Perhaps, as Joe Carter suggests , J.D. Salinger’s legacy is uncertain. I think better of him than others here seem to, but, regardless, man, could he write. Remember the end of Franny and Zooey ?
I remember about the fifth time I ever went on Wise Child, Zooey tells Franny over the phone.
I subbed for Walt a few times when he was in a castremember when he was in that cast? Anyway, I started bitching one night before the broadcast. Seymourd told me to shine my shoes just as I was going out the door with Waker. I was furious. The studio audience were all morons, the announcer was a moron, the sponsors were morons, and I just damn well wasnt going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I said they couldnt see them anyway, where we sat. He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didnt know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air againall the years you and I were on the pro- gram together, if you remember. I dont think I missed more than just a couple of times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my mind. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio going full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, andI dont know. Anyway, it seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on the air. It made sense.
Franny was standing. She had taken her hand away from her face to hold the phone with two hands. He told me, too, she said into the phone. He told me to be funny for the Fat Lady, once. She released one hand from the phone and placed it, very briefly, on the crown of her head, then went back to holding the phone with both hands. I didnt ever picture her on a porch, but with very-you know-very thick legs, very veiny. I had her in an awful wicker chair. She had cancer, too, though, and she had the radio going full-blast all day! Mine did, too!
Yes. Yes. Yes. All right. Let me tell you something now, buddy . . . .Are you listening?
Franny, looking extremely tense, nodded.
I dont care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, it can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But Ill tell you a terrible secretAre you listening to me? There isnt anyone out there who isnt Seymours Fat Lady. That includes your Professor Tupper, buddy. And all his goddam cousins by the dozens. There isnt anyone anywhere that isnt Seymours Fat Lady. Dont you know that? Dont you know that goddam secret yet? And dont you knowlisten to me, nowdont you know who that Fat Lady really is? . . . Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. Its Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.
For joy, apparently, it was all Franny could do to hold the phone, even with both hands. For a fullish half minute or so, there were no other words, no further speech. Then: I cant talk any more, buddy. The sound of a phone being replaced in its catch followed.
Franny took in her breath slightly but continued to hold the phone to her ear. A dial tone, of course, followed the formal break in the connection. She appeared to find it extraordinarily beautiful to listen to, rather as if it were the best possible substitute for the primordial silence itself. But she seemed to know, too, when to stop listening to it, as if all of what little or much wisdom there is in the world were suddenly hers. When she had replaced the phone, she seemed to know just what to do next, too. She cleared away the smoking things, then drew back the cotton bedspread from the bed she had been sitting on, took off her slippers, and got into the bed. For some minutes, before she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, she just lay quiet, smiling at the ceiling.
If an author today were to publish this passage, wouldn’t we all cheer him as a great witness?