"All right, we won't talk."
And he started telling the story of what he did in LA on the way over in every possible detail, how he visited a family, had dinner, talked to the father, the sons, the sisters – what they looked like, what they ate, their furnishings, their thoughts, their interests, their very souls; it took him three hours of detailed elucidation, and having concluded this he said,
"Ah, but you see what I wanted to REALLY tell you – much later – Arkansas, crossing on train – playing flute – play cards with boys, my dirty deck – won money, blew sweet-potato solo – for sailors.
Long long awful trip five days and five nights just to SEE you, Sal."
"What about Camille?"
"Gave permission of course – waiting for me.
Camille and I all straight forever-and-ever… "
"And Inez?"
"I – I – I want her to come back to Frisco with me live other side of town – don't you think?
Don't know why I came."
Later he said in a sudden moment of gaping wonder,
"Well and yes, of course, I wanted to see your sweet girl and you – glad of you – love you as ever."
He stayed in New York three days and hastily made preparations to get back on the train with his railroad passes and again recross the continent, five days and five nights in dusty coaches and hard-bench crummies, and of course we had no money for a truck and couldn't go back with him.
With Inez he spent one night explaining and sweating and fighting, and she threw him out.
A letter came for him, care of me.
I saw it.
It was from Camille.
"My heart broke when I saw you go across the tracks with your bag.
I pray and pray you get back safe… I do want Sal and his friend to come and live on the same street… I know you'll make it but I can't help worrying – now that we've decided everything… Dear Dean, it's the end of the first half of the century.
Welcome with love and kisses to spend the other half with us.
We all wait for you. [Signed] Camille, Amy, and Little Joanie."
So Dean's life was settled with his most constant, most embittered, and best-knowing wife Camille, and I thanked God for him.
The last time I saw him it was under sad and strange circumstances.
Remi Boncœur had arrived in New York after having gone around the world several times in ships.
I wanted him to meet and know Dean.
They did meet, but Dean couldn't talk any more and said nothing, and Remi turned away.
Remi had gotten tickets for the Duke Ellington concert at the Metropolitan Opera and insisted Laura and I come with him and his girl.
Remi was fat and sad now but still the eager and formal gentleman, and he wanted to do things the right way, as he emphasized.
So he got his bookie to drive us to the concert in a Cadillac.
It was a cold winter night.
The Cadillac was parked and ready to go.
Dean stood outside the windows with his bag, ready to go to Penn Station and on across the land.
"Good-by, Dean," I said.
"I sure wish I didn't have to go to the concert."
"D'you think I can ride to Fortieth Street with you?" he whispered.
"Want to be with you as much as possible, m'boy, and besides it's so durned cold in this here New Yawk… " I whispered to Remi.
No, he wouldn't have it, he liked me but he didn't like my idiot friends.
I wasn't going to start all over again ruining his planned evenings as I had done at Alfred's in San Francisco in 1947 with Roland Major.
"Absolutely out of the question, Sal!"
Poor Remi, he had a special necktie made for this evening; on it was painted a replica of the concert tickets, and the names Sal and Laura and Remi and Vicki, the girl, together with a series of sad jokes and some of his favorite sayings such as
"You can't teach the old maestro a new tune."
So Dean couldn't ride uptown with us and the only thing I could do was sit in the back of the Cadillac and wave at him.
The bookie at the wheel also wanted nothing to do with Dean.
Dean, ragged in a moth-eaten overcoat he brought specially for the freezing temperatures of the East, walked off alone, and the last I saw of him he rounded the corner of Seventh Avenue, eyes on the street ahead, and bent to it again.
Poor little Laura, my baby, to whom I'd told everything about Dean, began almost to cry.
"Oh, we shouldn't let him go like this.
What'll we do?"
Old Dean's gone, I thought, and out loud I said,
"He'll be all right."
And off we went to the sad and disinclined concert for which I had no stomach whatever and all the time I was thinking of Dean and how he got back on the train and rode over three thousand miles over that awful land and never knew why he had come anyway, except to see me.