Properties
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- 3975
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T03:41:20.744Z
- extracted_by
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- text
- "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
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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
- title
- Chunk 10