In One Person

turned the color of a clean sheet of unlined paper; the Japanese kid had kept up, for the most part, although both “muff” and “honeypot” had surprised him.
    “Is there a picture of it somewhere, Bill—if not in the encyclopedia?” Larry asked mischievously.
    “Before I forget it, Bill,” Richard Abbott interjected—I could tell Richard was tactfully trying to drop the vagina subject—“what about the Mossberg?”
    “The
what
?” Fumi asked, in a frightened voice; if the
muff
and
honeypot
vulgarisms for
vagina
had thrown him, the Japanese boy had never heard the
Mossberg
word before.
    “What about it?” I asked Richard.
    “Shall we auction it off with the furniture, Bill? You don’t want to keep that old carbine, do you?”
    “I’ll hang on to the Mossberg, Richard,” I told him. “I’ll keep the ammunition, too—if I ever live here, it makes sense to have a varmint gun around.”
    “You’re in town, Billy,” Uncle Bob pointed out, about the River Street house. “You’re not supposed to shoot in town—not even varmints.”
    “Grandpa Harry loved that gun,” I said.
    “He loved his wife’s clothes, too, Billy,” Elaine said. “Are you going to keep her clothes around?”
    “I don’t see you becoming a deer hunter, Bill,” Richard Abbott said. “Even if you
do
decide to live here.” But I wanted that Mossberg .30-30—they could all see that.
    “What do you want a gun for, Bill?” Larry asked me.
    “I know you’re not opposed to
trying
to keep a secret, Billy,” Elaine told me. “You’re just not any good at keeping secrets.”
    Elaine had not kept many secrets from me, but if she had a secret, she knew how to keep it; I could never very successfully keep a secret, even when I wanted to keep one.
    I could see that Elaine knew why I wanted to hang on to that Mossberg .30-30. Larry knew, too; he was looking at me with a hurt expression—as if he were saying (without actually saying it), “How can you conceive of not letting me
take care of you
—how can you
not
die in my arms, if you’re ever dying? How can you even
imagine
sneaking off and shooting yourself, if you get sick?” (That’s what Larry’s look said, without the words.)
    Elaine was giving me the same hurt look as Larry.
    “Whatever you want, Bill,” Richard Abbott said; Richard looked hurt, too—even Mrs. Hadley seemed disappointed in me.
    Only Gerry and Helena had stopped paying attention; they were touching each other under the table. The vagina conversation seemed to have distracted them from what remained of our Thanksgiving dinner. The Korean girls were once more whispering in Korean; the lonely-looking Fumi was writing something down in a notebook not much bigger than the palm of his hand. (Maybe the
Mossberg
word, so he could use it in the next all-male dormitory conversation—such as, “I would really like to get into
her
Mossberg.”)
    “Don’t,” Larry said quietly to me, as I’d earlier said across the table to him.
    “You should see Herm Hoyt while you’re in town, Billy,” Uncle Bob was saying—a welcome change of subject, or so I first imagined. “I know the coach would love to have a word with you.”
    “What about?” I asked Bob, with badly faked indifference, but the Racquet Man was busy; he was pouring himself another beer.
    Robert Fremont, my uncle Bob, was sixty-seven. He was retiring next year, but he’d told me that he would continue to volunteer his services to Alumni Affairs, and particularly continue to contribute to the academy’s alumni magazine,
The River Bulletin
. Whatever one thought of Uncle Bob’s “Cries for Help from the Where-Have-You-Gone? Dept.”—well, what can I say?—his enthusiasm for tracking down the school’s most elusive alums made him very popular with folks in Alumni Affairs.
    “What would Coach Hoyt like to have a word with me about?” I tried asking Uncle Bob again.
    “I think you gotta ask him yourself, Billy,” the ever-genial Racquet Man said. “You know Herm—he can be a kind of protective fella when it comes to talking about his wrestlers.”
    “Oh.”
    Maybe
not
a welcome change of subject, I thought.
    I N ANOTHER TOWN, AT a later time, the Facility—“for assisted living, and beyond”—would probably have been named the Pines, or (in Vermont) the Maples. But you have to remember the place was conceived and constructed by Harry Marshall and Nils Borkman; ironically, neither of them would die there.
    Someone
had