“Mother, Seymour told Daddy that he’d pay for it. There’s no reason for—”
“Well, we’ll see. How did he behave—in the car and all?”
“All right,” said the girl.
“Did he keep calling you that awful—”
“No. He has something new now.”
“What?”
“Oh, what’s the difference, Mother?”
“Muriel, I want to know. Your father—”
“All right, all right. He calls me Miss Spiritual Tramp of 1948,” the girl said, and giggled.
“It isn’t funny, Muriel. It isn’t funny at all. It’s horrible. It’s sad, actually. When I think how—”
&nb
sp; “Mother,” the girl interrupted, “listen to me. You remember that book he sent me from Germany? You know—those German poems. What’d I do with it? I’ve been racking my—”
“You have it.”
“Are you sure?” said the girl.
“Certainly. That is, I have it. It’s in Freddy’s room. You left it here and I didn’t have room for it in the—Why? Does he want it?”
“No. Only, he asked me about it, when we were driving down. He wanted to know if I’d read it.”
“It was in German!”
“Yes, dear. That doesn’t make any difference,” said the girl, crossing her legs. “He said that the poems happen to be written by the only great poet of the century. He said I should’ve bought a translation or something. Or learned the language, if you please.”
“Awful. Awful. It’s sad, actually, is what it is. Your father said last night—”
“Just a second, Mother,” the girl said. She went over to the window seat for her cigarettes, lit one, and returned to her seat on the bed. “Mother?” she said, exhaling smoke.
“Muriel. Now, listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“Your father talked to Dr. Sivetski.”
“Oh?” said the girl.
“He told him everything. At least, he said he did—you know your father. The trees. That business with the window. Those horrible things he said to Granny about her plans for passing away. What he did with all those lovely pictures from Bermuda — everything.”
“Well?” said the girl.
“Well. In the first place, he said it was a perfect crime the Army released him from the hospital—my word of honor. He very definitely told your father there’s a chance—a very great chance, he said—that Seymour may completely lose control of himself. My word of honor.”
“There’s a psychiatrist here at the hotel,” said the girl.
“Who? What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. Rieser or something. He’s supposed to be very good.”