The Catcher in the Rye By J. D. Salinger

19
In case you don't live in New York, the Wicker Bar is in this sort of swanky hotel, the Seton Hotel. I used to go there quite a lot, but I don't any more. I gradually cut it out. It's one of those places that are supposed to be very sophisticated and all, and the phonies are coming in the window. They used to have these two French babes, Tina and Janine, come out and play the piano and sing about three times every night. One of them played the piano--strictly lousy--and the other one sang, and most of the songs were either pretty dirty or in French. The one that sang, old Janine, was always whispering into the goddam microphone before she sang. She'd say, "And now we like to geeve you our impression of Vooly Voo Fransay. Eet ees the story of a leetle Fransh girl who comes to a beeg ceety, just like New York, and falls een love wees a leetle boy from Brookleen. We hope you like eet." Then, when she was all done whispering and being cute as hell, she'd sing some dopey song, half in English and half in French, and drive all the phonies in the place mad with joy. If you sat around there long enough and heard all the phonies applauding and all, you got to hate everybody in the world, I swear you did. The bartender was a louse, too. He was a big snob. He didn't talk to you at all hardly unless you were a big shot or a celebrity or something. If you were a big shot or a celebrity or something, then he was even more nauseating. He'd go up to you and say, with this big charming smile, like he was a helluva swell guy if you knew him, "Well! How's Connecticut?" or "How's Florida?" It was a terrible place, I'm not kidding. I cut out going there entirely, gradually.
It was pretty early when I got there. I sat down at the bar--it was pretty crowded--and had a couple of Scotch and sodas before old Luce even showed up. I stood up when I ordered them so they could see how tall I was and all and not think I was a goddam minor. Then I watched the phonies for a while. Some guy next to me was snowing hell out of the babe he was with. He kept telling her she had aristocratic hands. That killed me. The other end of the bar was full of flits. They weren't too flitty-looking--I mean they didn't have their hair too long or anything--but you could tell they were flits anyway. Finally old Luce showed up.
Old Luce. What a guy. He was supposed to be my Student Adviser when I was at Whooton. The only thing he ever did, though, was give these *** talks and all, late at night when there was a bunch of guys in his room. He knew quite a bit about ***, especially perverts and all. He was always telling us about a lot of creepy guys that go around having affairs with sheep, and guys that go around with girls' pants sewed in the lining of their hats and all. And flits and Lesbians. Old Luce knew who every flit and Lesbian in the United States was. All you had to do was mention somebody--anybody--and old Luce'd tell you if he was a flit or not. Sometimes it was hard to believe, the people he said were flits and Lesbians and all, movie actors and like that. Some of the ones he said were flits were even married, for God's sake. You'd keep saying to him, "You mean Joe Blow's a flit? Joe Blow? That big, tough guy that plays gangsters and cowboys all the time?" Old Luce'd say, "Certainly." He was always saying "Certainly." He said it didn't matter if a guy was married or not. He said half the married guys in the world were flits and didn't even know it. He said you could turn into one practically overnight, if you had all the traits and all. He used to scare the hell out of us. I kept waiting to turn into a flit or something. The funny thing about old Luce, I used to think he was sort of flitty himself, in a way. He was always saying, "Try this for size," and then he'd goose the hell out of you while you were going down the corridor. And whenever he went to the can, he always left the goddam door open and talked to you while you were brushing your teeth or something. That stuff's sort of flitty. It really is. I've known quite a few real flits, at schools and all, and they're always doing stuff like that, and that's why I always had my doubts about old Luce. He was a pretty intelligent guy, though. He really was.
He never said hello or anything when he met you. The first thing he said when he sat down was that he could only stay a couple of minutes. He said he had a date. Then he ordered a dry Martini. He told the bartender to make it very dry, and no olive.
"Hey, I got a flit for you," I told him. "At the end of the bar. Don't look now. I been saving him for ya."
"Very funny," he said. "Same old Caulfield. When are you going to grow up?"
I bored him a lot. I really did. He amused me, though. He was one of those guys that sort of amuse me a lot.
"How's your *** life?" I asked him. He hated you to ask him stuff like that.
"Relax," he said. "Just sit back and relax, for Chrissake."
"I'm relaxed," I said. "How's Columbia? Ya like it?"
"Certainly I like it. If I didn't like it I wouldn't have gone there," he said. He could be pretty boring himself sometimes.
"What're you majoring in?" I asked him. "Perverts?" I was only horsing around.
"What're you trying to be--funny?"
"No. I'm only kidding," I said. "Listen, hey, Luce. You're one of these intellectual guys. I need your advice. I'm in a terrific--"
He let out this big groan on me. "Listen, Caulfield. If you want to sit here and have a quiet, peaceful drink and a quiet, peaceful conver--"
"All right, all right," I said. "Relax." You could tell he didn't feel like discussing anything serious with me. That's the trouble with these intellectual guys. They never want to discuss anything serious unless they feel like it. So all I did was, I started discussing topics in general with him. "No kidding, how's your *** life?" I asked him. "You still going around with that same babe you used to at Whooton? The one with the terrffic--"
"Good God, no," he said.
"How come? What happened to her?"
"I haven't the faintest idea. For all I know, since you ask, she's probably the Whore of New Hampshire by this time."
"That isn't nice. If she was decent enough to let you get ***y with her all the time, you at least shouldn't talk about her that way."
"Oh, God!" old Luce said. "Is this going to be a typical Caulfield conversation? I want to know right now."
"No," I said, "but it isn't nice anyway. If she was decent and nice enough to let you--"
"Must we pursue this horrible trend of thought?"
I didn't say anything. I was sort of afraid he'd get up and leave on me if I didn't shut up. So all I did was, I ordered another drink. I felt like getting stinking drunk.
"Who're you going around with now?" I asked him. "You feel like telling me?"
"Nobody you know."
"Yeah, but who? I might know her."
"Girl lives in the Village. Sculptress. If you must know."
"Yeah? No kidding? How old is she?"
"I've never asked her, for God's sake."
"Well, around how old?"
"I should imagine she's in her late thirties," old Luce said.
"In her late thirties? Yeah? You like that?" I asked him. "You like 'em that old?" The reason I was asking was because he really knew quite a bit about *** and all. He was one of the few guys I knew that did. He lost his virginity when he was only fourteen, in Nantucket. He really did.
"I like a mature person, if that's what you mean. Certainly."
"You do? Why? No kidding, they better for *** and all?"
"Listen. Let's get one thing straight. I refuse to answer any typical Caulfield questions tonight. When in hell are you going to grow up?"
I didn't say anything for a while. I let it drop for a while. Then old Luce ordered another Martini and told the bartender to make it a lot dryer.
"Listen. How long you been going around with her, this sculpture babe?" I asked him. I was really interested. "Did you know her when you were at Whooton?"
"Hardly. She just arrived in this country a few months ago."
"She did? Where's she from?"
"She happens to be from Shanghai."
"No kidding! She Chinese, for Chrissake?"
"Obviously."
"No kidding! Do you like that? Her being Chinese?"
"Obviously."
"Why? I'd be interested to know--I really would."
"I simply happen to find Eastern philosophy more satisfactory than Western. Since you ask."
"You do? Wuddaya mean 'philosophy'? Ya mean *** and all? You mean it's better in China? That what you mean?"
"Not necessarily in China, for God's sake. The East I said. Must we go on with this inane conversation?"
"Listen, I'm serious," I said. "No kidding. Why's it better in the East?"
"It's too involved to go into, for God's sake," old Luce said. "They simply happen to regard *** as both a physical and a spiritual experience. If you think I'm--"
"So do I! So do I regard it as a wuddayacallit--a physical and spiritual experience and all. I really do. But it depends on who the hell I'm doing it with. If I'm doing it with somebody I don't even--"
"Not so loud, for God's sake, Caulfield. If you can't manage to keep your voice down, let's drop the whole--"
"All right, but listen," I said. I was getting excited and I was talking a little too loud. Sometimes I talk a little loud when I get excited. "This is what I mean, though," I said. "I know it's supposed to be physical and spiritual, and artistic and all. But what I mean is, you can't do it with everybody--every girl you neck with and all--and make it come out that way. Can you?"
"Let's drop it," old Luce said. "Do you mind?"
"All right, but listen. Take you and this Chinese babe. What's so good about you two?"
"Drop it, I said."
I was getting a little too personal. I realize that. But that was one of the annoying things about Luce. When we were at Whooton, he'd make you describe the most personal stuff that happened to you, but if you started asking him questions about himself, he got sore. These intellectual guys don't like to have an intellectual conversation with you unless they're running the whole thing. They always want you to shut up when they shut up, and go back to your room when they go back to their room. When I was at Whooton old Luce used to hate it--you really could tell he did--when after he was finished giving his *** talk to a bunch of us in his room we stuck around and chewed the fat by ourselves for a while. I mean the other guys and myself. In somebody else's room. Old Luce hated that. He always wanted everybody to go back to their own room and shut up when he was finished being the big shot. The thing he was afraid of, he was afraid somebody'd say something smarter than he had. He really amused me.
"Maybe I'll go to China. My *** life is lousy," I said.
"Naturally. Your mind is immature."
"It is. It really is. I know it," I said. "You know what the trouble with me is? I can never get really ***y--I mean really ***y--with a girl I don't like a lot. I mean I have to like her a lot. If I don't, I sort of lose my goddam desire for her and all. Boy, it really screws up my *** life something awful. My *** life stinks."
"Naturally it does, for God's sake. I told you the last time I saw you what you need."
"You mean to go to a psychoanalyst and all?" I said. That's what he'd told me I ought to do. His father was a psychoanalyst and all.
"It's up to you, for God's sake. It's none of my goddam business what you do with your life."
I didn't say anything for a while. I was thinking.
"Supposing I went to your father and had him psychoanalyze me and all," I said. "What would he do to me? I mean what would he do to me?"
"He wouldn't do a goddam thing to you. He'd simply talk to you, and you'd talk to him, for God's sake. For one thing, he'd help you to recognize the patterns of your mind."
"The what?"
"The patterns of your mind. Your mind runs in-- Listen. I'm not giving an elementary course in psychoanalysis. If you're interested, call him up and make an appointment. If you're not, don't. I couldn't care less, frankly."
I put my hand on his shoulder. Boy, he amused me. "You're a real friendly bastard," I told him. "You know that?"
