when an alky blacks out, he keeps doing things. An alky in a blackout is a busy little devil. Sort of like a malign Fornit. He’ll call up his ex-wife and abuse her over the phone, or drive his car the wrong way on the turnpike and wipe out a carload of kids. He’ll quit his job, rob a market, give away his wedding ring. Busy little devils.
“What / had done, apparently, was to come home and write a letter. Only this one wasn’t to Reg. It was to me. And / didn’t write it — at least, according to the letter I didn’t.”
“Who did?” the writer’s wife asked.
“Bellis.”
“Who’s Bellis?”
“His Fornit,” the writer said almost absently. His eyes were shadowy and faraway.
“Yes, that’s right,” die editor said, not looking a bit surprised. He made the letter in the sweet night air for them again, indenting at the proper points with his finger.
” ‘Hello from Bellis. I am sorry for your problems, my friend, but would like to point out at the start that ypu are not the only one with problems. This is no easy job for me. I can dust your damned machine with fornus from now unto forever, but moving the KEYS is supposed to be your job. That’s what God made big people FOR. So I sympathize, but that’s all of the sympathy you get.
” ‘I understand your worry about Reg Thorpe. I worry not about Thorpe but my brother, Rackne. Thorpe worries about what will happen to him if Rackne leaves, but only because he is selfish. The curse of serving writers is that they are all selfish. He worries not about what will happen to Rackne if THORPE leaves. Or goes el bonzo seco. Those things have apparently never crossed his oh-so-sensitive mind. But, luckily for us, all our unfortunate problems have the same short-term solution, and so I strain my arms and my tiny body to give it to you, my drunken friend. YOU may wonder about long-term solutions; I assure you there are none. All wounds are mortal. Take what’s given. You sometimes get a little slack in the rope but the rope always has an end. So what. Bless the slack and don’t waste breath cursing the drop. A grateful heart knows that in the end we all swing.
” ‘You must pay him for the story yourself. But not with a personal check. Thorpe’s mental problems are severe and perhaps dangerous but this in no way indicates stupidity.’ ”
The editor stopped here and spelled: S-t-u-p-i-d-d-i-t-y. Then he went on. ” ‘If you give him a personal check he’ll crack wise in about nine seconds.
” ‘Withdraw eight hundred and some few-odd dollars from your personal account and have your bank open a new account for you in the name Arvin Publishing, Inc. Make sure they understand you want checks that look businesslike — nothing with cute dogs or canyon vistas on them. Find a friend, someone you can trust, and list him as co-drawer. When the checks arrive, make one for eight hundred dollars and have the co-drawer sign the check. Send the check to Reg Thorpe. That will cover your ass for the time being.
” ‘Over and out.’ It was signed ‘Bellis.’ Not in holograph. In type.”
“Whew,” the writer said again.
“When I got up the first thing I noticed was the typewriter. It looked like somebody had made it up as a ghost-typewriter in a cheap movie. The day before it was an old black office Underwood. When I got up — with a head that felt about the size of North Dakota — it was a sort of gray. The last few sentences of the letter were clumped up and faded. I took one look and figured my faithful old Underwood was probably finished. I took a
taste and went out into the kitchen. There was an open bag of confectioner’s sugar on the counter with a scoop in it. There was confectioner’s sugar everywhere between the kitchen and the little den where I did my work in those days.”
“Feeding your Fornit,” the writer said. “Bellis had a sweet tooth. You thought so, anyway.”