“Sometimes,” Hallie said carelessly. “I never touch much of it, though.”
“Run along now,” another of the men commanded. “You’re going to be in the way.”
Hallie tossed her head as Helen Williams used to. “You can’t tell me what to do,” she said.
“Run along,” the man said.
Hallie moved a step or so and said defiantly, “I’m going to the city, and I’m going to go in a store and get a nice big cold glass of beer.”
“Go on,” the man said, “get along.” The man in the tight corduroy pants called to Hallie, “You better get over there across the street, kid.” Hallie came nearer to him instead and said, “You come from the city?”
“Nope,” the man said.
“I got lots of nice boy friends in the city,” Hallie said.
The man said, “Out of the way there,” and pushed past her to go with the heavy tool he had been using down to the place where the bricks were being stacked. “He doesn’t know much,” Hallie said to the man who had been working next to him.
“He knows you’re gonna get killed if you don’t get out of the way,” was all the satisfaction she got.
Defeated, Hallie retired to the curb, where she stood for a few minutes, and then she said loudly, “Any one who wants a nice cold glass of beer can come along,” and started down the street. When she had gone a little way she stopped and looked back at the men still working, yelled “Dirty bums!” and ran off toward the highway.
• • •
That evening Harriet was just putting away the last of the dinner dishes, and her mother was scouring the sink, when the doorbell rang. Mr. Merriam got up tiredly from his chair in the living-room and went to the door, opened it, and then called, “Harriet?”
When Harriet ran to the door she was first afraid and then embarrassed. “What are you doing here?” she said roughly, and then she saw Mrs. Perlman behind Marilyn, and at the same moment heard her mother’s voice behind her. “Good evening,” Mrs. Merriam said.
Marilyn was standing on the outside of the door as helplessly as Harriet on the inside. Mrs. Perlman said, over her daughter’s head, “Mrs. Merriam? I’m Mrs. Perlman, Marilyn’s mother. Marilyn wanted to see Harriet for a minute, and so we just stopped by.”
Mrs. Merriam said, “Won’t you come in?” and held the door open wider for Mrs. Perlman and Marilyn. Marilyn grabbed Harriet’s arm and said, “Listen, wait’ll I tell you,” and Harriet said, “What’d you come for?” and Mrs. Merriam called from the living-room, “No secrets, girls. Come in.”
“I’ve been anxious to meet you and Mr. Merriam,” Mrs. Perlman was saying when Harriet and Marilyn came in. “Marilyn has told me so much about Harriet.”
“I don’t think I’ve met Marilyn before,” Mrs. Merriam said, looking Marilyn up and down. “Tell me, are you in Harriet’s class at school?”
“She’s a grade ahead of me, Mother,” Harriet said, running her words together in her haste, “and we’ve been reading Vanity Fair together and I see her all the time in school.”
“Harriet has been down to see us several times,” Mrs. Perlman said.
“Indeed,” Mrs. Merriam said. She waited, and there was a long silence.
“The girls do have such a good time together,” Mrs. Perlman went on at last. She touched her lips with her tongue, and said, “I suppose you must know how much Marilyn has enjoyed being with Harriet. Such a charming girl. Although,” she added with a false little laugh, “I shouldn’t say it in front of her.”
“Harriet tries to behave herself as well as possible,” Mrs. Merriam said. There was another silence. Mrs. Merriam seemed to be content with it; she sat with her hands folded quietly, looking at the ashtray on the table next to the chair where Mrs. Perlman was sitting. There was a polite small smile on her face.
Mrs. Perlman was sitting on the edge of her chair, and she smiled widely whenever she met Mrs. Merriam’s eye, or Harriet’s, smiled blindly even at Marilyn, who sat next to Harriet on the couch and watched her mother eagerly.
“We were just passing by,” Mrs. Perlman said. She seemed to have got back on the track of her planned remarks; her voice eased a little, and she said, “We took the little Martin girl home; she ran away, you know.”
Mrs. Merriam lifted her eyes. She looked at Harriet and Marilyn, and hesitated. Finally she said, “What happened?”