He was looking at his wrist watch. "I have to tear," he said, and stood up. "Nice seeing you." He got the bartender and told him to bring him his check.
"Hey," I said, just before he beat it. "Did your father ever psychoanalyze you?"
"Me? Why do you ask?"
"No reason. Did he, though? Has he?"
"Not exactly. He's helped me to adjust myself to a certain extent, but an extensive analysis hasn't been necessary. Why do you ask?"
"No reason. I was just wondering."
"Well. Take it easy," he said. He was leaving his tip and all and he was starting to go.
"Have just one more drink," I told him. "Please. I'm lonesome as hell. No kidding."
He said he couldn't do it, though. He said he was late now, and then he left.
Old Luce. He was strictly a pain in the ass, but he certainly had a good vocabulary. He had the largest vocabulary of any boy at Whooton when I was there. They gave us a test.

20
I kept sitting there getting drunk and waiting for old Tina and Janine to come out and do their stuff, but they weren't there. A flitty-looking guy with wavy hair came out and played the piano, and then this new babe, Valencia, came out and sang. She wasn't any good, but she was better than old Tina and Janine, and at least she sang good songs. The piano was right next to the bar where I was sitting and all, and old Valencia was standing practically right next to me. I sort of gave her the old eye, but she pretended she didn't even see me. I probably wouldn't have done it, but I was getting drunk as hell. When she was finished, she beat it out of the room so fast I didn't even get a chance to invite her to join me for a drink, so I called the headwaiter over. I told him to ask old Valencia if she'd care to join me for a drink. He said he would, but he probably didn't even give her my message. People never give your message to anybody.
Boy, I sat at that goddam bar till around one o'clock or so, getting drunk as a bastard. I could hardly see straight. The one thing I did, though, I was careful as hell not to get boisterous or anything. I didn't want anybody to notice me or anything or ask how old I was. But, boy, I could hardly see straight. When I was really drunk, I started that stupid business with the bullet in my guts again. I was the only guy at the bar with a bullet in their guts. I kept putting my hand under my jacket, on my stomach and all, to keep the blood from dripping all over the place. I didn't want anybody to know I was even wounded. I was concealing the fact that I was a wounded sonuvabitch. Finally what I felt like, I felt like giving old Jane a buzz and see if she was home yet. So I paid my check and all. Then I left the bar and went out where the telephones were. I kept keeping my hand under my jacket to keep the blood from dripping. Boy, was I drunk.
But when I got inside this phone booth, I wasn't much in the mood any more to give old Jane a buzz. I was too drunk, I guess. So what I did, I gave old Sally Hayes a buzz.
I had to dial about twenty numbers before I got the right one. Boy, was I blind.
"Hello," I said when somebody answered the goddam phone. I sort of yelled it, I was so drunk.
"Who is this?" this very cold lady's voice said.
"This is me. Holden Caulfield. Lemme speaka Sally, please."
"Sally's asleep. This is Sally's grandmother. Why are you calling at this hour, Holden? Do you know what time it is?"
"Yeah. Wanna talka Sally. Very important. Put her on."
"Sally's asleep, young man. Call her tomorrow. Good night."
"Wake 'er up! Wake 'er up, hey. Attaboy."
Then there was a different voice. "Holden, this is me." It was old Sally. "What's the big idea?"
"Sally? That you?"
"Yes--stop screaming. Are you drunk?"
"Yeah. Listen. Listen, hey. I'll come over Christmas Eve. Okay? Trimma goddarn tree for ya. Okay? Okay, hey, Sally?"
"Yes. You're drunk. Go to bed now. Where are you? Who's with you?"
"Sally? I'll come over and trimma tree for ya, okay? Okay, hey?"
"Yes. Go to bed now. Where are you? Who's with you?"
"Nobody. Me, myself and I." Boy was I drunk! I was even still holding onto my guts. "They got me. Rocky's mob got me. You know that? Sally, you know that?"
"I can't hear you. Go to bed now. I have to go. Call me tomorrow."
"Hey, Sally! You want me trimma tree for ya? Ya want me to? Huh?"
"Yes. Good night. Go home and go to bed."
She hung up on me.
"G'night. G'night, Sally baby. Sally sweetheart darling," I said. Can you imagine how drunk I was? I hung up too, then. I figured she probably just came home from a date. I pictured her out with the Lunts and all somewhere, and that Andover jerk. All of them swimming around in a goddam pot of tea and saying sophisticated stuff to each other and being charming and phony. I wished to God I hadn't even phoned her. When I'm drunk, I'm a madman.
I stayed in the damn phone booth for quite a while. I kept holding onto the phone, sort of, so I wouldn't pass out. I wasn't feeling too marvelous, to tell you the truth. Finally, though, I came out and went in the men's room, staggering around like a moron, and filled one of the washbowls with cold water. Then I dunked my head in it, right up to the ears. I didn't even bother to dry it or anything. I just let the sonuvabitch drip. Then I walked over to this radiator by the window and sat down on it. It was nice and warm. It felt good because I was shivering like a bastard. It's a funny thing, I always shiver like hell when I'm drunk.
I didn't have anything else to do, so I kept sitting on the radiator and counting these little white squares on the floor. I was getting soaked. About a gallon of water was dripping down my neck, getting all over my collar and tie and all, but I didn't give a damn. I was too drunk to give a damn. Then, pretty soon, the guy that played the piano for old Valencia, this very wavyhaired, flitty-looking guy, came in to comb his golden locks. We sort of struck up a conversation while he was combing it, except that he wasn't too goddam friendly.
"Hey. You gonna see that Valencia babe when you go back in the bar?" I asked him.
"It's highly probable," he said. Witty bastard. All I ever meet is witty bastards.
"Listen. Give her my compliments. Ask her if that goddam waiter gave her my message, willya?"
"Why don't you go home, Mac? How old are you, anyway?"
"Eighty-six. Listen. Give her my compliments. Okay?"
"Why don't you go home, Mac?"
"Not me. Boy, you can play that goddam piano." I told him. I was just flattering him. He played the piano stinking, if you want to know the truth. "You oughta go on the radio," I said. "Handsome chap like you. All those goddam golden locks. Ya need a manager?"
"Go home, Mac, like a good guy. Go home and hit the sack."
"No home to go to. No kidding--you need a manager?"
He didn't answer me. He just went out. He was all through combing his hair and patting it and all, so he left. Like Stradlater. All these handsome guys are the same. When they're done combing their goddam hair, they beat it on you.
When I finally got down off the radiator and went out to the hat-check room, I was crying and all. I don't know why, but I was. I guess it was because I was feeling so damn depressed and lonesome. Then, when I went out to the checkroom, I couldn't find my goddam check. The hat-check girl was very nice about it, though. She gave me my coat anyway. And my "Little Shirley Beans" record--I still had it with me and all. I gave her a buck for being so nice, but she wouldn't take it. She kept telling me to go home and go to bed. I sort of tried to make a date with her for when she got through working, but she wouldn't do it. She said she was old enough to be my mother and all. I showed her my goddam gray hair and told her I was forty-two--I was only horsing around, naturally. She was nice, though. I showed her my goddam red hunting hat, and she liked it. She made me put it on before I went out, because my hair was still pretty wet. She was all right.
I didn't feel too drunk any more when I went outside, but it was getting very cold out again, and my teeth started chattering like hell. I couldn't make them stop. I walked over to Madison Avenue and started to wait around for a bus because I didn't have hardly any money left and I had to start economizing on cabs and all. But I didn't feel like getting on a damn bus. And besides, I didn't even know where I was supposed to go. So what I did, I started walking over to the park. I figured I'd go by that little lake and see what the hell the ducks were doing, see if they were around or not, I still didn't know if they were around or not. It wasn't far over to the park, and I didn't have anyplace else special to go to--I didn't even know where I was going to sleep yet--so I went. I wasn't tired or anything. I just felt blue as hell.
Then something terrible happened just as I got in the park. I dropped old Phoebe's record. It broke-into about fifty pieces. It was in a big envelope and all, but it broke anyway. I damn near cried, it made me feel so terrible, but all I did was, I took the pieces out of the envelope and put them in my coat pocket. They weren't any good for anything, but I didn't feel like just throwing them away. Then I went in the park. Boy, was it dark.
I've lived in New York all my life, and I know Central Park like the back of my hand, because I used to roller-skate there all the time and ride my bike when I was a kid, but I had the most terrific trouble finding that lagoon that night. I knew right where it was--it was right near Central Park South and all--but I still couldn't find it. I must've been drunker than I thought. I kept walking and walking, and it kept getting darker and darker and spookier and spookier. I didn't see one person the whole time I was in the park. I'm just as glad. I probably would've jumped about a mile if I had. Then, finally, I found it. What it was, it was partly frozen and partly not frozen. But I didn't see any ducks around. I walked all around the whole damn lake--I damn near fell in once, in fact--but I didn't see a single duck. I thought maybe if there were any around, they might be asleep or something near the edge of the water, near the grass and all. That's how I nearly fell in. But I couldn't find any.
Finally I sat down on this bench, where it wasn't so goddam dark. Boy, I was still shivering like a bastard, and the back of my hair, even though I had my hunting hat on, was sort of full of little hunks of ice. That worried me. I thought probably I'd get pneumonia and die. I started picturing millions of jerks coming to my funeral and all. My grandfather from Detroit, that keeps calling out the numbers of the streets when you ride on a goddam bus with him, and my aunts--I have about fifty aunts--and all my lousy cousins. What a mob'd be there. They all came when Allie died, the whole goddam stupid bunch of them. I have this one stupid aunt with halitosis that kept saying how peaceful he looked lying there, D.B. told me. I wasn't there. I was still in the hospital. I had to go to the hospital and all after I hurt my hand. Anyway, I kept worrying that I was getting pneumonia, with all those hunks of ice in my hair, and that I was going to die. I felt sorry as hell for my mother and father. Especially my mother, because she still isn't over my brother Allie yet. I kept picturing her not knowing what to do with all my suits and athletic equipment and all. The only good thing, I knew she wouldn't let old Phoebe come to my goddam funeral because she was only a little kid. That was the only good part. Then I thought about the whole bunch of them sticking me in a goddam cemetery and all, with my name on this tombstone and all. Surrounded by dead guys. Boy, when you're dead, they really fix you up. I hope to hell when I do die somebody has sense enough to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody.
