Carefully he placed the object between the beer keg and the statuette.
It was a simple wooden cross. Around the arms and shaft, twisted tightly
and biting deeply into the wood, was a thorny withe. "God all mighty,
Nick," Anderson said mournfully, "you didn't have to hide it. Nobody'd
have minded."
"Well?" he roared suddenly at the blackness, "what are you waiting for?
Am I in your way? Have I done anything to stop you? Come on, come on!"
His voice rebounded from the remaining bulkhead, but was noticeably
swallowed up in the absorbent blackness. He waited until its last
reverberations had died, and then until its memory was hard to fix. He
pounded futilely at the couch cushions, glared all about in a swift,
intense, animal way. Then he relaxed, bent down and fumbled for the
alcohol bottle. "What's the matter with you, out there?" he demanded
quietly. "You waiting for me to sober up? You want me to be myself
before you fix me up? You want to know something? _In vino veritas_,
that's what. You don't have to wait for me, kiddies. I'm a hell of a lot
more me right now than I will be after I get over this." He took the
figurine and replaced it on the other side of the keg. "Tha's right,
Johnny. Get over on the other side of ol' Beer-belly there. Make room
for the old man." To the blackness he said, "Look, I got neat habits,
don't leave me on no deck, hear? Rack me up alongside the boys. What is
it I'm going to be? Oh yeah. A coat of arms. Hey, I forgot the motto.
All righty: this is my motto. '_Sic itur ad astra_'--that is to say,
'This is the way to the men's room.'"
Somewhere a baby cried.
Anderson threw his forearm over his eyes.
Someone went "Shh!" but the baby went right on crying.