Welcome to the Monkey House - Kurt Vonnegut [115]
Jim laid his head on Helmholtz’s breast.
"It’s better than boots, Jim," said Helmholtz. "You can learn to play it. You’re somebody, Jim. You’re the boy with John Philip Sousa’s trumpet!"
Helmholtz released Jim slowly, sure the boy would topple. Jim didn’t fall. He stood alone. The trumpet was still in his arms.
"I’ll take you home, Jim," said Helmholtz. "Be a good boy and I won’t say a word about tonight. Polish your trumpet, and learn to be a good boy."
"Can I have my boots?" said Jim dully.
"No," said Helmholtz. "I don’t think they’re good for you."
He drove Jim home. He opened the car windows and the air seemed to refresh the boy. He let him out at Quinn’s restaurant. The soft pats of Jim’s bare feet on the sidewalk echoed down the empty street. He climbed through a window, and into his bedroom behind the kitchen. And all was still.
The next morning the waddling clanking, muddy machines were making the vision of Bert Quinn come true. They were smoothing off the place where the hill had been behind the restaurant. They were making it as level as a billiard table.
Helmholtz sat in a booth again. Quinn joined him again. Jim mopped again. Jim kept his eyes down, refusing to notice Helmholtz. And he didn’t seem to care when a surf of suds broke over the toes of his small and narrow brown Oxfords.
"Eating out two mornings in a row?" said Quinn. "Something wrong at home?"
"My wife’s still out of town," said Helmholtz.
"While the cat’s away—" said Quinn. He winked.
"When the cat’s away," said Helmholtz, "this mouse gets lonesome."
Quinn leaned forward. "Is that what got you out of bed in the middle of the night, Helmholtz? Loneliness?" He jerked his head at Jim. "Kid! Go get Mr. Helmholtz his horn."
Jim raised his head, and Helmholtz saw that his eyes were oysterlike again. He marched away to get the trumpet.
Quinn now showed that he was excited and angry. "You take away his boots and give him a horn, and I’m not supposed to get curious?" he said. "I’m not supposed to start asking questions? I’m not supposed to find out you caught him taking the school apart? You’d make a lousy crook, Helmholtz. You’d leave your baton, sheet music, and your driver’s license at the scene of the crime."
"I don’t think about hiding clues," said Helmholtz. "I just do what I do. I was going to tell you."
Quinn’s feet danced and his shoes squeaked like mice. "Yes?" he said. "Well, I’ve got some news for you too."
"What is that?" said Helmholtz uneasily.
"It’s all over with Jim and me," said Quinn. "Last night was the payoff. I’m sending him back where he came from."
"To another string of foster homes?" said Helmholtz weakly.
"Whatever the experts figure out to do with a kid like that." Quinn sat back, exhaled noisily, and went limp with relief
"You can’t," said Helmholtz.
"I can," said Quinn.
"That will be the end of him," said Helmholtz. "He can’t stand to be thrown away like that one more time."
"He can’t feel anything," said Quinn. "I can’t help him; I can’t hurt him. Nobody can. There isn’t a nerve in him."
"A bundle of scar tissue," said Helmholtz.
The bundle of scar tissue returned with the trumpet. Impassively, he laid it on the table in front of Helmholtz.
Helmholtz forced a smile. "It’s yours, Jim," he said. "I gave it to you."
"Take it while you got the chance, Helmholtz," said Quinn. "He doesn’t want it. All he’ll do is swap it for a knife or a pack of cigarettes."
"He doesn’t know what it is, yet," said Helmholtz. "It takes a while to find out."
"Is it any good?" said Quinn.
"Any good?" said Helmholtz, not believing his ears. "Any good?" He didn’t see how anyone could look at the instrument and not be warmed and dazzled by it. "Any good?" he murmured. "It belonged to John Philip Sousa."
Quinn blinked stupidly. "Who?"
Helmholtz’s hands fluttered on the table top like the wings of a dying bird. "Who was John