Welcome to the Monkey House - Kurt Vonnegut [28]
I nodded sympathetically. Maybe Herbert looked on his fortune as filthy, untouchable, since it came from his father’s side of the family. "This grandfather of Herbert’s, who died two years ago—?"
"He supported Herbert and his mother after his son deserted them. Herbert worshipped him." She shook her head sadly. "He was penniless when he died."
"What a shame."
"I’d so hoped he would leave us a little something, so Herbert wouldn’t have to work weekends."
We were trying to talk above the clatter, tinkle, and crash of the cafeteria where Herbert ate every day. Lunch was on me—or on my expense account—and I’d picked up his check for eighty-seven cents. I said, "Now, Herbert, before we go any further, we’d better decide what you want from your investments: growth or income." It was a cliché of the counseling business. God know what he wanted from the securities. It didn’t seem to be what everybody else wanted—money.
"Whatever you say," Herbert said absently. He was upset about something, and not paying much attention to me.
"Herbert—look, you’ve got to face this thing. You’re a rich man. You’ve got to concentrate on making the most of your holdings."
"That’s why I called you. I want you to concentrate. I want you to run things for me, so I won’t have to bother with the deposits and proxies and taxes. Don’t trouble me with it at all."
"Your lawyers have been banking the dividends, eh?"
"Most of them. Took out thirty-two dollars for Christmas, and gave a hundred to the church."
"So what’s your balance?"
He handed me the deposit book.
"Not bad," I said. Despite his Christmas splurge and largess toward the church, he’d managed to salt away $50,227.33. "May I ask what a man with a balance like that can be blue about?"
"Got bawled out at work again."
"Buy the place and burn it down," I suggested.
"I could, couldn’t I?" A wild look came into his eyes, then disappeared.
"Herbert, you can do anything your heart desires."
"Oh, I suppose so. It’s all in the way you look at it."
I leaned forward. "How do you look at it, Herbert?"
"I think every man, for his own self-respect, should earn what he lives on."
"But, Herbert—"
"I have a wonderful wife and child, a nice house for them, and a car. And I’ve earned every penny of the way. I’m living up to the full measure of my responsibilities. I’m proud to say I’m everything my mother wanted me to be, and nothing my father was."
"Do you mind my asking what your father was?"
"I don’t enjoy talking about him. Home and family meant nothing to him. His real love was for low-down music and honky-tonks, and for the trash in them."
"Was he a good musician, do you think?"
"Good?" For an instant, there was excitement in his voice, and he tensed, as though he were going to make an important point. But he relaxed again. "Good?" he repeated, flatly this time. "Yes, in a crude way, I suppose he was passable—technically, that is."
"And that much you inherited from him."
"His wrists and hands, maybe. God help me if there’s any more of him in me."
"You’ve got his love of music, too."
"I love music, but I’d never let it get like dope to me!" he said, with more force than seemed necessary.
"Uh-huh. Well—"
"Never!"
"Beg your pardon?"
His eyes were wide. "I said I’ll never let music get like dope to me. It’s important to me, but I’m master of it, and not the other way around."
Apparently it was a treacherous subject, so I switched back to the matter of his finances. "Yes, well, now about your portfolio again: just what use do you expect to make of it?"
"Use some of it for Alma’s and my old age; leave most of it to the boy."
"The least you can do is take enough out of the kitty to let you out of working weekends."
He stood up suddenly. "Look. I want you to handle my securities, not my life. If you can’t do one without the other, I’ll find someone who can."
"Please, Herbert, Mr. Foster. I’m sorry, sir. I was only trying to get the whole picture