Had I a Hundred Mouths by William Goyen Read Free Book Online

Haverton was having a downward plunge to—I don’t know what to call it. It began in the Fall, lasted most of the season, Easter saw it over and Esther at Greenfarm.
    Well, she always bent the old elbow a lot —who doesn’t? But I mean lots when the onset of this started—whatever it is—coming last Fall (now, looking back, we know). Starting at 11 A.M . , onze heures , that bejeweled hand went right for the Vodka Martini with a deadly grip, oh my dear!
    Why didn’t somebody stop her? But how could they know? That she was on her way to— this? Anyway, what would things have been like if we’d stopped Esther? Dreary. Morbid. Too glum to think about. But once Esther Haverton started, you just couldn’t stop her. A whole party stopped for her . She was a real entertainer, you know; a natural performer. Oh she danced and she switched her bottom and just made everyone roar with laughter. She was here, there and everywhere, like a bird in a room. If she fell, she was up on her feet before you could help her up; and not one scratch! She was at all the parties, no one could wait until she got there and when she got there they wished she hadn’t come, within ten minutes. There were some who cursed her and accused her of insulting them, including the very host and hostess, who were finally upon each other like dog and cat. Because of Esther! She caused it, turned the closest friends and most devoted lovers upon each other. And how had she done it? No one could guess, could even notice signs of rupture—until suddenly there were these two intimates at each other’s throat.
    Nevertheless, when Esther left, all followed. The night was young! Into a restaurant, which Esther at once commanded. She was at the waiters as if they had done something personal to her, and they had only asked for her order; called them names of rankest insult, which somehow prompted all her friends to beat on the table, stomp, the floor with delight, screaming “Esther!”; and even the waiters liked it.
    What made Esther? Well, she had the laugh of all times, to begin with. It was so verbal . The things that laugh said! Then she just plain had the face for it: a huggable face, sweet-featured, like somebody feeding a baby—so sentimental but with the chic-est hairdo over it my dear, to let you know she meant business. What wrong could a face like that do? Until those lips started curling. They were preparing to emit foul cries, oh my dear! She had a body that rivaled the best, curving tight in various simple but exclusive creations—by somebody she had on West 55th Street, a personal designer—and topped off by a real pair of breasts. That I envied, considering my personal limitations. Still, as I told her, I come from a line of humble-breasted women of the Midwest. Never tell Esther Haverton anything. She’ll use it back on you literally as if she’d memorized it, at the most unscrupulous time. Why did she have to be so unscrupulous? But she was gay-hearted and didn’t mean it, I guess. Besides, as we know now, she was losing her poor—marbles? More coffee, please. I love this coffee shop. Never heard of Irish coffee in here , thank God! Black’s best, anyway.
    Thirdly, Esther had the carelessness for it! Why she didn’t give a hoot. Why should she? She had all the money in the world. She just sawed her wood, and let it fall where it would, to use an old Midwestern expression. Still, nobody could care that little. I think the pills did it—made her tell the world to go peddle its apples. Sawed a lot of timber those pills—whatever they were—some were of colors not even in the rainbow. I got flashes of them when she opened her bag, glowing like a Tiffany lamp, my dear. Yet I never saw her take one as long as I went around with her. End with a dimpled shoulder, and a behind that went with her and not against her—you know, not fighting her—and there