“[…] 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—”
“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 […] —Why? Does he want it?”
“[…] He wanted to know if it’d read it.”
“It was in German!”
“[…] 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.”
“[…] 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.”
“[…] he asked me if Seymour’s been sick or something, So I said—”
“Why’d he ask that?”
“I don’t know, Mother. I guess because he’s so pale and all,” said the girl. “Anyway, […] His wife was horrible. You remember that awful dinner dress you saw in Bonwit’s window? The one you said you’d have to have a tiny, tiny—”
“The green?”
“She had it on. And all hips. […]”
“What’d he say though? The doctor.”
“Oh. Well, nothing much, really. I mean we were in the bar and all. It was terribly noisy.”
“Sharon Lipschutz said you let her sit on the piano seat with you,” Sybil said.
“Sharon Lipschutz said that?”
Sybil nodded vigorously.
[…] “Well,” he said, “you know how those things happen, Sybil. I was sitting there, playing. And you were nowhere in sight. And Shorn Lipschutz came over and sat down next to me. I couldn’t push her off, could I?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, no. No. I couldn’t do that […] I’ll tell you what I did do, though.”
“What?”
“I pretended she was you.”
“Where do you live, anyway?”
“I don’t know, said Sybil.”
“Sure you know. You must know. Sharon Lipschutz knows where she lives and she’s only three and a half.”
Sybil stopped walking and yanked her hand away from him. She picked up an ordinary beach shell and looked at it with elaborate interest. She threw it down. “Whirly Wood, Connecticut,” she said […].
“Whirly Wood, Connecticut,” said the young man. “Is that anywhere near Whirly Wood, Connecticut, by any chance?”
Sybil looked at him. “That’s where I live,” she said impatiently. “I live in Whirly Wood, Connecticut.” […]
“You have no idea how clear that makes everything,” the young man said.
“Do you like wax?” Sybil asked.
“Do I like what?” asked the young man.
“Wax.”
“Very much. Don’t you?”
Sybil nodded. “Do you like olives?” she asked.
“Olives—yes. Olives and wax. I never go anyplace without ‘em.”
[…]
“I like to chew candles,” she said finally.
“Who doesn’t?” said the young man […].
“Their habits are very peculiar. Very peculiar. […] They lead a very tragic life.”
[…] “I just saw one.”
“Saw what, my love?”
“A bananafish.”
“My God, no!” said the young man. “Did he have any bananas in his mouth?”
“Yes,” Said Sybil. “Six.”
The young man suddenly picked up one of Sybil’s wet feet, which were drooping over the end of the float, and kissed the arch.
“Hey!” said the owner of the foot, turning around.
“Hey, yourself! We’re going in now. You had enough?”
“No!”
“Sorry,” he said, and pushed the float toward shore […].
“I said I see you’re looking at my feet.”
“I beg your pardon. I happened to be looking at the floor,” said the woman, and faced the doors of the car.
“If you want to look at my feet, say so,” said the young man. “But don’t be a God-damned sneak about it.”
“Let me out here, please,” the woman said quickly to the girl operating the car.
The car doors opened and the woman got out without looking back.
“I have two normal feet and I can’t see the slightest God-damned reason why anybody should stare at them,” said the young man.
The room smelled of new calfskin luggage and nail-lacquer remover.
He glanced at the girl lying asleep on one of the ten beds. Then he went over to one of the pieces of luggage, opened it, and from under a pile of shorts and undershirts he took out an Ortgies caliber 7.65 automatic. […] He cocked the piece. Then he went over and sat down on the unoccupied twin bed, looked at the girl, aimed the pistol, and fired a bullet through his right temple.