When the weather's nice, my parents go out quite frequently and stick a bunch of flowers on old Allie's grave. I went with them a couple of times, but I cut it out. In the first place, I certainly don't enjoy seeing him in that crazy cemetery. Surrounded by dead guys and tombstones and all. It wasn't too bad when the sun was out, but twice--twice--we were there when it started to rain. It was awful. It rained on his lousy tombstone, and it rained on the grass on his stomach. It rained all over the place. All the visitors that were visiting the cemetery started running like hell over to their cars. That's what nearly drove me crazy. All the visitors could get in their cars and turn on their radios and all and then go someplace nice for dinner--everybody except Allie. I couldn't stand it. I know it's only his body and all that's in the cemetery, and his soul's in Heaven and all that crap, but I couldn't stand it anyway. I just wish he wasn't there. You didn't know him. If you'd known him, you'd know what I mean. It's not too bad when the sun's out, but the sun only comes out when it feels like coming out.
After a while, just to get my mind off getting pneumonia and all, I took out my dough and tried to count it in the lousy light from the street lamp. All I had was three singles and five quarters and a nickel left--boy, I spent a fortune since I left Pencey. Then what I did, I went down near the lagoon and I sort of skipped the quarters and the nickel across it, where it wasn't frozen. I don't know why I did it, but I did it. I guess I thought it'd take my mind off getting pneumonia and dying. It didn't, though.
I started thinking how old Phoebe would feel if I got pneumonia and died. It was a childish way to think, but I couldn't stop myself. She'd feel pretty bad if something like that happened. She likes me a lot. I mean she's quite fond of me. She really is. Anyway, I couldn't get that off my mind, so finally what I figured I'd do, I figured I'd better sneak home and see her, in case I died and all. I had my door key with me and all, and I figured what I'd do, I'd sneak in the apartment, very quiet and all, and just sort of chew the fat with her for a while. The only thing that worried me was our front door. It creaks like a bastard. It's a pretty old apartment house, and the superintendent's a lazy bastard, and everything creaks and squeaks. I was afraid my parents might hear me sneaking in. But I decided I'd try it anyhow.
So I got the hell out of the park, and went home. I walked all the way. It wasn't too far, and I wasn't tired or even drunk any more. It was just very cold and nobody around anywhere.

21
The best break I had in years, when I got home the regular night elevator boy, Pete, wasn't on the car. Some new guy I'd never seen was on the car, so I figured that if I didn't bump smack into my parents and all I'd be able to say hello to old Phoebe and then beat it and nobody'd even know I'd been around. It was really a terrific break. What made it even better, the new elevator boy was sort of on the stupid side. I told him, in this very casual voice, to take me up to the Dicksteins'. The Dicksteins were these people that had the other apartment on our floor. I'd already taken off my hunting hat, so as not to look suspicious or anything. I went in the elevator like I was in a terrific hurry.
He had the elevator doors all shut and all, and was all set to take me up, and then he turned around and said, "They ain't in. They're at a party on the fourteenth floor."
"That's all right," I said. "I'm supposed to wait for them. I'm their nephew."
He gave me this sort of stupid, suspicious look. "You better wait in the lobby, fella," he said.
"I'd like to--I really would," I said. "But I have a bad leg. I have to hold it in a certain position. I think I'd better sit down in the chair outside their door."
He didn't know what the hell I was talking about, so all he said was "Oh" and took me up. Not bad, boy. It's funny. All you have to do is say something nobody understands and they'll do practically anything you want them to.
I got off at our floor--limping like a bastard--and started walking over toward the Dicksteins' side. Then, when I heard the elevator doors shut, I turned around and went over to our side. I was doing all right. I didn't even feel drunk anymore. Then I took out my door key and opened our door, quiet as hell. Then, very, very carefully and all, I went inside and closed the door. I really should've been a crook.
It was dark as hell in the foyer, naturally, and naturally I couldn't turn on any lights. I had to be careful not to bump into anything and make a racket. I certainly knew I was home, though. Our foyer has a funny smell that doesn't smell like anyplace else. I don't know what the hell it is. It isn't cauliflower and it isn't perfume--I don't know what the hell it is--but you always know you're home. I started to take off my coat and hang it up in the foyer closet, but that closet's full of hangers that rattle like madmen when you open the door, so I left it on. Then I started walking very, very slowly back toward old Phoebe's room. I knew the maid wouldn't hear me because she had only one eardrum. She had this brother that stuck a straw down her ear when she was a kid, she once told me. She was pretty deaf and all. But my parents, especially my mother, she has ears like a goddam bloodhound. So I took it very, very easy when I went past their door. I even held my breath, for God's sake. You can hit my father over the head with a chair and he won't wake up, but my mother, all you have to do to my mother is cough somewhere in Siberia and she'll hear you. She's nervous as hell. Half the time she's up all night smoking cigarettes.
Finally, after about an hour, I got to old Phoebe's room. She wasn't there, though. I forgot about that. I forgot she always sleeps in D.B.'s room when he's away in Hollywood or some place. She likes it because it's the biggest room in the house. Also because it has this big old madman desk in it that D.B. bought off some lady alcoholic in Philadelphia, and this big, gigantic bed that's about ten miles wide and ten miles long. I don't know where he bought that bed. Anyway, old Phoebe likes to sleep in D.B.'s room when he's away, and he lets her. You ought to see her doing her homework or something at that crazy desk. It's almost as big as the bed. You can hardly see her when she's doing her homework. That's the kind of stuff she likes, though. She doesn't like her own room because it's too little, she says. She says she likes to spread out. That kills me. What's old Phoebe got to spread out? Nothing.
Anyway, I went into D.B.'s room quiet as hell, and turned on the lamp on the desk. Old Phoebe didn't even wake up. When the light was on and all, I sort of looked at her for a while. She was laying there asleep, with her face sort of on the side of the pillow. She had her mouth way open. It's funny. You take adults, they look lousy when they're asleep and they have their mouths way open, but kids don't. Kids look all right. They can even have spit all over the pillow and they still look all right.
I went around the room, very quiet and all, looking at stuff for a while. I felt swell, for a change. I didn't even feel like I was getting pneumonia or anything any more. I just felt good, for a change. Old Phoebe's clothes were on this chair right next to the bed. She's very neat, for a child. I mean she doesn't just throw her stuff around, like some kids. She's no slob. She had the jacket to this tan suit my mother bought her in Canada hung up on the back of the chair. Then her blouse and stuff were on the seat. Her shoes and socks were on the floor, right underneath the chair, right next to each other. I never saw the shoes before. They were new. They were these dark brown loafers, sort of like this pair I have, and they went swell with that suit my mother bought her in Canada. My mother dresses her nice. She really does. My mother has terrific taste in some things. She's no good at buying ice skates or anything like that, but clothes, she's perfect. I mean Phoebe always has some dress on that can kill you. You take most little kids, even if their parents are wealthy and all, they usually have some terrible dress on. I wish you could see old Phoebe in that suit my mother bought her in Canada. I'm not kidding.
I sat down on old D.B.'s desk and looked at the stuff on it. It was mostly Phoebe's stuff, from school and all. Mostly books. The one on top was called Arithmetic Is Fun! I sort of opened the first page and took a look at it. This is what old Phoebe had on it:
PHOEBE WEATHERFIELD CAULFIELD
4B-1
That killed me. Her middle name is Josephine, for God's sake, not Weatherfield. She doesn't like it, though. Every time I see her she's got a new middle name for herself.
The book underneath the arithmetic was a geography, and the book under the geography was a speller. She's very good in spelling. She's very good in all her subjects, but she's best in spelling. Then, under the speller, there were a bunch of notebooks. She has about five thousand notebooks. You never saw a kid with so many notebooks. I opened the one on top and looked at the first page. It had on it:
Bernice meet me at recess I have something
very very important to tell you.
That was all there was on that page. The next one had on it:
Why has south eastern Alaska so many caning factories?
Because theres so much salmon
Why has it valuable forests?
because it has the right climate.
What has our government done to make
life easier for the alaskan eskimos?
look it up for tomorrow!!!
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield
Phoebe W. Caulfield
Phoebe Weatherfield Caulfield, Esq.
Please pass to Shirley!!!!
Shirley you said you were sagitarius
but your only taurus bring your skates
when you come over to my house
I sat there on D.B.'s desk and read the whole notebook. It didn't take me long, and I can read that kind of stuff, some kid's notebook, Phoebe's or anybody's, all day and all night long. Kid's notebooks kill me. Then I lit another cigarette--it was my last one. I must've smoked about three cartons that day. Then, finally, I woke her up. I mean I couldn't sit there on that desk for the rest of my life, and besides, I was afraid my parents might barge in on me all of a sudden and I wanted to at least say hello to her before they did. So I woke her up.
She wakes up very easily. I mean you don't have to yell at her or anything. All you have to do, practically, is sit down on the bed and say, "Wake up, Phoeb," and bingo, she's awake.
"Holden!" she said right away. She put her arms around my neck and all. She's very affectionate. I mean she's quite affectionate, for a child. Sometimes she's even too affectionate. I sort of gave her a kiss, and she said, "Whenja get home7' She was glad as hell to see me. You could tell.
"Not so loud. Just now. How are ya anyway?"
"I'm fine. Did you get my letter? I wrote you a five-page--"
"Yeah--not so loud. Thanks."
She wrote me this letter. I didn't get a chance to answer it, though. It was all about this play she was in in school. She told me not to make any dates or anything for Friday so that I could come see it.
"How's the play?" I asked her. "What'd you say the name of it was?"
"'A Christmas Pageant for Americans.' It stinks, but I'm Benedict Arnold. I have practically the biggest part," she said. Boy, was she wide-awake. She gets very excited when she tells you that stuff. "It starts out when I'm dying. This ghost comes in on Christmas Eve and asks me if I'm ashamed and everything. You know. For betraying my country and everything. Are you coming to it?" She was sitting way the hell up in the bed and all. "That's what I wrote you about. Are you?"
"Sure I'm coming. Certainly I'm coming."
"Daddy can't come. He has to fly to California," she said. Boy, was she wide-awake. It only takes her about two seconds to get wide-awake. She was sitting--sort of kneeling--way up in bed, and she was holding my goddam hand. "Listen. Mother said you'd be home Wednesday," she said. "She said Wednesday."
"I got out early. Not so loud. You'll wake everybody up."
"What time is it? They won't be home till very late, Mother said. They went to a party in Norwalk, Connecticut," old Phoebe said. "Guess what I did this afternoon! What movie I saw. Guess!"
