While Mortals Sleep_ Unpublished Short Fiction - Kurt Vonnegut [23]
“Earl—” said Ella.
“Hotbox,” said his mother, “you’re being spoken to by your wife, your companion for life.”
“Shoot,” said Earl, laying down the magazine reluctantly.
“I was wondering if maybe we couldn’t all go out to dinner tonight—for a change,” said Ella. “We could go to Lou’s Steak House, and—”
“Not tonight, honey,” said Earl. “I’ve got to do some troubleshooting on the block system.”
“Be a sport,” said his mother. “Take her out, Earl. Just the two of you go out, and I’ll fix a little something for myself here.”
“We go out,” said Earl. “We go out together lots. Didn’t we go out together last Tuesday, Ella?”
Ella nodded vaguely. “Down to the depot to see the new gas-turbine locomotive. It was on exhibit.”
“Oh, that must have been nice,” said Earl’s mother. “Nobody ever took me to see a locomotive.”
Earl felt the redness of irritation spreading over the back of his neck. “What’s the big idea, you two needling me all the time lately? I work hard, and I’m entitled to play hard, I say. So I like trains. What’s the matter with trains?”
“Nothing’s the matter with trains, dear,” said his mother. “I don’t know where the world would be without trains. But there are other things, too. All week you’re out on the job somewhere, and come home so tired you can hardly say hello, and then on the weekends you’re down in the basement. What kind of a life is that for Ella?”
“Now, Mother—” said Ella, making the faintest of gestures to stop her.
“Who do you think I’m working for, ten, twelve hours a day?” said Earl. “Where do you suppose the money’s coming from to pay for this house and this food and the cars—for clothes? I love my wife, and I work like hell for her.”
“Couldn’t you strike a happy medium?” said his mother. “Poor Ella—”
“Listen,” said Earl, “the man in the road construction business who tries to strike a happy medium gets eaten alive.”
“What a picture!” said his mother.
“Well, it’s the truth,” said Earl. “And I’ve invited Ella to play on the pike with me lots of times. She can come down and get in on the fun any time she wants. Haven’t I always said that, Ella? Lots of wives take a real interest in their husbands’ layouts.”
“That’s right,” said Ella. “Harry Zellerbach’s wife can lay track and wind a transformer and talk for hours about 4-6-6-4 articulated locomotives and 0-4-0 docksides.”
“Well, a woman can go too far,” said Earl. “I think Maude Zellerbach is probably a little punchy. But Ella could have a good time, if she’d just give it a chance. I gave her a Bowser M-1 4-8-2 for her birthday, and she hasn’t had it out of the roundhouse once in six months.”
“Ella—how could you?” said Earl’s mother. “If I had a Bowser all my own, heaven knows when I’d get my housework done.”
“OK, you’ve had your fun,” said Earl. “Now let a man eat in peace. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“We could go for a ride in the car this afternoon,” said Ella. “We could show Mother the countryside, and you could do your thinking out in the fresh air.”
The atmosphere of conspiracy made Earl stubborn. He wasn’t going to be wheedled into anything. “Trouble is,” he said, “Harry’s expecting in a shipment of stuff this afternoon, and he’s going to give me first look. With the metal shortage, the shipments are small, and everything’s on a first-come, first-serve basis. You go. I’d better stay.”
“It’s like being mother to a dope fiend,” said Earl’s mother. “I didn’t raise him this way.”
“Aaaaaaaaaah,” said Earl again. His eyes dropped to his magazine, and he scanned, ironically, an article about a man whose wife painted the scenery background for his layout, swell little barns and haystacks and snow-covered peaks and clouds and birds and everything.
“Earl,” said his mother, “Ella hasn’t been out to a movie or to supper with you for four months. You should take her out tonight.”
“Never mind, Mother,” said Ella.
Earl abandoned the magazine. “Mother,” he said evenly, “I