Part 2 (1/2)

He staggered back a step, his face working in horror. ”What kind of an idea is that for my own wife to have?” he croaked. ”Beer I have to drink instead of water. How can I stand it? Do you think I like beer? I can't wash myself. Already people don't like to stand near me; and how will they act at the end of the season? I go around looking like a b.u.m because my beard is too tough for an electric razor, and I'm all the time drunk-the first Greenberg to be a drunkard. I want to be respected-”

”I know, Herman, darling,” she sighed. ”But I thought for the sake of our Rosie- Such a business we've never done like we did this week end. If it rains every Sat.u.r.day and Sunday, but not on our concession, we'll make a fortune!”

”Esther!” Herman cried, shocked. ”Doesn't my health mean anything?”

”Of course, darling. Only I thought maybe you could stand it for-”

He s.n.a.t.c.hed his hat, tie, and jacket, and slammed the door. Outside, though, he stood indeterminedly. He could hear his wife crying, and he realized that, if he succeeded in getting the gnome to remove the curse, he would forfeit an opportunity to make a great deal of money.

He finished dressing more slowly. Esther was right, to a certain extent. If he could tolerate his waterless condition ”No!” he gritted decisively. ”Already my friends avoid me. It isn't right that a respectable man like me should always be drunk and not take a bath. So we'll make less money. Money isn't everything-”

And with great determination he went to the lake.

But that evening, before going home, Mike walked out of his way to stop in at the concession. He found Greenberg sitting on a chair, his head in his hands, and his body rocking slowly in anguish.

”What is it, Mr. Greenberg?” he asked gently.

Greenberg looked up. His eyes were dazed. ”Oh, you, Mike,” he said blankly. Then his gaze cleared, grew more intelligent, and he stood up and led Mike to the bar. Silently, they drank beer. ”I went to the lake today,” he said hollowly. ”I walked all around it hollering like mad. The gnome didn't stick his head out of the water once.”

”I know,” Mike nodded sadly. ”They're busy all the time.”

Greenberg spread his hands imploringly. ”So what can I do? I can't write him a letter or send him a telegram; he ain't got a door to knock on or a bell for me to ring. How do I get him to come up and talk?”

His shoulders sagged. ”Here, Mike. Have a cigar. You been a real good friend, but I guess we're licked.”

They stood in an awkward silence. Finally Mike blurted: ”Real hot, today. A regular scorcher.”

”Yeah. Esther says business was pretty good, if it keeps up.”

Mike fumbled at the Cellophane wrapper. Greenberg said: ”Anyhow, suppose I did talk to the gnome. What about the sugar?”

The silence dragged itself out, became tense and uncomfortable. Mike was distinctly embarra.s.sed. His brusque nature was not adapted for comforting discouraged friends. With immense concentration he rolled the cigar between his fingers and listened for a rustle.

”Day like this's h.e.l.l on cigars,” he mumbled, for the sake of conversation. ”Dries them like n.o.body's business. This one ain't, though.”

”Yeah,” Greenberg said abstractedly. ”Cellophane keeps them-”

They looked suddenly at each other, their faces clean of expression.

”Holy smoke!” Mike yelled.

”Cellophane on sugar!” Greenberg choked out.

”Yeah,” Mike whispered in awe. ”I'll switch my day off with Joe, and I'll go to the lake with you tomorrow. I'll call for you early.”

Greenberg pressed his hand, too strangled by emotion for speech. When Esther came to relieve him, he left her at the concession with only the inexperienced griddle boy to a.s.sist her, while he searched the village for cubes of sugar wrapped in Cellophane.

The sun had scarcely risen when Mike reached the hotel, but Greenberg had long been dressed and stood on the porch waiting impatiently. Mike was genuinely anxious for his friend. Greenberg staggered along toward the station, his eyes almost crossed with the pain of a terrific hangover.

They stopped at a cafeteria for breakfast. Mike ordered orange juice, bacon and eggs, and coffee half-and-half. When he heard the order, Greenberg had to gag down a lump in his throat.

”What'll you have?” the counterman asked.

Greenberg flushed. ”Beer,” he said hoa.r.s.ely.

”You kidding me?” Greenberg shook his head, unable to speak. ”Want anything with it? Cereal, pie, toast-”

”Just beer.” And he forced himself to swallow it. ”So help me,” he hissed at Mike, ”another beer for breakfast will kill me!”

”I know how it is,” Mike said around a mouthful of food.

On the train they attempted to make plans. But they were faced by a phenomenon that neither had encountered before, and so they got nowhere. They walked glumly to the lake, fully aware that they would have to employ the empirical method of discarding tactics that did not work.

”How about a boat?” Mike suggested.

”It won't stay in the water with me in it. And you can't row it.”

”Well, what'll we do then?”