God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater_ Or, Pearls Before Swine - Kurt Vonnegut [51]
Fred hoisted the manuscript in his two plump hands, threatened poor Caroline with it. "The Rhode Island Rosewaters have been active, creative people in the past, and will continue to be in the future," he told her. "Some have had money, and some have not, but, by God, they've played their parts in history! No more apologies!"
He had won Caroline to his way of thinking. It was a simple thing for any passionate person to do. She was ga-ga with terrified respect.
"You know what it says over the door of the National Archives in Washington?"
"No," she admitted.
" 'The past is prologue!' "
"Oh."
"All right," said Fred, "now let's read this story of the Rhode Island Rosewaters together, and try to pull our marriage together with a little mutual pride and faith."
She nodded dumbly.
The tale of John Rosewater at the Battle of Bloody Marsh ended the second page of the manuscript. So Fred now gripped the corner of that page between his thumb and forefinger, and dramatically peeled it from wonders lying below.
The manuscript was hollow. Termites had eaten the heart out of the history. They were still there, maggotty blue-grey, eating away.
When Caroline had clumped back up the cellar stairs, tremulous with disgust, Fred calmly advised himself that the time had come to really die. Fred could tie a hangman's knot blindfolded, and he tied one now in clothesline. He climbed onto a stool, tied the other end to a water pipe with a two-half hitch, which he tested.
He was putting the noose over his head, when little Franklin called down the stairway that a man wanted to see him. And the man, who was Norman Mushari, came down the stairs uninvited, lugging a fat, cross-gartered, slack-jawed briefcase.
Fred moved quickly, barely escaped being caught in the embarrassing act of destroying himself
"Yes—?" he said to Mushari.
"Mr. Rosewater—?"
"Yes—?"
"Sir—at this very moment, your Indiana relatives are swindling you and yours out of your birth-right, out of millions upon millions of dollars. I am here to tell you about a relatively cheap and simple court action that will make those millions yours."
Fred fainted.
12
TWO DAYS LATER, it was nearly time for Eliot to get on a Greyhound Bus at the Saw City Kandy Kitchen, to go to Indianapolis to meet Sylvia in the Bluebird Room. It was noon. He was still asleep. He had had one hell of a night, not only with telephone calls, but with people coming in person at all hours, more than half of them drunk. There was panic in Rosewater. No matter how often Eliot had denied it, his clients were sure he was leaving them forever.
Eliot had cleared off the top of his desk. Laid out on it were a new blue suit, a new white shirt, a new blue tie, a new pair of black nylon socks, a new pair of Jockey shorts, a new toothbrush and a bottle of Lavoris. He had used the new toothbrush once. His mouth was a bloody wreck.
Dogs barked outside. They crossed the street from the firehouse to greet a great favorite of theirs, Delbert Peach, a town drunk. They were cheering him in his efforts to stop being a human being and become a dog. "Git! Git! Git!" he cried ineffectually. "God damn, I ain't in heat."
He tumbled in through Eliot's street-level door, slammed the door on his best friends, climbed the stairs singing. This is what he sang:
I've got the clap, and the blueballs, too. The clap don't hurt, but the blueballs do.
Delbert Peach, all bristles and stink, ran out of that song halfway up the stairs, for his progress was slow. He switched to The Star Spangled Banner, and he was gasping and burping and humming that when he entered Eliot's office proper.
"Mr. Rosewater? Mr. Rosewater?" Eliot's head was under his blanket, and his hands, though he was sound asleep, gripped the shroud tightly. So Peach, in order to see Eliot's beloved face, had to overcome the strength of those hands. "Mr. Rosewater—are you alive? Are you all right?"
Eliot's face was contorted