He opened the door and said, tentatively, “Peanuts.”
He always spoke in a more confident tone of the candy than of the peanuts. There was no good reason for his confidence in either.
“Tobin,” I said, “you don't want a monument?”
He kicked his feet together and murmured again, “Peanuts.”
His shoes were cracked at the sides. The cracks were full of snow.
The remark seemed to imply that he did not expect a monument, having no confidence in his peanuts. As a rule they were soggy and half-baked.
Tobin's life, I thought, was too full of the flux of things; candy melted, peanuts decayed, complexion changed from day to day, his private wars were but momentary matters. I understood him to have no artificial desires. Death would be too simple an affair for comment. He would think of no comment to make. Sunsets and twilights went out in silence; Tobin's half of humanity nearly as dumb. It was the other half that was fussy on the subject.
“Your feet are wet, Tobin. Warm them. Your shoes are no good.”
Tobin picked the easiest chair with good judgment, and balanced his feet over the coals of the open stove, making no comment.
“I won't buy your peanuts. They're sloppy. I might buy you another pair of shoes. What do you think?”