Franny and Zooey by J. D. Salinger Page B

pocket, nipped it open, then used it to blow his nose once, twice, three times. He put away the handkerchief, saying, "I like to ride in trains too much. You never get to sit next to the window any more when you're married."
     
        "That's no reason!"
     
        "It's a perfect reason. Go away, Bessie. Leave me in peace in here. Why don't you go for a nice elevator ride? You're going to burn your fingers, incidentally, if you don't put out that goddam cigarette."
     
        Mrs. Glass put out her cigarette against the inside of the wastebasket again. She then sat quietly for a little interval, without reaching for her cigarette pack and matches. She watched Zooey take down a comb and re-part his hair. "You could use a haircut, young man," she said. "You're getting to look like one of these crazy Hungarians or something getting out of a swimming pool."
     
        Zooey perceptibly smiled, went on for a few seconds with his combing, then suddenly turned. He wagged his comb briefly at his mother. "One other thing. Before I forget. And listen to me, now, Bessie," he said. "If you get any more ideas, like last night, of phoning Philly Byrnes' goddam psychoanalyst for Franny, just do one thing--that's all I ask. Just think of what analysis did for Seymour." He paused for emphasis. "Hear me? Will you do that?"
     
        Mrs. Glass immediately gave her hairnet an unnecessary adjustment, then took out her cigarettes and matches, but she merely kept them for a moment in her hand. "For your information," she said, "I didn't say I was going to phone Philly Byrnes' psychoanalyst, I said I was thinking about it. In the first place, he isn't just an ordinary psychoanalyst. He happens to be a very devout Catholic psychoanalyst, and I thought it might be better than sitting around and watching that child--"
     
        "Bessie, I'm warning you, now, God damn it. I don't care if he's a very devout Buddhist veterinarian. If you call in some--"
     
        "There's no need for sarcasm, young man. I've known Philly Byrnes since he was a tiny little boy. Your father and I played on the same bill with his parents for years. And I happen to know for a fact that going to a psychoanalyst has made an absolutely new and lovely person out of that boy. I was talking to his--"
     
        Zooey slammed his comb into the medicine cabinet, then impatiently flipped the cabinet door shut. "Oh, you're so stupid, Bessie," he said. "Philly Byrnes. Philly Byrnes is a poor little impotent sweaty guy past forty who's been sleeping for years with a rosary and a copy of Variety under his pillow. We're talking about two things as different as day and night. Now, listen to me, Bessie." Zooey turned full toward his mother and looked at her carefully, the flat of one hand on the enamel, as if for support. "You listening to me?"
     
        Mrs. Glass finished lighting a fresh cigarette before she committed herself. Then, exhaling smoke and brushing off imaginary tobacco flakes from her lap, she said grimly, "I'm listening to you."
     
        ."All right. I'm very serious, now. If you-- Listen to me, now. If you can't, or won't, think of Seymour, then you go right ahead and call in some ignorant psychoanalyst. You just do that. You just call in some analyst who's experienced in adjusting people to the joys of television, and Life magazine every Wednesday, and European travel, and the H-Bomb, and Presidential elections, and the front page of the Times, and the responsibilities of the Westport and Oyster Bay Parent-Teacher Association, and God knows what else that's gloriously normal--you just do that, and I swear to you, in not more than a year Franny'll either be in a nut ward or she'll be wandering off into some goddam desert with a burning cross in her hands."
     
        Mrs. Glass brushed off a few more imaginary tobacco flakes. "All right, all right--don't get so upset," she said. "For goodness' sake. Nobody's called anybody."
     
        Zooey