"I don't know--Listen. Didn't they say what time they'd--"
"The Doctor," old Phoebe said. "It's a special movie they had at the Lister Foundation. Just this one day they had it--today was the only day. It was all about this doctor in Kentucky and everything that sticks a blanket over this child's face that's a cripple and can't walk. Then they send him to jail and everything. It was excellent."
"Listen a second. Didn't they say what time they'd--"
"He feels sorry for it, the doctor. That's why he sticks this blanket over her face and everything and makes her suffocate. Then they make him go to jail for life imprisonment, but this child that he stuck the blanket over its head comes to visit him all the time and thanks him for what he did. He was a mercy killer. Only, he knows he deserves to go to jail because a doctor isn't supposed to take things away from God. This girl in my class's mother took us. Alice Holmborg, She's my best friend. She's the only girl in the whole--"
"Wait a second, willya?" I said. "I'm asking you a question. Did they say what time they'd be back, or didn't they?"
"No, but not till very late. Daddy took the car and everything so they wouldn't have to worry about trains. We have a radio in it now! Except that Mother said nobody can play it when the car's in traffic."
I began to relax, sort of. I mean I finally quit worrying about whether they'd catch me home or not. I figured the hell with it. If they did, they did.
You should've seen old Phoebe. She had on these blue pajamas with red elephants on the collars. Elephants knock her out.
"So it was a good picture, huh?" I said.
"Swell, except Alice had a cold, and her mother kept asking her all the time if she felt grippy. Right in the middle of the picture. Always in the middle of something important, her mother'd lean all over me and everything and ask Alice if she felt grippy. It got on my nerves."
Then I told her about the record. "Listen, I bought you a record," I told her. "Only I broke it on the way home." I took the pieces out of my coat pocket and showed her. "I was plastered," I said.
"Gimme the pieces," she said. "I'm saving them." She took them right out of my hand and then she put them in the drawer of the night table. She kills me.
"D.B. coming home for Christmas?" I asked her.
"He may and he may not, Mother said. It all depends. He may have to stay in Hollywood and write a picture about Annapolis."
"Annapolis, for God's sake!"
"It's a love story and everything. Guess who's going to be in it! What movie star. Guess!"
"I'm not interested. Annapolis, for God's sake. What's D.B. know about Annapolis, for God's sake? What's that got to do with the kind of stories he writes?" I said. Boy, that stuff drives me crazy. That goddam Hollywood. "What'd you do to your arm?" I asked her. I noticed she had this big hunk of adhesive tape on her elbow. The reason I noticed it, her pajamas didn't have any sleeves.
"This boy, Curtis Weintraub, that's in my class, pushed me while I was going down the stairs in the park," she said. "Wanna see?" She started taking the crazy adhesive tape off her arm.
"Leave it alone. Why'd he push you down the stairs?"
"I don't know. I think he hates me," old Phoebe said. "This other girl and me, Selma Atterbury, put ink and stuff all over his windbreaker."
"That isn't nice. What are you--a child, for God's sake?"
"No, but every time I'm in the park, he follows me everywhere. He's always following me. He gets on my nerves."
"He probably likes you. That's no reason to put ink all--"
"I don't want him to like me," she said. Then she started looking at me funny. "Holden," she said, "how come you're not home Wednesday?"
"What?"
Boy, you have to watch her every minute. If you don't think she's smart, you're mad.
"How come you're not home Wednesday?" she asked me. "You didn't get kicked out or anything, did you?"
"I told you. They let us out early. They let the whole--"
"You did get kicked out! You did!" old Phoebe said. Then she hit me on the leg with her fist. She gets very fisty when she feels like it. "You did! Oh, Holden!" She had her hand on her mouth and all. She gets very emotional, I swear to God.
"Who said I got kicked out? Nobody said I--"
"You did. You did," she said. Then she smacked me again with her fist. If you don't think that hurts, you're crazy. "Daddy'll kill you!" she said. Then she flopped on her stomach on the bed and put the goddam pillow over her head. She does that quite frequently. She's a true madman sometimes.
"Cut it out, now," I said. "Nobody's gonna kill me. Nobody's gonna even--C'mon, Phoeb, take that goddam thing off your head. Nobody's gonna kill me."
She wouldn't take it off, though. You can't make her do something if she doesn't want to. All she kept saying was, "Daddy s gonna kill you." You could hardly understand her with that goddam pillow over her head.
"Nobody's gonna kill me. Use your head. In the first place, I'm going away. What I may do, I may get a job on a ranch or something for a while. I know this guy whose grandfather's got a ranch in Colorado. I may get a job out there," I said. "I'll keep in touch with you and all when I'm gone, if I go. C'mon. Take that off your head. C'mon, hey, Phoeb. Please. Please, willya?'
She wouldn t take it off, though I tried pulling it off, but she's strong as hell. You get tired fighting with her. Boy, if she wants to keep a pillow over her head, she keeps it. "Phoebe, please. C'mon outa there," I kept saying. "C'mon, hey . . . Hey, Weatherfield. C'mon out."
She wouldn't come out, though. You can't even reason with her sometimes. Finally, I got up and went out in the living room and got some cigarettes out of the box on the table and stuck some in my pocket. I was all out.

22
When I came back, she had the pillow off her head all right--I knew she would--but she still wouldn''t look at me, even though she was laying on her back and all. When I came around the side of the bed and sat down again, she turned her crazy face the other way. She was ostracizing the hell out of me. Just like the fencing team at Pencey when I left all the goddam foils on the subway.
"How''s old Hazel Weatherfield?" I said. "You write any new stories about her? I got that one you sent me right in my suitcase. It''s down at the station. It''s very good."
"Daddy''ll kill you."
Boy, she really gets something on her mind when she gets something on her mind.
"No, he won''t. The worst he''ll do, he''ll give me hell again, and then he''ll send me to that goddam military school. That''s all he''ll do to me. And in the first place, I won''t even be around. I''ll be away. I''ll be--I''ll probably be in Colorado on this ranch."
"Don''t make me laugh. You can''t even ride a horse."
"Who can''t? Sure I can. Certainly I can. They can teach you in about two minutes," I said. "Stop picking at that." She was picking at that adhesive tape on her arm. "Who gave you that haircut?" I asked her. I just noticed what a stupid haircut somebody gave her. It was way too short.
"None of your business," she said. She can be very snotty sometimes. She can be quite snotty. "I suppose you failed in every single subject again," she said--very snotty. It was sort of funny, too, in a way. She sounds like a goddam schoolteacher sometimes, and she''s only a little child.
"No, I didn''t," I said. "I passed English." Then, just for the hell of it, I gave her a pinch on the behind. It was sticking way out in the breeze, the way she was laying on her side. She has hardly any behind. I didn''t do it hard, but she tried to hit my hand anyway, but she missed.
Then all of a sudden, she said, "Oh, why did you do it?" She meant why did I get the ax again. It made me sort of sad, the way she said it.
"Oh, God, Phoebe, don''t ask me. I''m sick of everybody asking me that," I said. "A million reasons why. It was one of the worst schools I ever went to. It was full of phonies. And mean guys. You never saw so many mean guys in your life. For instance, if you were having a bull session in somebody''s room, and somebody wanted to come in, nobody''d let them in if they were some dopey, pimply guy. Everybody was always locking their door when somebody wanted to come in. And they had this goddam secret fraternity that I was too yellow not to join. There was this one pimply, boring guy, Robert Ackley, that wanted to get in. He kept trying to join, and they wouldn''t let him. Just because he was boring and pimply. I don''t even feel like talking about it. It was a stinking school. Take my word."
Old Phoebe didn''t say anything, but she was listen ing. I could tell by the back of her neck that she was listening. She always listens when you tell her something. And the funny part is she knows, half the time, what the hell you''re talking about. She really does.
I kept talking about old Pencey. I sort of felt like it.
"Even the couple of nice teachers on the faculty, they were phonies, too," I said. "There was this one old guy, Mr. Spencer. His wife was always giving you hot chocolate and all that stuff, and they were really pretty nice. But you should''ve seen him when the headmaster, old Thurmer, came in the history class and sat down in the back of the room. He was always coming in and sitting down in the back of the room for about a half an hour. He was supposed to be incognito or something. After a while, he''d be sitting back there and then he''d start interrupting what old Spencer was saying to crack a lot of corny jokes. Old Spencer''d practically kill himself chuckling and smiling and all, like as if Thurmer was a goddam prince or something."
"Don''t swear so much."
"It would''ve made you puke, I swear it would," I said. "Then, on Veterans'' Day. They have this day, Veterans'' Day, that all the jerks that graduated from Pencey around 1776 come back and walk all over the place, with their wives and children and everybody. You should''ve seen this one old guy that was about fifty. What he did was, he came in our room and knocked on the door and asked us if we''d mind if he used the bathroom. The bathroom was at the end of the corridor--I don''t know why the hell he asked us. You know what he said? He said he wanted to see if his initials were still in one of the can doors. What he did, he carved his goddam stupid sad old initials in one of the can doors about ninety years ago, and he wanted to see if they were still there. So my roommate and I walked him down to the bathroom and all, and we had to stand there while he looked for his initials in all the can doors. He kept talking to us the whole time, telling us how when he was at Pencey they were the happiest days of his life, and giving us a lot of advice for the future and all. Boy, did he depress me! I don''t mean he was a bad guy--he wasn''t. But you don''t have to be a bad guy to depress somebody--you can be a good guy and do it. All you have to do to depress somebody is give them a lot of phony advice while you''re looking for your initials in some can door--that''s all you have to do. I don''t know. Maybe it wouldn''t have been so bad if he hadn''t been all out of breath. He was all out of breath from just climbing up the stairs, and the whole time he was looking for his initials he kept breathing hard, with his nostrils all funny and sad, while he kept telling Stradlater and I to get all we could out of Pencey. God, Phoebe! I can''t explain. I just didn''t like anything that was happening at Pencey. I can''t explain."
Old Phoebe said something then, but I couldn''t hear her. She had the side of her mouth right smack on the pillow, and I couldn''t hear her.
"What?" I said. "Take your mouth away. I can''t hear you with your mouth that way."
"You don''t like anything that''s happening."
It made me even more depressed when she said that.
"Yes I do. Yes I do. Sure I do. Don''t say that. Why the hell do you say that?"
"Because you don''t. You don''t like any schools. You don''t like a million things. You don''t."
