She walked briskly through the dining room, taking the same route she had taken earlier. But she stopped quite short at the small cocktail bar at the far end of the room. The bartender, who was wiping a sherry glass dry, looked at her. She put her right hand on the bar, then lowered her head--bowed it--and put her left hand to her forehead, just touching it with the fingertips. She weaved a trifle, then fainted, collapsing to the floor.
IT was nearly five minutes before Franny came thoroughly to. She was on a couch in the manager's office, and Lane was sitting beside her. His face, suspended anxiously over hers, had a remarkable pallor of its own now.
"How are ya?" he said, in a rather hospital-room voice. "You feel any better?"
Franny nodded. She closed her eyes for a second against the overhead light, then reopened them. "Am I supposed to say 'Where am I?'" she said. "Where am I?"
Lane laughed. "You're in the manager's office. They're all running around looking for spirits of ammonia and doctors and things to bring you to. They'd just run out of ammonia, apparently. How do you feel? No kidding."
"Fine. Stupid, but fine. Did I honestly faint?"
"And how. You really conked out," Lane said. He took her hand in his. "What do you think's the matter with you anyway? I mean you sounded so--you know--so perfect when I talked to you on the phone last week. Didn't you eat any breakfast, or what?"
Franny shrugged. Her eyes looked around the room. "It's so embarrassing," she said. "Did somebody have to carry me in here?"
"The bartender and I. We sort of hoisted you in. You scared the hell out of me, I'm not kidding."
Franny looked thoughtfully, without blinking, at the ceiling while her hand was held. Then she turned and, with her free hand, made a gesture as th
ough to push back the cuff of Lane's sleeve. "What time is it?" she asked.
"Never mind that," Lane said. "We're in no hurry."
"You wanted to go to that cocktail party."
"The hell with it."
"Is it too late for the game, too?" Franny asked.
"Listen, I said the hell with it. You're going to go back to your room at whosis--Blue Shutters--and get some rest, that's the important thing," Lane said. He sat a trifle closer to her and bent down and kissed her, briefly. He turned and looked over at the door, then back at Franny. "You're just going to rest this afternoon. That's all you're going to do." He stroked her arm for a moment. "Then maybe after a while, if you get any decent rest, I can get upstairs somehow. I think there's a goddam back staircase. I can find out."
Franny didn't say anything. She looked at the ceiling.
"You know how long it's been?" Lane said. "When was that Friday night? Way the hell early last month, wasn't it?" He shook his head. "That's no good. Too goddam long between drinks. To put it crassly." He looked down at Franny more closely. "You really feel better?"
She nodded. She turned her head toward him. "I'm terribly thirsty, that's all. Do you think I could have some water? Would it be too much trouble?"
"Hell, no! Will you be all right if I leave you for a second? You know what I think I'll do?"
Franny shook her head to the second question.
"I'll get somebody to bring you some water. Then I'll get the headwaiter and call off the spirits of ammonia--and, incidentally, pay the check. Then I'll get a cab all ready, so we won't have to hunt all around for one. It may take a few minutes, because most of them will be cruising around for people going out to the game." He let go Franny's hand and got up. "O.K.?" he said.
"Fine."
"O.K., I'll be right back. Don't move." He left the room.
Alone, Franny lay quite still, looking at the ceiling. Her lips began to move, forming soundless words, and they continued to move.
___________________________________________
ZOOEY
THE facts at hand presumably speak for themselves, but a trifle more vulgarly, I suspect, than facts even usually do. As a counterbalance, then, we begin with that everfresh and exciting odium: the author's formal introduction. The one I have in mind not only is wordy and earnest beyond my wildest dreams but is, to boot, rather excruciatingly personal. If, with the right kind of luck, it comes off, it should be comparable in effect to a compulsory guided tour through the engine room, with myself, as guide, leading the way in an old one-piece Jantzen bathing suit.
To get straight to the worst, what I'm about to offer isn't really a short story at all but a sort of prose home movie, and those who have seen the footage have strongly advised me against nurturing any elaborate distribution plans for it. The dissenting group, it's my privilege and headache to divulge, consists of the three featured players themselves, two female, one male. We'll take the leading lady first, who, I believe, would prefer to be briefly described as a languid, sophisticated type. She feels that things might have gone along well enough if I'd just done
boy will be seen reading an exceedingly lengthy letter (which will be reprinted here in full, I can safely promise) sent to him by his eldest living brother, Buddy Glass. The style of the letter, I'm told, bears a considerably more than passing resemblance to the style, or written mannerisms, of this narrator, and the general reader will no doubt jump to the heady conclusion that the writer of the letter and I are one and the same person. Jump he will, and, I'm afraid, jump he should. We will, however, leave this Buddy Glass in the third person from here on in. At least, I see no good reason to take him out of it.