Free The Laughing Matter by William Saroyan Page A

turned himself loose and soon passed her. He saw the others in the yard, standing by the pump, talking, and ran to the tree. After he got there he didn’t stop and go to the others, though, or wait for the arrival of Flora. He went right on running. He heard Fanny shout after him, “Hey, Red, where you going?” He ran through the vineyard until he was too tired to run any more, then began to walk. When he was far away, when he’d reached the row of pomegranate and olive trees, he stopped, to be alone.
    He tore a small red pomegranate from a branch and threw it with all his might against the trunk of the tree, where it smashed.
    â€œGod damn you, Papa!” he said. “God damn you, Mama! God damn both of you!”

Chapter 16
    They were four together, two men and two women, sitting and standing on the front porch, getting straight what each of them would have to drink, getting used to the nearness of one another, to the strangeness of their being together to talk and drink and pass the time, but after five or ten minutes the men were standing together on the lawn and the women were sitting together on the porch. They were still in sight of one another but they could no longer hear one another. At the very beginning, while the children had still been around, there had been smiles, glances ofunderstanding and kindness, and a moment later laughter, even.
    The first to laugh was Evan Nazarenus.
    The middle Walz girl had said quite loudly to the fathers and mothers, “You children play in the front yard, us children will play in the back.”
    Evan had laughed and, speaking to May Walz, had said, “Which one’s
she?”
    May Walz had waved affectionately at the thought of the one Fanny was and she’d said with warmth—not for Fanny, but for Evan and Swan, “God knows, though her name’s Fanny.” These words, meaning so little in themselves, were enormously meaningful to Swan, who, only a moment before, had felt that she would not be able to look at Warren and May, not be able to talk, not be able to move, even.
    â€œShe’s a lovely child,” Swan had said. She’d turned to Warren Walz, not actually looking at him, though. “You must be very proud of your daughters.”
    Warren Walz, not looking at his wife, had said, almost laughing, “They are
daughters
, though. Still, I suppose we’ll have a son someday.”
    â€œMartini, Scotch, bourbon?” Evan had said. “I’m having Scotch.”
    After that it had been as if nothing was wrong in the world, nothing had ever been wrong, nothing ever
would
be.
    Evan and Swan had had showers and had put on fresh clothing, and so had Warren and May. They had soaped their bodies. The warm water had washed away the soap,the perspiration, the dirt, and for a moment the doubt, the anger, the rage, the shame, the despair.
    It was late afternoon of a hot day. It would soon be evening, the best time of all. Everything would cool down, quiet down and darken, and there would be an hour or more of twilight, the sky red where the sun had been.
    They would meet with these people—these strangers—each husband and wife would meet with these strangers and they would be kind to one another. They would be glad to see one another. Their voices would become alive for one another. They would remember, each of them alone, good things, and, remembering, be glad for having known them. They would be amusing, sympathetic, thoughtful, witty. They would drink, and then drink again. They might even laugh. One of them might hit upon something to say to make all the others laugh. They might laugh so hard as to become a little embarrassed. The twilight itself might be the thing to start them laughing. The red of the sky, the quietude of the vineyard, the sudden memory of their children playing in the back yard, the memory of the enormous charity and kindness and concern of their children for them, even the memory of