Nine Stories: "Teddy" by J.D. Salinger

His head was propped up just enough to rest uncomfortably, almost masochistically, against the very base of the headboard.

He was wearing extremely dirty, white ankle-sneakers, no socks, seersucker shorts that were both too long for him and at least a size too large in the seat, an overly laundered T shirt that had a hole the size of a dime in the right shoulder, and an incongruously handsome, black alligator belt.

He needed a haircut—especially at the nape of the neck—the worst way, as only a small boy with an almost full-grown head and a reedlike neck can need one.

Teddy was not leaning out of the porthole quite so far or so precariously as small boys are apt to lean out of open portholes—both his feet, in fact, were flat on the surface of the Gladstone—but neither was he just conservatively well-tipped; his face was considerably more outside than inside the cabin.

Teddy was not leaning out of the porthole quite so far or so precariously as small boys are apt to lean out of open portholes—both his feet, in fact, were flat on the surface of the Gladstone—but neither was he just conservatively well-tipped; his face was considerably more outside than inside the cabin.

Mr. McArdle played leading roles on no fewer than three daytime radio serials when he was in New York, and he had what might be called a third-class leading man’s speaking voice: narcissistically deep and resonant, functionally prepared at a moment’s notice to out-male anyone in the same room with it, if necessary even a small boy.

Mr. McArdle played leading roles on no fewer than three daytime radio serials when he was in New York, and he had what might be called a third-class leading man’s speaking voice: narcissistically deep and resonant, functionally prepared at a moment’s notice to out-male anyone in the same room with it, if necessary even a small boy.

“You’re so goddam funny it isn’t even funny,” Mr. McArdle said, lying inertly on his back again.

Each of his phrasings was rather like a little ancient island, inundated by a miniature sea of whiskey.

He turned his head toward Teddy. “Get down from there, now. Go get your self a haircut or something.” He looked at the back of his wife’s head again. “He looks precocious, for God’s sake.”

“Go find Booper for me. Where is she? I don’t want her lolling around in that sun again today, with that bum.”

I’m not going to have a six-year-old child gallivanting all over—

Finished tying his sneaker lace, Teddy perfunctorily gave his mother a kiss on the cheek.

Teddy picked it up and began to read it as he started slowly aft down the long passageway.

At the Main Deck landing, he went directly over to the Purser’s desk, where a good-looking girl in naval uniform was presiding at the moment.

“I knew you were an ensign,” he said.

Below the Sports Deck, on the broad, after end of the Sun Deck, uncompromisingly alfresco, were some seventy-five or more deck chairs, set up and aligned seven or eight rows deep, with aisles just wide enough for the deck steward to use without unavoidably tripping over the sunning passengers’ paraphernalia—knitting bags, dust-jacketed novels, bottles of sun-tan lotion, cameras.

Below the Sports Deck, on the broad, after end of the Sun Deck, uncompromisingly alfresco, were some seventy-five or more deck chairs, set up and aligned seven or eight rows deep, with aisles just wide enough for the deck steward to use without unavoidably tripping over the sunning passengers’ paraphernalia—knitting bags, dust-jacketed novels, bottles of sun-tan lotion, cameras.

He started at the rearmost row and moved methodically, from row to row, stopping at each chair, whether or not it was occupied, to read the name placard on its arm.

He started at the rearmost row and moved methodically, from row to row, stopping at each chair, whether or not it was occupied, to read the name placard on its arm.

Only one or two of the reclining passengers spoke to him-—that is, made any of the commonplace pleasantries adults are sometimes prone to make to a ten-year-old boy who is single-mindedly looking for the chair that belongs to him.

His youngness and single-mindedness were obvious enough, but perhaps his general demeanor altogether lacked, or had too little of, that sort of cute solemnity that many adults readily speak up, or down, to.

His youngness and single-mindedness were obvious enough, but perhaps his general demeanor altogether lacked, or had too little of, that sort of cute solemnity that many adults readily speak up, or down, to.

With the exception of a very few pencil notations, the entries in the notebook had apparently all been made with a bail-point pen.

Write condolence letter to Dr. Wokawara about his nephritis. Get his new address from mother.

He stood for a moment, still looking in Teddy’s direction, then walked away, out of sight. Not a minute later, though, he turned up, obtrusively vertical, among the deck-chair ranks.

He directly started to make his way down-aisle toward Teddy’s chair, casting distracting little shadows over the pages of people’s novels and stepping rather uninhibitedly (considering that his was the only standing, moving figure in sight) over knitting bags and other personal effects.

Teddy seemed oblivious of the fact that someone was standing at the foot of his chair—or, for that matter, casting a shadow over his notebook.

The young man had a kind of poise about him, though, that looked as though it might hold up indefinitely, with the very small proviso that he keep at least one hand in one pocket.

The chairs were placed so close together that the arms touched. “That’s sacrilege,” he said. “Absolute sacrilege.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve been known to take a perfectly normal rainy day as a personal insult. So this is absolute manna to me.”

Though his speaking voice was, in the usual connotation, well bred, it carried considerably more than adequately, as though he had some sort of understanding with himself that anything he had to say would sound pretty much all right—intelligent, literate, even amusing or stimulating—either from Teddy’s vantage point or from that of the people in the row behind, if they were listening.

“‘Nothing in the voice of the cicada intimates how soon it will die,’” Teddy said suddenly.

“‘Nothing in the voice of the cicada intimates how soon it will die,’” Teddy said suddenly.

“I understand you left a pretty disturbed bunch of pedants up at Boston,” Nicholson said, watching him.

“You love God, don’t you?” Nicholson asked, with a little excess of quietness. "Isn’t that your forte, so to speak?”

“I have a very strong affinity for them. They’re my parents, I mean, and we’re all part of each other’s harmony and everything,” Teddy said.

“As I understand it,” he said, sitting back, “you hold pretty firmly to the Vedantic theory of reincarnation.”

He smiled, and gently raised the flats of his hands, in a sort of ironic benediction.

“From what I gather, you’ve acquired certain information, through meditation, that’s given you some conviction that in your last incarnation you were a holy man in India, but more or less fell from Grace—”
“I wasn’t a holy man,” Teddy said.

“I think that smacks of the worst kind of sophistry, frankly,” he said, exhaling smoke.

“You’re just being logical,” Teddy said to him impassively.

“If you’d rather not discuss this, you don’t have to,” Nicholson said abruptly, and rather brusquely.

He sat down, tentatively, on the extended leg attachment of his chair, facing Nicholson, and tucked in his T shirt.

“There’s no risk you’d be raising a little generation of ignoramuses?”