"I do! That''s where you''re wrong--that''s exactly where you''re wrong! Why the hell do you have to say that?" I said. Boy, was she depressing me.
"Because you don''t," she said. "Name one thing."
"One thing? One thing I like?" I said. "Okay."
The trouble was, I couldn''t concentrate too hot. Sometimes it''s hard to concentrate.
"One thing I like a lot you mean?" I asked her.
She didn''t answer me, though. She was in a ****eyed position way the hell over the other side of the bed. She was about a thousand miles away. "C''mon answer me," I said. "One thing I like a lot, or one thing I just like?"
"You like a lot."
"All right," I said. But the trouble was, I couldn''t concentrate. About all I could think of were those two nuns that went around collecting dough in those beatup old straw baskets. Especially the one with the glasses with those iron rims. And this boy I knew at Elkton Hills. There was this one boy at Elkton Hills, named James Castle, that wouldn''t take back something he said about this very conceited boy, Phil Stabile. James Castle called him a very conceited guy, and one of Stabile''s lousy friends went and squealed on him to Stabile. So Stabile, with about six other dirty bastards, went down to James Castle''s room and went in and locked the goddam door and tried to make him take back what he said, but he wouldn''t do it. So they started in on him. I won''t even tell you what they did to him--it''s too repulsive--but he still wouldn''t take it back, old James Castle. And you should''ve seen him. He was a skinny little weak-looking guy, with wrists about as big as pencils. Finally, what he did, instead of taking back what he said, he jumped out the window. I was in the shower and all, and even I could hear him land outside. But I just thought something fell out the window, a radio or a desk or something, not a boy or anything. Then I heard everybody running through the corridor and down the stairs, so I put on my bathrobe and I ran downstairs too, and there was old James Castle laying right on the stone steps and all. He was dead, and his teeth, and blood, were all over the place, and nobody would even go near him. He had on this turtleneck sweater I''d lent him. All they did with the guys that were in the room with him was expel them. They didn''t even go to jail.
That was about all I could think of, though. Those two nuns I saw at breakfast and this boy James Castle I knew at Elkton Hills. The funny part is, I hardly even know James Castle, if you want to know the truth. He was one of these very quiet guys. He was in my math class, but he was way over on the other side of the room, and he hardly ever got up to recite or go to the blackboard or anything. Some guys in school hardly ever get up to recite or go to the blackboard. I think the only time I ever even had a conversation with him was that time he asked me if he could borrow this turtleneck sweater I had. I damn near dropped dead when he asked me, I was so surprised and all. I remember I was brushing my teeth, in the can, when he asked me. He said his cousin was coming in to take him for a drive and all. I didn''t even know he knew I had a turtleneck sweater. All I knew about him was that his name was always right ahead of me at roll call. Cabel, R., Cabel, W., Castle, Caulfield--I can still remember it. If you want to know the truth, I almost didn''t lend him my sweater. Just because I didn''t know him too well.
"What?" I said to old Phoebe. She said something to me, but I didn''t hear her.
"You can''t even think of one thing."
"Yes, I can. Yes, I can."
"Well, do it, then."
"I like Allie," I said. "And I like doing what I''m doing right now. Sitting here with you, and talking, and thinking about stuff, and--"
"Allie''s dead--You always say that! If somebody''s dead and everything, and in Heaven, then it isn''t really--"
"I know he''s dead! Don''t you think I know that? I can still like him, though, can''t I? Just because somebody''s dead, you don''t just stop liking them, for God''s sake--especially if they were about a thousand times nicer than the people you know that''re alive and all."
Old Phoebe didn''t say anything. When she can''t think of anything to say, she doesn''t say a goddam word.
"Anyway, I like it now," I said. "I mean right now. Sitting here with you and just chewing the fat and horsing--"
"That isn''t anything really!"
"It is so something really! Certainly it is! Why the hell isn''t it? People never think anything is anything really. I''m getting goddam sick of it,"
"Stop swearing. All right, name something else. Name something you''d like to be. Like a scientist. Or a lawyer or something."
"I couldn''t be a scientist. I''m no good in science."
"Well, a lawyer--like Daddy and all."
"Lawyers are all right, I guess--but it doesn''t appeal to me," I said. "I mean they''re all right if they go around saving innocent guys'' lives all the time, and like that, but you don''t do that kind of stuff if you''re a lawyer. All you do is make a lot of dough and play golf and play bridge and buy cars and drink Martinis and look like a hot-shot. And besides. Even if you did go around saving guys'' lives and all, how would you know if you did it because you really wanted to save guys'' lives, or because you did it because what you really wanted to do was be a terrific lawyer, with everybody slapping you on the back and congratulating you in court when the goddam trial was over, the reporters and everybody, the way it is in the dirty movies? How would you know you weren''t being a phony? The trouble is, you wouldn''t."
I''m not too sure old Phoebe knew what the hell I was talking about. I mean she''s only a little child and all. But she was listening, at least. If somebody at least listens, it''s not too bad.
"Daddy''s going to kill you. He''s going to kill you," she said.
I wasn''t listening, though. I was thinking about something else--something crazy. "You know what I''d like to be?" I said. "You know what I''d like to be? I mean if I had my goddam choice?"
"What? Stop swearing."
"You know that song ''If a body catch a body comin'' through the rye''? I''d like--"
"It''s ''If a body meet a body coming through the rye''!" old Phoebe said. "It''s a poem. By Robert Burns."
"I know it''s a poem by Robert Burns."
She was right, though. It is "If a body meet a body coming through the rye." I didn''t know it then, though.
"I thought it was ''If a body catch a body,''" I said. "Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody''s around--nobody big, I mean--except me. And I''m standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff--I mean if they''re running and they don''t look where they''re going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That''s all I''d do all day. I''d just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it''s crazy, but that''s the only thing I''d really like to be. I know it''s crazy."
Old Phoebe didn''t say anything for a long time. Then, when she said something, all she said was, "Daddy''s going to kill you."
"I don''t give a damn if he does," I said. I got up from the bed then, because what I wanted to do, I wanted to phone up this guy that was my English teacher at Elkton Hills, Mr. Antolini. He lived in New York now. He quit Elkton Hills. He took this job teaching English at N.Y.U. "I have to make a phone call," I told Phoebe. "I''ll be right back. Don''t go to sleep." I didn''t want her to go to sleep while I was in the living room. I knew she wouldn''t but I said it anyway, just to make sure.
While I was walking toward the door, old Phoebe said, "Holden!" and I turned around.
She was sitting way up in bed. She looked so pretty. "I''m taking belching lessons from this girl, Phyllis Margulies," she said. "Listen."
I listened, and I heard something, but it wasn''t much. "Good," I said. Then I went out in the living room and called up this teacher I had, Mr. Antolini.

23
I made it very snappy on the phone because I was afraid my parents would barge in on me right in the middle of it. They didn''t, though. Mr. Antolini was very nice. He said I could come right over if I wanted to. I think I probably woke he and his wife up, because it took them a helluva long time to answer the phone. The first thing he asked me was if anything was wrong, and I said no. I said I''d flunked out of Pencey, though. I thought I might as well tell him. He said "Good God," when I said that. He had a good sense of humor and all. He told me to come right over if I felt like it.
He was about the best teacher I ever had, Mr. Antolini. He was a pretty young guy, not much older than my brother D.B., and you could kid around with him without losing your respect for him. He was the one that finally picked up that boy that jumped out the window I told you about, James Castle. Old Mr. Antolini felt his pulse and all, and then he took off his coat and put it over James Castle and carried him all the way over to the infirmary. He didn''t even give a damn if his coat got all bloody.
When I got back to D.B.''s room, old Phoebe''d turned the radio on. This dance music was coming out. She''d turned it on low, though, so the maid wouldn''t hear it. You should''ve seen her. She was sitting smack in the middle of the bed, outside the covers, with her legs folded like one of those Yogi guys. She was listening to the music. She kills me.
"C''mon," I said. "You feel like dancing?" I taught her how to dance and all when she was a tiny little kid. She''s a very good dancer. I mean I just taught her a few things. She learned it mostly by herself. You can''t teach somebody how to really dance.
"You have shoes on," she said.
"I''ll take ''em off. C''mon."
She practically jumped off the bed, and then she waited while I took my shoes off, and then I danced with her for a while. She''s really damn good. I don''t like people that dance with little kids, because most of the time it looks terrible. I mean if you''re out at a 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."
"G''night, sir. Thanks a lot."
He went out in the kitchen and I went in the bathroom and got undressed and all. I couldn''t brush my teeth because I didn''t have any toothbrush with me. I didn''t have any pajamas either and Mr. Antolini forgot to lend me some. So I just went back in the living room and turned off this little lamp next to the couch, and then I got in bed with just my shorts on. It was way too short for me, the couch, but I really could''ve slept standing up without batting an eyelash. I laid awake for just a couple of seconds thinking about all that stuff Mr. Antolini''d told me. About finding out the size of your mind and all. He was really a pretty smart guy. But I couldn''t keep my goddam eyes open, and I fell asleep.
Then something happened. I don''t even like to talk about it.
I woke up all of a sudden. I don''t know what time it was or anything, but I woke up. I felt something on my head, some guy''s hand. Boy, it really scared hell out of me. What it was, it was Mr. Antolini''s hand. What he was doing was, he was sitting on the floor right next to the couch, in the dark and all, and he was sort of petting me or patting me on the goddam head. Boy, I''ll bet I jumped about a thousand feet.
"What the hellya doing?" I said.
"Nothing! I''m simply sitting here, admiring--"
"What''re ya doing, anyway?" I said over again. I didn''t know what the hell to say--I mean I was embarrassed as hell.
"How ''bout keeping your voice down? I''m simply sitting here--"
"I have to go, anyway," I said--boy, was I nervous! I started putting on my damn pants in the dark. I could hardly get them on I was so damn nervous. I know more damn perverts, at schools and all, than anybody you ever met, and they''re always being perverty when I''m around.
"You have to go where?" Mr. Antolini said. He was trying to act very goddam casual and cool and all, but he wasn''t any too goddam cool. Take my word.
"I left my bags and all at the station. I think maybe I''d better go down and get them. I have all my stuff in them."
"They''ll be there in the morning. Now, go back to bed. I''m going to bed myself. What''s the matter with you?"
