Coffee, gentlemen, finally," Mrs. Antolini said. She came in carrying this tray
with coffee and cakes and stuff on it. "Holden, don't you even peek at me. I'm a mess."
"Hello, Mrs. Antolini," I said. I started to get up and all, but Mr. Antolini got hold
of my jacket and pulled me back down. Old Mrs. Antolini's hair was full of those iron
curler jobs, and she didn't have any lipstick or anything on. She didn't look too gorgeous.
She looked pretty old and all.
"I'll leave this right here. Just dive in, you two," she said. She put the tray down
on the cigarette table, pushing all these glasses out of the way. "How's your mother,
Holden?"
"She's fine, thanks. I haven't seen her too recently, but the last I--"
"Darling, if Holden needs anything, everything's in the linen closet. The top shelf.
I'm going to bed. I'm exhausted," Mrs. Antolini said. She looked it, too. "Can you boys
make up the couch by yourselves?"
"We'll take care of everything. You run along to bed," Mr. Antolini said. He gave
Mrs. Antolini a kiss and she said good-by to me and went in the bedroom. They were
always kissing each other a lot in public.
I had part of a cup of coffee and about half of some cake that was as hard as a
rock. All old Mr. Antolini had was another highball, though. He makes them strong, too,
you could tell. He may get to be an alcoholic if he doesn't watch his step.
"I had lunch with your dad a couple of weeks ago," he said all of a sudden. "Did
you know that?"
"No, I didn't."
"You're aware, of course, that he's terribly concerned about you."
"I know it. I know he is," I said.
"Apparently before he phoned me he'd just had a long, rather harrowing letter
from your latest headmaster, to the effect that you were making absolutely no effort at all.
Cutting classes. Coming unprepared to all your classes. In general, being an all-around--"
"I didn't cut any classes. You weren't allowed to cut any. There were a couple of
them I didn't attend once in a while, like that Oral Expression I told you about, but I
didn't cut any."
I didn't feel at all like discussing it. The coffee made my stomach feel a little
better, but I still had this awful headache.
Mr. Antolini lit another cigarette. He smoked like a fiend. Then he said, "Frankly,
I don't know what the hell to say to you, Holden."
"I know. I'm very hard to talk to. I realize that."
"I have a feeling that you're riding for some kind of a terrible, terrible fall. But I
don't honestly know what kind. . . Are you listening to me?"
"Yes."
You could tell he was trying to concentrate and all.
"It may be the kind where, at the age of thirty, you sit in some bar hating
everybody who comes in looking as if he might have played football in college. Then
again, you may pick up just enough education to hate people who say, 'It's a secret
between he and I.' Or you may end up in some business office, throwing paper clips at the
nearest stenographer. I just don't know. But do you know what I'm driving at, at all?"
"Yes. Sure," I said. I did, too. "But you're wrong about that hating business. I
mean about hating football players and all. You really are. I don't hate too many guys.
What I may do, I may hate them for a little while, like this guy Stradlater I knew at
Pencey, and this other boy, Robert Ackley. I hated them once in a while--I admit it--but it
doesn't last too long, is what I mean. After a while, if I didn't see them, if they didn't
come in the room, or if I didn't see them in the dining room for a couple of meals, I sort
of missed them. I mean I sort of missed them."
Mr. Antolini didn't say anything for a while. He got up and got another hunk of
ice and put it in his drink, then he sat down again. You could tell he was thinking. I kept
wishing, though, that he'd continue the conversation in the morning, instead of now, but
he was hot. People are mostly hot to have a discussion when you're not.
"All right. Listen to me a minute now . . . I may not word this as memorably as I'd
like to, but I'll write you a letter about it in a day or two. Then you can get it all straight.
But listen now, anyway." He started concentrating again. Then he said, "This fall I think
you're riding for--it's a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. The man falling isn't permitted
to feel or hear himself hit bottom. He just keeps falling and falling. The whole
arrangement's designed for men who, at some time or other in their lives, were looking
for something their own environment couldn't supply them with. Or they thought their
own environment couldn't supply them with. So they gave up looking. They gave it up
before they ever really even got started. You follow me?"
"Yes, sir."
"Sure?"
"Yes."
He got up and poured some more booze in his glass. Then he sat down again. He
didn't say anything for a long time.
"I don't want to scare you," he said, "but I can very clearly see you dying nobly,
one way or another, for some highly unworthy cause." He gave me a funny look. "If I
write something down for you, will you read it carefully? And keep it?"
"Yes. Sure," I said. I did, too. I still have the paper he gave me.