Mrs. Perlman shook her head sadly. “I have no idea, really. My husband found her about a mile out of town, on the road to San Francisco. She was—” Mrs. Perlman looked at Harriet and Marilyn “—trying to beg a ride.”
“Really?” Mrs. Merriam leaned forward a little. “All alone?”
“All alone,” Mrs. Perlman said, and nodded. “All alone. She was just standing there with her—with her thumb, you know, and she was all dressed up, and she was wearing lipstick.”
“Imagine,” Mrs. Merriam said.
“Imagine,” Mrs. Perlman agreed. “My husband stopped right away, of course. He was coming the other way, back home, you know, but he recognized her and made her get in the car and come home with him. A child like that.”
“It’s dreadful,” Mrs. Merriam said. “Where was she going, did she say?”
“Just to San Francisco. She had begged rides from strangers that far, and she intended to go right into the city. Heaven only knows what she wanted to do there,” Mrs. Perlman said.
“Did she have any money?” Mrs. Merriam asked. “I imagine her mother was frightened.”
“Her mother isn’t home yet,” Mrs. Perlman said gently.
“Of course,” Mrs. Merriam said. “She works until late at night.” She gave the words an inexplicable emphasis, smiling a little.
Marilyn broke in eagerly: “Her grandmother said she was going to give Hallie the beating of her life, and I don’t blame Hallie for not wanting to go home because they were sure mad at her.”
Mrs. Merriam turned her head slightly to look at Harriet and Marilyn on the couch. “It was very lucky that Mr. Perlman came by at that moment.”
“She might’ve been there all night,” Marilyn said.
Mrs. Merriam was silent, and after a minute Mrs. Perlman said “Marilyn?” and started to get up. Mrs. Merriam stood up immediately, and when Harriet came over to her she moved a step away.
“I am happy to have met you at last,” Mrs. Perlman said on her way to the door. “Marilyn, you can see Harriet tomorrow. It’s late. I hope I’ll see you again,” she said to Mrs. Merriam.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Merriam said. She stood with Harriet by the door while Marilyn and her mother went down the walk. “Good night, Harriet,” Marilyn called back, and Harriet heard her own voice answer strangely, “Good night.”
When Mrs. Merriam shut the door she would not look at Harriet. She said quietly, “It’s bedtime, Harriet. Go upstairs.”
Harriet started upstairs without a word. Halfway up, she heard her mother’s level voice saying, “I’ll speak to you in the morning,” and when she reached her own room she shut the door and thought, I could kill her for coming here tonight, why did she think she had any right to come?
Downstairs, after a minute, she heard her mother’s steps going toward the phone.
• • •
Mrs. Roberts was restless; dinner was long over and yet it was too early to go to bed; Mrs. Roberts was quietly reading a mystery story in her chair by the fireplace, and the open windows on either side of the fireplace brought in the scent of flowers and the heavy hot night air. Mr. Roberts paced the living-room, went into the kitchen for a drink of water, debated having a highball but refrained when he thought about Mrs. Roberts, and came back into the living-room to wander aimlessly about.
“What on earth is the matter with you?” Mrs. Roberts asked amiably, looking up from her book; the Robertses were on good terms tonight, and she smiled when she spoke.
“You got the jitters or something?”
“Just don’t know what to do with myself,” Mr. Roberts said. He struck an aimless note on the piano; he would have liked to sit down and play soft soothing music, long rippling chords that would blend with the night air and his mood, but the only tune that he could play was “Yankee Doodle,” and he turned irritably away from the piano.
“Turn on the radio,” Mrs. Roberts said. “Or go to bed or something.” She went back to her book.
Mr. Roberts went to the window and stood looking out. The street outside was partially visible between the bushes on the lawn, but there was nothing there except the sidewalk and the trees sleeping quietly in the moonlight.
“Don’t know what to do with myself,” Mr. Roberts said.
“Um-hm,” Mrs. Roberts said into her book. Mr. Roberts frowned down at her, changed his mind about the highball, and went out to the kitchen; but then he thought again of Mrs. Roberts and changed his mind back. He went quickly down the hall, said at the front door, “Going out for a walk,” and had closed the door by the time Mrs. Roberts looked up, surprised.
