Aberration of Starlight

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Tom Thebus has come to his door and opened it. By the sweet Christ, his moustache doesn’t look half-bad, he don’t look too much like a frog or a pansy floorwalker.

Hello, John. Heard you had a few tall Tom Collins with Sapurty. Ha ha.

Didn’t sit too well with me, Thebus, you know I like my glass of beer. By the way, I thought you’d be teaching that poor little greaser a thing or two about croquet this hour of the day. You can go through the poor unfortunate lump like a dose of salts.

Ha ha. No, no. No need. Your grandson Billy can beat him without half-trying. Easy to see that he’s your grandson. He’s got a good head on his shoulders, that boy.

Marie down there? Sitting in the shade over by the raspberries with her crocheting and making goo-goo eyes at you? And did you have a nice time at Budd Lake this afternoon? Go ahead, go ahead, shake your head, but I know all about it and I’d like an explanation. You know my daughter’s a good Catholic woman, don’t you, young fellow?

Wh-what? What are you talking about, John, you old dog? Marie and … Marie and I? My God! Ha ha ha!

What’s so goddamn funny, Romeo? The minute I laid eyes on you with your excuse for a moustache, jumping up from the porch the day we got here, that pipe stuck in your gob and a fat book under your oxter, I knew you were giving my Marie the once-over. I’m not blind yet.

No need to be abusive to a fellow, old man. I admit, cross my heart, true blue, and as God is my judge, that Marie is attractive and well-bred, a real lady, but to think that I— Oh, it’s just a wow!

A wow? There’s no call for you to mock her, you pup! She has recently gotten over a broken heart, but I suppose you know all about her marriage to that dago greaseball who is the father of that cockeyed boy, God bless the mark. Did she tell you how he shamed her running after that shanty-Irish chippy that called herself his secretary? A wow? I’ll have you know that she’s had her cross to bear.

You can come down from your high horse, John. I have nothing but the greatest respect for your daughter and mockery is not in my line. Scout’s honor.

Respect for her? In a pig’s ass, and you’ll pardon my French.

How long have you known Mrs. Schmidt?

Helga? Oh God, five years, six years, longer. Years. I met her when she first started coming up here, with Otto, God rest his soul. They always came in July then, the first three weeks. What does she have to do with this?

And what do you think of her? Man to man.

She’s warm and wonderful, full of fun. So was Otto. For a Dutchman, he had some real breeding. But you know how those Dutchmen are educated in the old country. But what has this got to do with the price of beans?

Ha ha! I love your colorful and racy way of talking, John. It’s manly, like saloons and free lunch. The reason I inquire about Mrs. Schmidt — may I call her Helga? — is that I’m afraid that I am head over heels in love with her. Ga-ga. The lady was already here when I arrived, as you know, and we had a very charming and fine, a high-minded friendship, our first week together. All good clean fun, like stringing colored popcorn on the Christmas tree when I was a boy back in Illinois. And then, one evening, when Helga was playing the piano and singing “Auf Wiedersehen,” I fell for her like a ton of bricks.

I didn’t know Helga could play the piano.

Oh? Yes, like a regular angel. She … oh, ha ha! John, you are a great kidder! Didn’t know! Anyhow, I was smitten. The next day we were out blackberrying down below the meadow where Stellkamp throws the chickens that die of disease? and I told her: Mrs. Schmidt, Helga, I said, I must tell you that your person, your smile, your bewitching European accent, your strapping figure and deep bosom — if I may use such a word in your presence — have made, I said, a deep impression on me and I would very much like to have the honor of paying you attendance while we sojourn here.

My God! Helga? You and Helga? Not you and Marie? Who also plays and sings, you know, “Auf Wiedersehen.”

Yes, me and Mrs. Schmidt, Helga and I. However, ah … unfortunately …

You are not her dish.

You’ve hit the nail on the head, old man. In a manner of speaking, she thinks I’m just a patch on a man’s ass. When I unburdened myself to the lady, she smiled and blushed and said: Ja, jawohl, but Chon McGrath und hiss family, dey iss comink up here next veek, und Chon, Mr. McGrath, he iss mein dream, ja? To see her blush drove me half-wild, I don’t mind admitting it.

Me? Helga Schmidt? By God, Thebus, that’s just the way she talks, too. You should be on Major Bowes. But … me? Don’t make me laugh!

That is it in a nutshell, old fellow, believe it or not. My attentions to your daughter are a poor way of making Helga jealous. Just my luck, it’s not working. Just yesterday, Helga told me that she prays to “Gott” every night that you will eat steamers and polka the night away with her this Saturday at the Warren House. She is mad about you, sir. She is even hoping, if I am any judge of women, for a proposal.

You are giving me this straight from the shoulder, Thebus. Really? Be square with me now!

I swear by all that is holy to me, by my father’s insurance business back in Illinois. I have no intentions of any kind toward your daughter outside of friendship, although she is an attractive and well-bred young lady, as I have already said.

She is not so “young.” Look at the bathing suit she wears.

I had wondered about that …

Well. Hmm. Helga thinks that, you say, she and I …?

Exactly. That is straight from the horse’s mouth. And now, I think I’ve overstayed my welcome. I have to go and beat poor Ralph to a frazzle.

Thank — thank … you, Thebus. I’m sorry if I misjudged you. Ha ha! Don’t concern yourself an iota, John. I have nothing but the highest respect for you wanting to protect your daughter. You are a lucky lucky man. O.K., I’d better take a powder. Toodle-oo. Thanks again. Tom.