The Plastic Age · Chapter 6 (2/2)

“You kissed her,” Carl concluded for him. “I don’t know how I knew, but I did. You’re just kinda pure; that’s all. I’m not pure at all; I’m just a little afraid⁠—and I keep thinkin’ of my old lady. I’ve started to several times, but I’ve always thought of her and quit.”

He sat silent for a minute or two and then continued more gently. “My old lady never came to Kane. She never will come here, either. She wants to give me a real chance. See? She knows she isn’t a lady⁠—but⁠—but, oh, God, Hugh, she’s white, white as hell. I guess I think more of her than all the rest of the world put together. That’s why I write to her every night. She writes to me every day, too. The letters have mistakes in them, but⁠—but they keep me straight. That is, they have so far. I know, though, that some night I’ll be out with a bag and get too much liquor in me⁠—and then goodbye, virginity.”

“You’re crazy, Carl. You know you won’t.” Carl rose from the chair and stretched hugely. “You’re a good egg, Hugh,” he said in the midst of a yawn, “but you’re a damn fool.”

Hugh started. That was just what he had said to Morse.

He never caught Carl in a confidential mood again. The next morning he was his old flippant self, swearing because he had to study his Latin, which wasn’t “of any damned use to anybody.”

In the following weeks Hugh religiously clung to Morse, helped him with his work, went to the movies with him, inveigled him into going on several long walks. Morse was more cheerful and almost pathetically grateful. One day, however, Hugh found an unstamped letter on the floor. He opened it wonderingly.

Dear Hugh [he read]. You’ve been awfully good to me but I can’t stand it. I’m going home today. Give my regards to Peters. Thanks for all you’ve done for me.