Outside on the porch he breathed deeply of the night air, so gentle, so tender in its touch, and then the thought of Mrs. Roberts leaning forward in her chair to look out of the window drove him down the steps and along the sidewalk. By the time he reached the Desmond house he was carrying on a conversation in his mind with an imaginary companion. “Just living on the same, day after day,” he was saying with infinite weariness, “a man gets tired of it all. What’s it worth?”
He shook his head sadly, and his imaginary companion, touching his arm lightly, big eyes turned up to him worshipfully, said, “But you—you’re more important than that, really you are.”
“Perhaps I am, little girl,” Mr. Roberts told her pityingly, “but perhaps you only think so, now.”
Turning his head to look down on her, he tripped over the curb and nearly fell into Cortez Road. Recovering himself, he looked quickly back over his shoulder to see if anyone had been watching from the Desmond house. “Think I was drunk,” he muttered, and crossed the road hurriedly. He stopped by the piles of bricks and looked at them; they were almost blue in the moonlight. The heavy machinery used for obscure purposes by the workmen at the wall—something Mr. Roberts recognized as a tractor, another thing he thought might be a cement mixer—stood, silent and sleeping, like everything else on the block. In a few hours this spot would again be the busiest in the neighborhood, enveloped in noise and dust and the swift conversation of men who knew what they were doing. Now, the machinery and the wall and even the bricks were unco-operative and still, as though recognizing that Mr. Roberts was unauthorized to call them into activity. Irritated anew to find that nothing moved, Mr. Roberts was about to start back across Cortez Road when the sound of quick footsteps held him. Someone was coming up from the highway, along his side of Cortez, and Mr. Roberts lingered by the pile of bricks, trying not to seem too obviously watching.
After a minute or so he recognized young Mrs. Martin, mother of George and Hallie; at the same minute she saw him, but did not appear to recognize him, since her footsteps slowed and she slanted her path toward the street, as though intending to cross. Mr. Roberts hurried down to meet her, saying, as he went, although softly, “Good evening, Mrs. Martin. You out for a walk, too?”
“Who is it?” Mrs. Martin said, but she hesitated in her walk.
“Roberts,” Mr. Roberts said. “Mike Roberts.” By this time he had reached her, and she stared at him for a minute and then smiled.
“Of course,” she said. “I didn’t recognize you, Mr. Roberts.” She started to walk again, and Mr. Roberts walked along beside her.
“You out for a walk, too?” he asked again.
“I’m just coming home from work,” she said, and laughed. She wore her hair long and fastened back at the nape of her neck; although her face was inclined to be rabbitty, like Hallie’s, with a sharp nose and pulled-back chin, in the moonlight she looked soft and fragile, her black sports coat more expensive, her legs longer. “I always get home this time,” she said. “You just out walking?”
“Couldn’t stay indoors, night like this,” Mr. Roberts said. For a minute it crossed his mind that Mrs. Roberts might have finished her book, might be standing, even, on the front porch looking for him, and he said, almost harshly, “I thought for a minute I scared you, standing there like that.”
“You did,” she admitted. “I never expect to see anyone up around here when I come home.” She waved at the Merriams’ house, across the street, dark and brooding under its overhigh roof. Next to it the Martin house was dark except for one light on the porch. “That’s for me,” Mrs. Martin said unnecessarily. She paused on the sidewalk across the street from the Martin house. “Well, good night,” she said.
Mr. Roberts cleared his throat. “Stay out for a while,” he said. “Night like this.”
Mrs. Martin put her head on one side and considered. “I shouldn’t,” she said, and laughed again.
Mr. Roberts took her arm, and they began to walk lingeringly down the sidewalk again.
“Such a beautiful night,” Mrs. Martin said, as though starting the conversation on a new basis.
“Beautiful night,” Mr. Roberts said. He squeezed her arm gently, looking down at her. “Nice night,” he said.
Mrs. Martin looked up at him, her eyebrows raised. “It certainly is,” she said, and laughed.
Mr. Roberts squeezed her arm again, a little harder, and said, “Sure glad I met you. Needed someone to talk to.”
“I’m glad I met you, too,” Mrs. Martin said. “Too nice a night to go in.” They stopped by the pile of bricks, and Mrs. Martin said, “I wonder if they’ll ever get this thing finished.”