"Nothing''s the matter, it''s just that all my money and stuff''s in one of my bags. I''ll be right back. I''ll get a cab and be right back," I said. Boy, I was falling all over myself in the dark. "The thing is, it isn''t mine, the money. It''s my mother''s, and I--"
"Don''t be ridiculous, Holden. Get back in that bed. I''m going to bed myself. The money will be there safe and sound in the morn--"
"No, no kidding. I gotta get going. I really do." I was damn near all dressed already, except that I couldn''t find my tie. I couldn''t remember where I''d put my tie. I put on my jacket and all without it. Old Mr. Antolini was sitting now in the big chair a little ways away from me, watching me. It was dark and all and I couldn''t see him so hot, but I knew he was watching me, all right. He was still boozing, too. I could see his trusty highball glass in his hand.
"You''re a very, very strange boy."
"I know it," I said. I didn''t even look around much for my tie. So I went without it. "Good-by, sir," I said, "Thanks a lot. No kidding."
He kept walking right behind me when I went to the front door, and when I rang the elevator bell he stayed in the damn doorway. All he said was that business about my being a "very, very strange boy" again. Strange, my ass. Then he waited in the doorway and all till the goddam elevator came. I never waited so long for an elevator in my whole goddam life. I swear.
I didn''t know what the hell to talk about while I was waiting for the elevator, and he kept standing there, so I said, "I''m gonna start reading some good books. I really am." I mean you had to say something. It was very embarrassing.
"You grab your bags and scoot right on back here again. I''ll leave the door unlatched."
"Thanks a lot," I said. "G''by!" The elevator was finally there. I got in and went down. Boy, I was shaking like a madman. I was sweating, too. When something perverty like that happens, I start sweating like a bastard. That kind of stuff''s happened to me about twenty times since I was a kid. I can''t stand it.

25
When I got outside, it was just getting light out. It was pretty cold, too, but it felt good because I was sweating so much.
I didn''t know where the hell to go. I didn''t want to go to another hotel and spend all Phoebe''s dough. So finally all I did was I walked over to Lexington and took the subway down to Grand Central. My bags were there and all, and I figured I''d sleep in that crazy waiting room where all the benches are. So that''s what I did. It wasn''t too bad for a while because there weren''t many people around and I could stick my feet up. But I don''t feel much like discussing it. It wasn''t too nice. Don''t ever try it. I mean it. It''ll depress you.
I only slept till around nine o''clock because a million people started coming in the waiting room and I had to take my feet down. I can''t sleep so hot if I have to keep my feet on the floor. So I sat up. I still had that headache. It was even worse. And I think I was more depressed than I ever was in my whole life.
I didn''t want to, but I started thinking about old Mr. Antolini and I wondered what he''d tell Mrs. Antolini when she saw I hadn''t slept there or anything. That part didn''t worry me too much, though, because I knew Mr. Antolini was very smart and that he could make up something to tell her. He could tell her I''d gone home or something. That part didn''t worry me much. But what did worry me was the part about how I''d woke up and found him patting me on the head and all. I mean I wondered if just maybe I was wrong about thinking be was making a flitty pass at ne. I wondered if maybe he just liked to pat guys on the head when they''re asleep. I mean how can you tell about that stuff for sure? You can''t. I even started wondering if maybe I should''ve got my bags and gone back to his house, the way I''d said I would. I mean I started thinking that even if he was a flit he certainly''d been very nice to me. I thought how he hadn''t minded it when I''d called him up so late, and how he''d told me to come right over if I felt like it. And how he went to all that trouble giving me that advice about finding out the size of your mind and all, and how he was the only guy that''d even gone near that boy James Castle I told you about when he was dead. I thought about all that stuff. And the more I thought about it, the more depressed I got. I mean I started thinking maybe I should''ve gone back to his house. Maybe he was only patting my head just for the hell of it. The more I thought about it, though, the more depressed and screwed up about it I got. What made it even worse, my eyes were sore as hell. They felt sore and burny from not getting too much sleep. Besides that, I was getting sort of a cold, and I didn''t even have a goddam handkerchief with me. I had some in my suitcase, but I didn''t feel like taking it out of that strong box and opening it up right in public and all.
There was this magazine that somebody''d left on the bench next to me, so I started reading it, thinking it''d make me stop thinking about Mr. Antolini and a million other things for at least a little while. But this damn article I started reading made me feel almost worse. It was all about hormones. It described how you should look, your face and eyes and all, if your hormones were in good shape, and I didn''t look that way at all. I looked exactly like the guy in the article with lousy hormones. So I started getting worried about my hormones. Then I read this other article about how you can tell if you have cancer or not. It said if you had any sores in your mouth that didn''t heal pretty quickly, it was a sign that you probably had cancer. I''d had this sore on the inside of my lip for about two weeks. So figured I was getting cancer. That magazine was some little cheerer upper. I finally quit reading it and went outside for a walk. I figured I''d be dead in a couple of months because I had cancer. I really did. I was even positive I would be. It certainly didn''t make me feel too gorgeous. It''sort of looked like it was going to rain, but I went for this walk anyway. For one thing, I figured I ought to get some breakfast. I wasn''t at all hungry, but I figured I ought to at least eat something. I mean at least get something with some vitamins in it. So I started walking way over east, where the pretty cheap restaurants are, because I didn''t want to spend a lot of dough.
While I was walking, I passed these two guys that were unloading this big Christmas tree off a truck. One guy kept saying to the other guy, "Hold the sonuvabitch up! Hold it up, for Chrissake!" It certainly was a gorgeous way to talk about a Christmas tree. It was sort of funny, though, in an awful way, and I started to sort of laugh. It was about the worst thing I could''ve done, because the minute I started to laugh I thought I was going to vomit. I really did. I even started to, but it went away. I don''t know why. I mean I hadn''t eaten anything unsanitary or like that and usually I have quite a strong stomach. Anyway, I got over it, and I figured I''d feel better if I had something to eat. So I went in this very cheap-looking restaurant and had doughnuts and coffee. Only, I didn''t eat the doughnuts. I couldn''t swallow them too well. The thing is, if you get very depressed about something, it''s hard as hell to swallow. The waiter was very nice, though. He took them back without charging me. I just drank the coffee. Then I left and started walking over toward Fifth Avenue.
It was Monday and all, and pretty near Christmas, and all the stores were open. So it wasn''t too bad walking on Fifth Avenue. It was fairly Christmasy. All those scraggy-looking Santa Clauses were standing on corners ringing those bells, and the Salvation Army girls, the ones that don''t wear any lipstick or anything, were tinging bells too. I sort of kept looking around for those two nuns I''d met at breakfast the day before, but I didn''t see them. I knew I wouldn''t, because they''d told me they''d come to New York to be schoolteachers, but I kept looking for them anyway. Anyway, it was pretty Christmasy all of a sudden. A million little kids were downtown with their mothers, getting on and off buses and coming in and out of stores. I wished old Phoebe was around. She''s not little enough any more to go stark staring mad in the toy department, but she enjoys horsing around and looking at the people. The Christmas before last I took her downtown shopping with me. We had a helluva time. I think it was in Bloomingdale''s. We went in the shoe department and we pretended she--old Phoebe-- wanted to get a pair of those very high storm shoes, the kind that have about a million holes to lace up. We had the poor salesman guy going crazy. Old Phoebe tried on about twenty pairs, and each time the poor guy had to lace one shoe all the way up. It was a dirty trick, but it killed old Phoebe. We finally bought a pair of moccasins and charged them. The salesman was very nice about it. I think he knew we were horsing around, because old Phoebe always starts giggling.
Anyway, I kept walking and walking up Fifth Avenue, without any tie on or anything. Then all of a sudden, something very spooky started happening. Every time I came to the end of a block and stepped off the goddam curb, I had this feeling that I''d never get to the other side of the street. I thought I''d just go down, down, down, and nobody''d ever see me again. Boy, did it scare me. You can''t imagine. I started sweating like a bastard--my whole shirt and underwear and everything. Then I started doing something else. Every time I''d get to the end of a block I''d make believe I was talking to my brother Allie. I''d say to him, "Allie, don''t let me disappear. Allie, don''t let me disappear. Allie, don''t let me disappear. Please, Allie." And then when I''d reach the other side of the street without disappearing, I''d thank him. Then it would start all over again as soon as I got to the next corner. But I kept going and all. I was sort of afraid to stop, I think--I don''t remember, to tell you the truth. I know I didn''t stop till I was way up in the Sixties, past the zoo and all. Then I sat down on this bench. I could hardly get my breath, and I was still sweating like a bastard. I sat there, I guess, for about an hour. Finally, what I decided I''d do, I decided I''d go away. I decided I''d never go home again and I''d never go away to another school again. I decided I''d just see old Phoebe and sort of say good-by to her and all, and give her back her Christmas dough, and then I''d start hitchhiking my way out West. What I''d do, I figured, I''d go down to the Holland Tunnel and bum a ride, and then I''d bum another one, and another one, and another one, and in a few days I''d be somewhere out West where it was very pretty and sunny and where nobody''d know me and I''d get a job. I figured I could get a job at a filling station somewhere, putting gas and oil in people''s cars. I didn''t care what kind of job it was, though. Just so people didn''t know me and I didn''t know anybody. I thought what I''d do was, I''d pretend I was one of those deaf-mutes. That way I wouldn''t have to have any goddam stupid useless conversations with anybody. If anybody wanted to tell me something, they''d have to write it on a piece of paper and shove it over to me. They''d get bored as hell doing that after a while, and then I''d be through with having conversations for the rest of my life. Everybody''d think I was just a poor deaf-mute bastard and they''d leave me alone. They''d let me put gas and oil in their stupid cars, and they''d pay me a salary and all for it, and I''d build me a little cabin somewhere with the dough I made and live there for the rest of my life. I''d build it right near the woods, but not right in them, because I''d want it to be sunny as hell all the time. I''d cook all my own food, and later on, if I wanted to get married or something, I''d meet this beautiful girl that was also a deaf-mute and we''d get married. She''d come and live in my cabin with me, and if she wanted to say anything to me, she''d have to write it on a goddam piece of paper, like everybody else. If we had any children, we''d hide them somewhere. We could buy them a lot of books and teach them how to read and write by ourselves.
