Free Welcome to the Monkey House: The Special Edition by Gregory D. Sumner Kurt Vonnegut Page A

she said, “and many, many, many things are probably bad too. But that isn’t any of your business. I love Henry, and I don’t have to argue his merits with you!”
    “Sorry,” said Newt.
    “Honestly!” said Catharine.
    Newt kissed her again. He kissed her again because she wanted him to.
    ·    ·    ·
    They were now in a large orchard.
    “How did we get so far from home, Newt?” said Catharine.
    “One foot in front of the other—through leaves, over bridges,” said Newt.
    “They add up—the steps,” she said.
    Bells rang in the tower of the school for the blind nearby.
    “School for the blind,” said Newt.
    “School for the blind,” said Catharine. She shook her head in drowsy wonder. “I’ve got to go back now,” she said.
    “Say good-by,” said Newt.
    “Every time I do,” said Catharine, “I seem to get kissed.”
    Newt sat down on the close-cropped grass under an apple tree. “Sit down,” he said.
    “No,” she said.
    “I won’t touch you,” he said.
    “I don’t believe you,” she said.
    She sat down under another tree, twenty feet away from him. She closed her eyes.
    “Dream of Henry Stewart Chasens,” he said.
    “What?” she said.
    “Dream of your wonderful husband-to-be,” he said.
    “All right, I will,” she said. She closed her eyes tighter, caught glimpses of her husband-to-be.
    Newt yawned.
    The bees were humming in the trees, and Catharine almost fell asleep. When she opened her eyes she saw that Newt really was asleep.
    He began to snore softly.
    Catharine let Newt sleep for an hour, and while he slept she adored him with all her heart.
    The shadows of the apple trees grew to the east. The bells in the tower of the school for the blind rang again.
    “Chick-a-dee-dee-dee,”
went a chickadee.
    Somewhere far away an automobile starter nagged and failed, nagged and failed, fell still.
    Catharine came out from under her tree, knelt by Newt.
    “Newt?” she said.
    “H’m?” he said. He opened his eyes.
    “Late,” she said.
    “Hello, Catharine,” he said.
    “Hello, Newt,” she said.
    “I love you,” he said.
    “I know,” she said.
    “Too late,” he said.
    “Too late,” she said.
    He stood, stretched groaningly. “A very nice walk,” he said.
    “I thought so,” she said.
    “Part company here?” he said.
    “Where will you go?” she said.
    “Hitch into town, turn myself in,” he said.
    “Good luck,” she said.
    “You, too,” he said. “Marry me, Catharine?”
    “No,” she said.
    He smiled, stared at her hard for a moment, then walked away quickly.
    Catharine watched him grow smaller in the long perspective of shadows and trees, knew that if he stopped and turned now, if he called to her, she would run to him. She would have no choice.
    Newt did stop. He did turn. He did call. “Catharine,” he called.
    She ran to him, put her arms around him, could not speak.
    (1960)

       THE FOSTER PORTFOLIO
    I ’M A SALESMAN of good advice for rich people. I’m a contact man for an investment counseling firm. It’s a living, but not a whale of a one—or at least not now, when I’m just starting out. To qualify for the job, I had to buy a Homburg, a navy-blue overcoat; a double-breasted banker’s gray suit, black shoes, a regimental-stripe tie, half a dozen white shirts, half a dozen pairs of black socks and gray gloves.
    When I call on a client, I come by cab, and I am sleek and clean and foursquare. I carry myself as though I’ve made a quiet killing on the stock market, and have come to call more as a public service than anything else. When I arrive in clean wool, with crackling certificates and confidential stock analyses in crisp Manila folders, the reaction—ideally and usually—is the same accorded a minister or physician. I am in charge, and everything is going to be just fine.
    I deal mostly with old ladies—the meek, who by dint of cast-iron constitutions have inherited sizable portions of the earth. I thumb through