“Sure,” Mr. Roberts said. He waved knowingly at the machine he thought was a tractor. “Won’t take them long now,” he said.
“I certainly wish they’d finish it,” Mrs. Martin said. They began to walk again up toward the Martin house.
“Doesn’t take them long once they get started,” Mr. Roberts said.
“The wall’s been here so long,” Mrs. Martin said. “I suppose it was built long before any of the homes around here.”
Mr. Roberts squeezed her arm again. “Guess it was,” he said.
Mrs. Martin stopped again, across the street from the Martin house. “Well,” she said.
“You don’t want to go in,” Mr. Roberts said. “Stay out awhile longer.”
Mrs. Martin laughed again. “I really shouldn’t,” she said.
They began to walk again. “Beautiful night,” Mr. Roberts said.
“Have you lived here long, Mr. Roberts?” Mrs. Martin said.
“Quite a while,” Mr. Roberts said.
“I know I’ve seen you sometimes out in front of your house. And Mrs. Roberts.” She dropped her voice to an affectionate, longing tone. “I know you’ve got two pretty nice boys,” she said.
“You know my boys?” Mr. Roberts sounded surprised.
“They play with my George sometimes,” Mrs. Martin said.
“Yes?” Mr. Roberts said. They were back beside the pile of bricks, and Mr. Roberts kicked aimlessly at the top brick. It fell and rolled down to the ground. “All this stuff,” Mr. Roberts said. He let go of Mrs. Martin’s arm, and leaned over to pick up the brick and put it back. “All this junk,” he said. He moved casually around the pile of bricks and past it to where the break in the wall ended and the wall was clear of rubbish.
From the inside of the wall Mr. Roberts said softly, “Not so bad in here,” and Mrs. Martin, after one quick look over her shoulder at the Martin house, gathered her skirt tightly against her legs and edged around the pile of bricks to join him.
• • •
Frederica Terrel sat at a round table in the room where Mrs. Williams had at one time sat night after night i
n the darkness, the room which was now the Terrels’ “big room.” It was in this room—Frederica had found that with such an arrangement it was necessary to use and furnish only four rooms in a house—that the Terrels mainly occupied themselves; it was inadequately furnished even so, with the table, four straight kitchen chairs, a wicker couch and two matching rockers, and a rug which was actually an excellent affair of some value belonging to Mrs. Terrel; there were occasional pieces of this sort scattered among the Terrel furniture, pieces such as the great translucent blue bowl Frederica kept fruit in, and some of the tiny lovely jewels mixed in with the rhinestones kept in a shoebox on Frederica’s closet shelf. The other three rooms Frederica used were the kitchen, where she kept the food; the bedroom where Mrs. Terrel slept; and the bedroom which Frederica and Beverley shared. In the big room, while Frederica worked at the round table, Beverley sat in one of the wicker chairs, rocking and crooning over a book which she was coloring with crayon.
Frederica was rereading an advertisement she had clipped from a magazine the Williamses had left behind in the garage. “Art Fotos,” it began. “Six alluring fotos for only a dollar,” and as she studied it Frederica chewed her finger and frowned. The art fotos lay beside her; they had come in a determinedly plain wrapper, and Frederica had them spread out on the table while she considered them. The one nearest her hand was a sepia print of a young lady lying in a field of leaves; her face was in shadow but her naked body lay most chastely in the sunlight. “I don’t know,” Frederica said as she took it up, and Beverley paused in her song to say, “Don’t know what?”
“Look at this,” Frederica said, holding it out at arm’s length. “I just don’t know about it.”
Beverley put her head on one side and said tentatively, “Is it Mommy?”
“Don’t be silly.” Frederica put the picture back on the table and fell to considering it from that angle. “I wanted something to go on the walls, it looks so bare here. But I thought they would be pictures of trees and dogs and things.”
Beverley looked around the room as though she had never seen it before, and Frederica held up another picture and said, “What do you think of this?” This one was a similar print of a young lady lying, in the same professional nudity, on the edge of a swimming pool. Beverley looked at it and shook her head.
The Road Through the Wall Page 16