I got excited as hell thinking about it. I really did. I knew the part about pretending I was a deaf-mute was crazy, but I liked thinking about it anyway. But I really decided to go out West and all. All I wanted to do first was say good-by to old Phoebe. So all of a sudden, I ran like a madman across the street--I damn near got killed doing it, if you want to know the truth--and went in this stationery store and bought a pad and pencil. I figured I''d write her a note telling her where to meet me so I could say good-by to her and give her back her Christmas dough, and then I''d take the note up to her school and get somebody in the principal''s office to give it to her. But I just put the pad and pencil in my pocket and started walking fast as hell up to her school--I was too excited to write the note right in the stationery store. I walked fast because I wanted her to get the note before she went home for lunch, and I didn''t have any too much time.
I knew where her school was, naturally, because I went there myself when I was a kid. When I got there, it felt funny. I wasn''t sure I''d remember what it was like inside, but I did. It was exactly the same as it was when I went there. They had that same big yard inside, that was always sort of dark, with those cages around the light bulbs so they wouldn''t break if they got hit with a ball. They had those same white circles painted all over the floor, for games and stuff. And those same old basketball rings without any nets--just the backboards and the rings.
Nobody was around at all, probably because it wasn''t recess period, and it wasn''t lunchtime yet. All I saw was one little kid, a colored kid, on his way to the bathroom. He had one of those wooden passes sticking out of his hip pocket, the same way we used to have, to show he had permission and all to go to the bathroom.
I was still sweating, but not so bad any more. I went over to the stairs and sat down on the first step and took out the pad and pencil I''d bought. The stairs had the same smell they used to have when I went there. Like somebody''d just taken a leak on them. School stairs always smell like that. Anyway, I sat there and wrote this note:
DEAR PHOEBE,
I can''t wait around till Wednesday any more so I will
probably hitch hike out west this afternoon. Meet me at the
Museum of art near the door at quarter past 12 if you can and I
will give you your Christmas dough back. I didn''t spend much.
Love,
HOLDEN
Her school was practically right near the museum, and she had to pass it on her way home for lunch anyway, so I knew she could meet me all right.
Then I started walking up the stairs to the principal''s office so I could give the note to somebody that would bring it to her in her classroom. I folded it about ten times so nobody''d open it. You can''t trust anybody in a goddam school. But I knew they''d give it to her if I was her brother and all.

While I was walking up the stairs, though, all of a sudden I thought I was going to puke again. Only, I didn''t. I sat down for a second, and then I felt better. But while I was sitting down, I saw something that drove me crazy. Somebody''d written "**** you" on the wall. It drove me damn near crazy. I thought how Phoebe and all the other little kids would see it, and how they''d wonder what the hell it meant, and then finally some dirty kid would tell them--all ****eyed, naturally--what it meant, and how they''d all think about it and maybe even worry about it for a couple of days. I kept wanting to kill whoever''d written it. I figured it was some perverty bum that''d sneaked in the school late at night to take a leak or something and then wrote it on the wall. I kept picturing myself catching him at it, and how I''d smash his head on the stone steps till he was good and goddam dead and bloody. But I knew, too, I wouldn''t have the guts to do it. I knew that. That made me even more depressed. I hardly even had the guts to rub it off the wall with my hand, if you want to know the truth. I was afraid some teacher would catch me rubbing it off and would think I''d written it. But I rubbed it out anyway, finally. Then I went on up to the principal''s office.
The principal didn''t seem to be around, but some old lady around a hundred years old was sitting at a typewriter. I told her I was Phoebe Caulfield''s brother, in 4B-1, and I asked her to please give Phoebe the note. I said it was very important because my mother was sick and wouldn''t have lunch ready for Phoebe and that she''d have to meet me and have lunch in a drugstore. She was very nice about it, the old lady. She took the note off me and called some other lady, from the next office, and the other lady went to give it to Phoebe. Then the old lady that was around a hundred years old and I shot the breeze for a while, She was pretty nice, and I told her how I''d gone there to school, too, and my brothers. She asked me where I went to school now, and I told her Pencey, and she said Pencey was a very good school. Even if I''d wanted to, I wouldn''t have had the strength to straighten her out. Besides, if she thought Pencey was a very good school, let her think it. You hate to tell new stuff to somebody around a hundred years old. They don''t like to hear it. Then, after a while, I left. It was funny. She yelled "Good luck!" at me the same way old Spencer did when I left Pencey. God, how I hate it when somebody yells "Good luck!" at me when I''m leaving somewhere. It''s depressing.
I went down by a different staircase, and I saw another "**** you" on the wall. I tried to rub it off with my hand again, but this one was scratched on, with a knife or something. It wouldn''t come off. It''s hopeless, anyway. If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn''t rub out even half the "**** you" signs in the world. It''s impossible.
I looked at the clock in the recess yard, and it was only twenty to twelve, so I had quite a lot of time to kill before I met old Phoebe. But I just walked over to the museum anyway. There wasn''t anyplace else to go. I thought maybe I might stop in a phone booth and give old Jane Gallagher a buzz before I started bumming my way west, but I wasn''t in the mood. For one thing, I wasn''t even sure she was home for vacation yet. So I just went over to the museum, and hung around.
While I was waiting around for Phoebe in the museum, right inside the doors and all, these two little kids came up to me and asked me if I knew where the mummies were. The one little kid, the one that asked me, had his pants open. I told him about it. So he buttoned them up right where he was standing talking to me--he didn''t even bother to go behind a post or anything. He killed me. I would''ve laughed, but I was afraid I''d feel like vomiting again, so I didn''t. "Where''re the mummies, fella?" the kid said again. "Ya know?"
I horsed around with the two of them a little bit. "The mummies? What''re they?" I asked the one kid.
"You know. The mummies--them dead guys. That get buried in them toons and all."
Toons. That killed me. He meant tombs.
"How come you two guys aren''t in school?" I said.
"No school t''day," the kid that did all the talking said. He was lying, sure as I''m alive, the little bastard. I didn''t have anything to do, though, till old Phoebe showed up, so I helped them find the place where the mummies were. Boy, I used to know exactly where they were, but I hadn''t been in that museum in years.
"You two guys so interested in mummies?" I said.
"Yeah."
"Can''t your friend talk?" I said.
"He ain''t my friend. He''s my brudda."
"Can''t he talk?" I looked at the one that wasn''t doing any talking. "Can''t you talk at all?" I asked him.
"Yeah," he said. "I don''t feel like it."
Finally we found the place where the mummies were, and we went in.
"You know how the Egyptians buried their dead?" I asked the one kid.
"Naa."
"Well, you should. It''s very interesting. They wrapped their faces up in these cloths that were treated with some secret chemical. That way they could be buried in their tombs for thousands of years and their faces wouldn''t rot or anything. Nobody knows how to do it except the Egyptians. Even modern science."
To get to where the mummies were, you had to go down this very narrow sort of hall with stones on the side that they''d taken right out of this Pharaoh''s tomb and all. It was pretty spooky, and you could tell the two hot-shots I was with weren''t enjoying it too much. They stuck close as hell to me, and the one that didn''t talk at all practically was holding onto my sleeve. "Let''s go," he said to his brother. "I seen ''em awreddy. C''mon, hey." He turned around and beat it.
"He''s got a yella streak a mile wide," the other one said. "So long!" He beat it too.
I was the only one left in the tomb then. I sort of liked it, in a way. It was so nice and peaceful. Then, all of a sudden, you''d never guess what I saw on the wall. Another "**** you." It was written with a red crayon or something, right under the glass part of the wall, under the stones.
That''s the whole trouble. You can''t ever find a place that''s nice and peaceful, because there isn''t any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you''re not looking, somebody''ll sneak up and write "**** you" right under your nose. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it''ll say "Holden Caulfield" on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it''ll say "**** you." I''m positive, in fact.
After I came out of the place where the mummies were, I had to go to the bathroom. I sort of had diarrhea, if you want to know the truth. I didn''t mind the diarrhea part too much, but something else happened. When I was coming out of the can, right before I got to the door, I sort of passed out. I was lucky, though. I mean I could''ve killed myself when I hit the floor, but all I did was sort of land on my side. it was a funny thing, though. I felt better after I passed out. I really did. My arm sort of hurt, from where I fell, but I didn''t feel so damn dizzy any more.
It was about ten after twelve or so then, and so I went back and stood by the door and waited for old Phoebe. I thought how it might be the last time I''d ever see her again. Any of my relatives, I mean. I figured I''d probably see them again, but not for years. I might come home when I was about thirty-five. I figured, in case somebody got sick and wanted to see me before they died, but that would be the only reason I''d leave my cabin and come back. I even started picturing how it would be when I came back. I knew my mother''d get nervous as hell and start to cry and beg me to stay home and not go back to my cabin, but I''d go anyway. I''d be casual as hell. I''d make her calm down, and then I''d go over to the other side of the living room and take out this cigarette case and light a cigarette, cool as all hell. I''d ask them all to visit me sometime if they wanted to, but I wouldn''t insist or anything. What I''d do, I''d let old Phoebe come out and visit me in the summertime and on Christmas vacation and Easter vacation. And I''d let D.B. come out and visit me for a while if he wanted a nice, quiet place for his writing, but he couldn''t write any movies in my cabin, only stories and books. I''d have this rule that nobody could do anything phony when they visited me. If anybody tried to do anything phony, they couldn''t stay.
All of a sudden I looked at the clock in the checkroom and it was twenty-five of one. I began to get scared that maybe that old lady in the school had told that other lady not to give old Phoebe my message. I began to get scared that maybe she''d told her to burn it or something. It really scared hell out of me. I really wanted to see old Phoebe before I hit the road. I mean I had her Christmas dough and all.
Finally, I saw her. I saw her through the glass part of the door. The reason I saw her, she had my crazy hunting hat on--you could see that hat about ten miles away.
I went out the doors and started down these stone stairs to meet her. The thing I couldn''t understand, she had this big suitcase with her. She was just coming across Fifth Avenue, and she was dragging this goddam big suitcase with her. She could hardly drag it. When I got up closer, I saw it was my old suitcase, the one I used to use when I was at Whooton. I couldn''t figure out what the hell she was doing with it. "Hi," she said when she got up close. She was all out of breath from that crazy suitcase.
"I thought maybe you weren''t coming," I said. "What the hell''s in that bag? I don''t need anything. I''m just going the way I am. I''m not even taking the bags I got at the station. What the hellya got in there?"
She put the suitcase down. "My clothes," she said. "I''m going with you. Can I? Okay?"
"What?" I said. I almost fell over when she said that. I swear to God I did. I got sort of dizzy and I thought I was going to pass out or something again.
