While Mortals Sleep_ Unpublished Short Fiction - Kurt Vonnegut [80]
“I’ll never know what matters again,” said Rose. “I’ll never be able to believe anything or anybody again.” She wept quietly, and closed the door in Ben’s face.
“Goodbye, Romeo,” said the twelve million to Ben. “Don’t look so blue. The world is full of girls just as good as Rose, and prettier. And they’re all waiting to marry a man like you for love, love, love.”
Ben walked away slowly, heartbroken.
“And love, as we all know,” the Kilraine fortune called after him, “makes the world go ’round.”
Ben laid the burlap bag on the beach before the Kilraine cottage, and waded into the sea with his bucket and rake. He buried the tines of the rake in the bay floor, and worried them through the sand.
A telltale click ran through the handle of the rake to Ben’s gloved fingers. Ben tipped the handle back, and lifted the rake from the water. Resting on the tines were three fat clams.
Ben was glad to stop thinking about love and money. Swaddled in the good feel of thick wool, listening only to the voices of the sea, he lost himself in the hunt for treasure under the sand.
He lost himself for an hour, and in that time he gathered almost half a bushel of clams.
He waded back to the beach, emptied his bucket into the bag, and rested and smoked. His bones ached sweetly with manly satisfaction.
For the first time in two years, he saw what a fine day it was, saw what a beautiful part of the world he lived in.
And then his mind began to play with numbers: six dollars a bushel … three hours a bushel … six hours a day … six days a week … room rent, eight dollars a week … meals, a dollar and a half a day … cigarettes, forty cents a day … interest on bank loan, fifteen dollars a month …
Money began talking to Ben again—not big money this time, but little money. It niggled and nagged and carped and whined at him, as full of fears and bitterness as a spinster witch.
Ben’s soul knotted and twisted like an old apple tree. He was hearing again the voice that had held him prisoner in the grocery store for two years, that had soured every smile since the milk and honey of high school.
Ben turned to look at the Kilraine cottage. Rose’s haunted face peered out from an upstairs window.
Seeing the captive maiden, remembering his own captivity, Ben understood at last that money was one big dragon, with a billion dollars for a head, and a penny on the tip of its tail. It had as many voices as there were men and women, and it captured all who were fools enough to listen to it all the time.
Ben threw the bag of clams over his shoulder, and went to the door of the Kilraine cottage once more.
Again, Rose opened the door for him. “Please—please go away,” she said weakly.
“Rose,” said Ben, “I thought you might want some clams. They’re very good, steamed, dipped in melted butter or oleo.”
“No, thank you,” said Rose.
“I want to give you something, Rose,” said Ben. “Clams is all I’ve got. Nothing like twelve million clams, but clams, anyway.”
Rose was startled.
“Of course,” said Ben, strolling past her and into the living room, “if we fell in love and got married, then I’d be as rich as you are. That’d be a nutty break for me, just like the nutty break old man Kilraine gave you.”
Rose was shocked. “Am I supposed to laugh?” she said. “Is this supposed to be funny, talking this way?”
“It’s the truth,” said Ben. “All depends on what you make of it. God’s honest truth.” He took an old cigar from a humidor. The outer leaves crumbled in his fingers and fell to the carpet.
“I asked you to leave nicely,” said Rose angrily. “Now I’m going to tell you in no uncertain terms to please get out. I can see now how right I was—how little I knew about you.” She quivered. “Rude, insulting—”
Ben put down his clams, and lit what was left of the cigar. He put one foot on a windowsill, and cocked his behind to one side, in a pose of superb male arrogance. “Rose,” he said, “do you know where that damn fool bonanza of yours