Three Stories by J. D. Salinger Page A

morning, had even eaten my lunch there, and not till late afternoon did I come downstairs. At about three-thirty I came out on the porch and the Cape Cod air made me a little dizzy, as though it were stuff brewed too strong. But in a minute it seemed like a pretty good day. The sun was hot all over the lawn. I looked around for Kenneth and saw him sitting in the cracked wicker, reading, with his feet drawn underneath him so that he was supporting his weight on his insteps. He was reading with his mouth open, and he didn’t hear me walk across the porch and sit down on the railing opposite his chair.
    I kicked his chair with the toe of my shoe. “Stop reading, Mac,” I said. “Put down that book. Entertain me.” He was reading Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises .
    He put down the book when I spoke to him, recognizing my mood, and looked up at me, smiling. He was a gentleman; a twelve year-old gentleman; he was a gentleman all his life.
    “I get lonesome up there,” I told him. “I picked a lousy profession. If I ever write a novel I think I’ll join a choir or something and run to meetings between chapters.”
    He asked me what he knew I wanted him to ask me. “Vincent, what’s the new story about?”
    “Listen, no kidding Kenneth. It’s terrific. Really,” I said, getting set to convince us both. “It’s called ‘The Bowler.’ It’s about this guy whose wife won’t let him listen to the fights or the hockey matches on the radio at night. No sports. Too noisy. Terrible woman. Won’t ever let the guy read cowboy stories. Bad for his mind. Throws all his cowboy story magazines into the wastebasket.” I watched Kenneth’s face like a writer. “Every Wednesday night is this guy’s night to go bowling. After dinner every Wednesday night he takes his special bowling ball down from a shelf of the closet, puts it in a special little round canvas bag, kisses his wife good-night and goes out. This goes on for eight years. Finally he dies. Every Monday night his wife goes to the cemetery, puts gladioli on his grave. One day she goes on a Wednesday instead of a Monday, and sees some fresh violets on the grave. Can’t imagine who could have put ’em there. She asks the old caretaker, and he says, ‘Oh, that there same lady that comes every Wednesday. His wife, I guess.’
    “   ‘ His wife ?’ screams the wife. ‘ I’m his wife!’ But the old caretaker is a pretty deaf old guy and he isn’t much interested. The woman goes home. Late in the night her neighbors hear the crashing sound of broken glass, but they go on listening to the hockey game on the radio. In the morning, on his way to the office, the neighbor sees a broken window in the next house, and a bowling ball, all dewy, glistening on the front lawn.
    “How do you like it?”
    He hadn’t taken his eyes off my face while I had told him the story.
    “Aw, Vincent,” he said. “Aw, gee.”
    “What’s the matter? That’s a damn good story.”
    “I know you’ll write it swell. But, gee, Vincent!”
    I said to him, “That’s the last story I’m going to read to you, Caulfield. What’s the matter with that story? It’s a masterpiece. I’m writing one masterpiece after another. I never read so many masterpieces by one man.” He knew I was kidding, but he only gave me half a smile because he knew I was blue. I didn’t want any half smiles. “What’s the matter with that story?” I said. “You little stinker. You redhead.”
    “Maybe it could’ve happened, Vincent. But you don’t know that it happened do you? I mean, you just made it up didn’t you?”
    “Sure I made it up! That kind of stuff happens Kenneth.”
    “Sure, Vincent! I believe ya! No kidding, I believe ya,” Kenneth said. But if you’re just making stuff up, why don’t you make up something that’s good. See? If you just made up something good, is what I mean. Good stuff happens. Lots of times. Boy, Vincent! You could be writing about good stuff. You could write