"I took them down the back elevator so Charlene wouldn''t see me. It isn''t heavy. All I have in it is two dresses and my moccasins and my underwear and socks and some other things. Feel it. It isn''t heavy. Feel it once. . . Can''t I go with you? Holden? Can''t I? Please."
"No. Shut up."
I thought I was going to pass out cold. I mean I didn''t mean to tell her to shut up and all, but I thought I was going to pass out again.
"Why can''t I? Please, Holden! I won''t do anything-- I''ll just go with you, that''s all! I won''t even take my clothes with me if you don''t want me to--I''ll just take my--"
"You can''t take anything. Because you''re not going. I''m going alone. So shut up."
"Please, Holden. Please let me go. I''ll be very, very, very--You won''t even--"
"You''re not going. Now, shut up! Gimme that bag," I said. I took the bag off her. I was almost all set to hit her, I thought I was going to smack her for a second. I really did.
She started to cry.
"I thought you were supposed to be in a play at school and all I thought you were supposed to be Benedict Arnold in that play and all," I said. I said it very nasty. "Whuddaya want to do? Not be in the play, for God''s sake?" That made her cry even harder. I was glad. All of a sudden I wanted her to cry till her eyes practically dropped out. I almost hated her. I think I hated her most because she wouldn''t be in that play any more if she went away with me.
"Come on," I said. I started up the steps to the museum again. I figured what I''d do was, I''d check the crazy suitcase she''d brought in the checkroom, andy then she could get it again at three o''clock, after school. I knew she couldn''t take it back to school with her. "Come on, now," I said.
She didn''t go up the steps with me, though. She wouldn''t come with me. I went up anyway, though, and brought the bag in the checkroom and checked it, and then I came down again. She was still standing there on the sidewalk, but she turned her back on me when I came up to her. She can do that. She can turn her back on you when she feels like it. "I''m not going away anywhere. I changed my mind. So stop crying, and shut up," I said. The funny part was, she wasn''t even crying when I said that. I said it anyway, though, "C''mon, now. I''ll walk you back to school. C''mon, now. You''ll be late."
She wouldn''t answer me or anything. I sort of tried to get hold of her old hand, but she wouldn''t let me. She kept turning around on me.
"Didja have your lunch? Ya had your lunch yet?" I asked her.
She wouldn''t answer me. All she did was, she took off my red hunting hat--the one I gave her--and practically chucked it right in my face. Then she turned her back on me again. It nearly killed me, but I didn''t say anything. I just picked it up and stuck it in my coat pocket.
"Come on, hey. I''ll walk you back to school," I said.
"I''m not going back to school."
I didn''t know what to say when she said that. I just stood there for a couple of minutes.
"You have to go back to school. You want to be in that play, don''t you? You want to be Benedict Arnold, don''t you?"
"No."
"Sure you do. Certainly you do. C''mon, now, let''s go," I said. "In the first place, I''m not going away anywhere, I told you. I''m going home. I''m going home as soon as you go back to school. First I''m gonna go down to the station and get my bags, and then I''m gonna go straight--"
"I said I''m not going back to school. You can do what you want to do, but I''m not going back to chool," she said. "So shut up." It was the first time she ever told me to shut up. It sounded terrible. God, it sounded terrible. It sounded worse than swearing. She still wouldn''t look at me either, and every time I sort of put my hand on her shoulder or something, she wouldn''t let me.
"Listen, do you want to go for a walk?" I asked her. "Do you want to take a walk down to the zoo? If I let you not go back to school this afternoon and go for walk, will you cut out this crazy stuff?"
She wouldn''t answer me, so I said it over again. "If I let you skip school this afternoon and go for a little walk, will you cut out the crazy stuff? Will you go back to school tomorrow like a good girl?"
"I may and I may not," she said. Then she ran right the hell across the street, without even looking to see if any cars were coming. She''s a madman sometimes.

I didn''t follow her, though. I knew she''d follow me, so I started walking downtown toward the zoo, on the park side of the street, and she started walking downtown on the other goddam side of the street, She wouldn''t look over at me at all, but I could tell she was probably watching me out of the corner of her crazy eye to see where I was going and all. Anyway, we kept walking that way all the way to the zoo. The only thing that bothered me was when a double-decker bus came along because then I couldn''t see across the street and I couldn''t see where the hell she was. But when we got to the zoo, I yelled over to her, "Phoebe! I''m going in the zoo! C''mon, now!" She wouldn''t look at me, but I could tell she heard me, and when I started down the steps to the zoo I turned around and saw she was crossing the street and following me and all.
There weren''t too many people in the zoo because it was sort of a lousy day, but there were a few around the sea lions'' swimming pool and all. I started to go by but old Phoebe stopped and made out she was watching the sea lions getting fed--a guy was throwing fish at them--so I went back. I figured it was a good chance to catch up with her and all. I went up and sort of stood behind her and sort of put my hands on her shoulders, but she bent her knees and slid out from me--she can certainly be very snotty when she wants to. She kept standing there while the sea lions were getting fed and I stood right behind her. I didn''t put my hands on her shoulders again or anything because if I had she really would''ve beat it on me. Kids are funny. You have to watch what you''re doing.
She wouldn''t walk right next to me when we left the sea lions, but she didn''t walk too far away. She sort of walked on one side of the sidewalk and I walked on the other side. It wasn''t too gorgeous, but it was better than having her walk about a mile away from me, like before. We went up and watched the bears, on that little hill, for a while, but there wasn''t much to watch. Only one of the bears was out, the polar bear. The other one, the brown one, was in his goddam **** and wouldn''t come out. All you could see was his rear end. There was a little kid standing next to me, with a cowboy hat on practically over his ears, and he kept telling his father, "Make him come out, Daddy. Make him come out." I looked at old Phoebe, but she wouldn''t laugh. You know kids when they''re sore at you. They won''t laugh or anything.
After we left the bears, we left the zoo and crossed over this little street in the park, and then we went through one of those little tunnels that always smell from somebody''s taking a leak. It was on the way to the carrousel. Old Phoebe still wouldn''t talk to me or anything, but she was sort of walking next to me now. I took a hold of the belt at the back of her coat, just for the hell of it, but she wouldn''t let me. She said, "Keep your hands to yourself, if you don''t mind." She was still sore at me. But not as sore as she was before. Anyway, we kept getting closer and closer to the carrousel and you could start to hear that nutty music it always plays. It was playing "Oh, Marie!" It played that same song about fifty years ago when I was a little kid. That''s one nice thing about carrousels, they always play the same songs.
"I thought the carrousel was closed in the wintertime," old Phoebe said. It was the first time she practically said anything. She probably forgot she was supposed to be sore at me.
"Maybe because it''s around Christmas," I said.
She didn''t say anything when I said that. She probably remembered she was supposed to be sore at me.
"Do you want to go for a ride on it?" I said. I knew she probably did. When she was a tiny little kid, and Allie and D.B. and I used to go to the park with her, she was mad about the carrousel. You couldn''t get her off the goddam thing.
"I''m too big." she said. I thought she wasn''t going to answer me, but she did.
"No, you''re not. Go on. I''ll wait for ya. Go on," I said. We were right there then. There were a few kids riding on it, mostly very little kids, and a few parents were waiting around outside, sitting on the benches and all. What I did was, I went up to the window where they sell the tickets and bought old Phoebe a ticket. Then I gave it to her. She was standing right next to me. "Here," I said. "Wait a second--take the rest of your dough, too." I started giving her the rest of the dough she''d lent me.
"You keep it. Keep it for me," she said. Then she said right afterward--"Please."
That''s depressing, when somebody says "please" to you. I mean if it''s Phoebe or somebody. That depressed the hell out of me. But I put the dough back in my pocket.
"Aren''t you gonna ride, too?" she asked me. She was looking at me sort of funny. You could tell she wasn''t too sore at me any more.
"Maybe I will the next time. I''ll watch ya," I said. "Got your ticket?"
"Yes."
"Go ahead, then--I''ll be on this bench right over here. I''ll watch ya." I went over and sat down on this bench, and she went and got on the carrousel. She walked all around it. I mean she walked once all the way around it. Then she sat down on this big, brown, beat-up-looking old horse. Then the carrousel started, and I watched her go around and around. There were only about five or six other kids on the ride, and the song the carrousel was playing was "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes." It was playing it very jazzy and funny. All the kids kept trying to grab for the gold ring, and so was old Phoebe, and I was sort of afraid she''d fall off the goddam horse, but I didn''t say anything or do anything. The thing with kids is, if they want to grab the gold ring, you have to let them do it, and not say anything. If they fall off they fall off, but it''s bad if you say anything to them.
When the ride was over she got off her horse and came over to me. "You ride once, too, this time," she said.
"No, I''ll just watch ya. I think I''ll just watch," I said. I gave her some more of her dough. "Here. Get some more tickets."
She took the dough off me. "I''m not mad at you any more," she said.
"I know. Hurry up--the thing''s gonna start again."
Then all of a sudden she gave me a kiss. Then she held her hand out, and said, "It''s raining. It''s starting to rain."
"I know."
Then what she did--it damn near killed me--she reached in my coat pocket and took out my red hunting hat and put it on my head.
"Don''t you want it?" I said.
"You can wear it a while."
"Okay. Hurry up, though, now. You''re gonna miss your ride. You won''t get your own horse or anything."
She kept hanging around, though.
"Did you mean it what you said? You really aren''t going away anywhere? Are you really going home afterwards?" she asked me.
"Yeah," I said. I meant it, too. I wasn''t lying to her. I really did go home afterwards. "Hurry up, now," I said. "The thing''s starting."
She ran and bought her ticket and got back on the goddam carrousel just in time. Then she walked all the way around it till she got her own horse back. Then she got on it. She waved to me and I waved back.
Boy, it began to rain like a bastard. In buckets, I swear to God. All the parents and mothers and everybody went over and stood right under the roof of the carrousel, so they wouldn''t get soaked to the skin or anything, but I stuck around on the bench for quite a while. I got pretty soaking wet, especially my neck and my pants. My hunting hat really gave me quite a lot of protection, in a way; but I got soaked anyway. I didn''t care, though. I felt so damn happy all of sudden, the way old Phoebe kept going around and around. I was damn near bawling, I felt so damn happy, if you want to know the truth. I don''t know why. It was just that she looked so damn nice, the way she kept going around and around, in her blue coat and all. God, I wish you could''ve been there.