Libra - Don Delillo [22]
“I went a few times,” Lee said, “but then I stopped.”
“But you were there. I thought so. I was sure of it. In your uniform. A uniform makes all the difference. I know my boys. I never forget a cadet. Do you know Dennis Rumsey? Dennis is a cadet. He comes here after school. Do you know Warren Van Zandt, the fat boy? Warren’s daddy has lung cancer bad.”
“What about the rifle?” Robert said.
“It’s around here somewhere. A Marlin bolt-action .22. It’s clip-fed and you can have it real cheap because the firing pin’s broken. Easy to fix. Take it to a welder, bang bang bang.”
“Nobody mentioned broken,” Robert said.
“They never do.”
“Well I don’t know, sir.”
“Neither do I.”
“If the rifle can’t be fired as is.”
“He’ll weld an extension, bang bang.”
“But this would mean an inconvenience.”
“The pleasure may be worth it. Do you know guns? Guns are an interest of mine.”
Robert shot a glance like let’s get out of here. Something in the far corner seemed to be alive. Lee took a few steps in that direction. He was aware that some kind of well-intentioned look was pasted to his face, a smile not connected to things. There was a cage on the dresser with white mice running around inside.
He turned to Ferrie and said, “Mice.”
“Isn’t life fantastic?”
“What are they for?”
“Research. Here we are it’s eleven years after the war, a new era, an age of hope, and we’re no closer to ending the cancer plague than a thousand years ago. I’ve studied diseases all my life. Even as a boy I allotted my time. I knew what cancer was long before I heard the word. What’s your name?”
“Lee.”
“Allot your time, Lee.”
Robert Sproul edged toward the door.
“Captain Ferrie, I think actually, sir.”
“What?”
“I have to get going. I guess I’ll take a rain check on the gun purchase. ”
“I’ve studied patterns of coincidence,” Ferrie said to Lee. “Coincidence is a science waiting to be discovered. How patterns emerge outside the bounds of cause and effect. I studied geopolitics at Baldwin-Wallace before it was called geopolitics.”
“Lee, are you coming?”
Lee wanted to leave but found himself just standing there grinning stupidly at Robert, who made a dumb face back at him and walked out, sort of tiptoed out. Maybe Lee thought it wasn’t nice to leave abruptly. But in that case Robert was the one who should have stayed. He was the honor student, well brought up, who lived in a house with a closed porch amid azaleas, oaks and palms.
“Tell me about yourself,” Ferrie said. “First, ignore the mess. The mess belongs mainly to Alfonso, Alfredo, whatever he’s called. Anywhere he settles, even for a minute, you sense an air of criminal intent. Works on a tug out of Port Sulphur. A job that wouldn’t interest a boy with intelligent eyes like yours. Tell me about your eyes.
Ferrie was deep in the armchair. At this angle, in the uncertain light, he resembled an eighty-year-old man, wide-eyed with fear. He was totally remote. Lee’s sense of things was that he was one step ahead for having stayed, that Robert had bailed out too soon, that this business was too rich to be missed, and for the rest of his time here he experienced what was happening and at the same moment, although slightly apart, recounted it all for Robert. He had a little vision of himself. He saw himself narrating the story to Robert Sproul, relishing his own broad manner of description even as the moment was unfolding in the present, in the larger scheme, arms going like crazy, an animated cartoon, and he felt slightly superior in the telling. He’d stayed for the whole thing. What could be more squeamish and chicken-hearted than leaving too soon, thinking safety-first, home to your perfect family and plaid blanket, and then the thing turns out okay.
“If you allot your time, you can accomplish fantastic things. I learned Latin when I was your age. I stayed indoors and learned a dead language, for fear of being noticed out there, made to pay for being who I was.”
He forgets I’m here.