He went over to this desk on the other side of the room, and without sitting down
wrote something on a piece of paper. Then he came back and sat down with the paper in
his hand. "Oddly enough, this wasn't written by a practicing poet. It was written by a
psychoanalyst named Wilhelm Stekel. Here's what he--Are you still with me?"
"Yes, sure I am."
"Here's what he said: 'The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly
for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.'"
He leaned over and handed it to me. I read it right when he gave it to me, and then
I thanked him and all and put it in my pocket. It was nice of him to go to all that trouble.
It really was. The thing was, though, I didn't feel much like concentrating. Boy, I felt so
damn tired all of a sudden.
You could tell he wasn't tired at all, though. He was pretty oiled up, for one thing.
"I think that one of these days," he said, "you're going to have to find out where you want
to go. And then you've got to start going there. But immediately. You can't afford to lose
a minute. Not you."
I nodded, because he was looking right at me and all, but I wasn't too sure what he
was talking about. I was pretty sure I knew, but I wasn't too positive at the time. I was too
damn tired.
"And I hate to tell you," he said, "but I think that once you have a fair idea where
you want to go, your first move will be to apply yourself in school. You'll have to. You're
a student--whether the idea appeals to you or not. You're in love with knowledge. And I
think you'll find, once you get past all the Mr. Vineses and their Oral Comp--"
"Mr. Vinsons," I said. He meant all the Mr. Vinsons, not all the Mr. Vineses. I
shouldn't have interrupted him, though.
"All right--the Mr. Vinsons. Once you get past all the Mr. Vinsons, you're going
to start getting closer and closer--that is, if you want to, and if you look for it and wait for
it--to the kind of information that will be very, very dear to your heart. Among other
things, you'll find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened
and even sickened by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be
excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and
spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles.
You'll learn from them--if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer,
someone will learn something from you. It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it
isn't education. It's history. It's poetry." He stopped and took a big drink out of his
highball. Then he started again. Boy, he was really hot. I was glad I didn't try to stop him
or anything. "I'm not trying to tell you," he said, "that only educated and scholarly men
are able to contribute something valuable to the world. It's not so. But I do say that
educated and scholarly men, if they're brilliant and creative to begin with--which,
unfortunately, is rarely the case--tend to leave infinitely more valuable records behind
them than men do who are merely brilliant and creative. They tend to express themselves
more clearly, and they usually have a passion for following their thoughts through to the
end. And--most important--nine times out of ten they have more humility than the
unscholarly thinker. Do you follow me at all?"
"Yes, sir."
He didn't say anything again for quite a while. I don't know if you've ever done it,
but it's sort of hard to sit around waiting for somebody to say something when they're
thinking and all. It really is. I kept trying not to yawn. It wasn't that I was bored or
anything--I wasn't--but I was so damn sleepy all of a sudden.
"Something else an academic education will do for you. If you go along with it
any considerable distance, it'll begin to give you an idea what size mind you have. What
it'll fit and, maybe, what it won't. After a while, you'll have an idea what kind of thoughts
your particular size mind should be wearing. For one thing, it may save you an
extraordinary amount of time trying on ideas that don't suit you, aren't becoming to you.
You'll begin to know your true measurements and dress your mind accordingly."
Then, all of a sudden, I yawned. What a rude bastard, but I couldn't help it!
Mr. Antolini just laughed, though. "C'mon," he said, and got up. "We'll fix up the
couch for you."
I followed him and he went over to this closet and tried to take down some sheets
and blankets and stuff that was on the top shelf, but he couldn't do it with this highball
glass in his hand. So he drank it and then put the glass down on the floor and then he took
the stuff down. I helped him bring it over to the couch. We both made the bed together.
He wasn't too hot at it. He didn't tuck anything in very tight. I didn't care, though. I
could've slept standing up I was so tired.
"How're all your women?"
"They're okay." I was being a lousy conversationalist, but I didn't feel like it.
"How's Sally?" He knew old Sally Hayes. I introduced him once.
"She's all right. I had a date with her this afternoon." Boy, it seemed like twenty
years ago! "We don't have too much in common any more."
"Helluva pretty girl. What about that other girl? The one you told me about, in
Maine?"
"Oh--Jane Gallagher. She's all right. I'm probably gonna give her a buzz
tomorrow."
We were all done making up the couch then. "It's all yours," Mr. Antolini said. "I
don't know what the hell you're going to do with those legs of yours."
"That's all right. I'm used to short beds," I said. "Thanks a lot, sir. You and Mrs.
Antolini really saved my life tonight."
"You know where the bathroom is. If there's anything you want, just holler. I'll be
in the kitchen for a while--will the light bother you?"
"No--heck, no. Thanks a lot."
"All right. Good night, handsome."