by Jerry eBooks
The Wrinkle was out in the middle of the bay now, and he saw the lights on Garfield and Cedar Island far off on one side, and a few lights still showing in the long row of cottages that lined the narrow sand bar between the bay and Lake Ontario. The bar shone palely in the moonlight, outlined against the expanse of the lake beyond, bright and wide in the moonlight like the open sea; it was like a reef or magic atoll of the South Seas, and he murmured: “Yon palm-fringed incandescent coast . . .” The bar was only a piddling strip of gravelly sand strung with a lot of cheesy shacks that passed for cottages and a few moth-eaten cottonwood trees, but the effect was all right . . .
They’ll be sorry, he said to himself, a few days from now or next week, maybe, when he didn’t turn up at the dance—though of course the news would get around long before then. They’d remember a lot of things about him and tell each other that he was a pretty darn nice guy after all and wish they had paid more attention to him while they had the chance. At the end of the season Lynette McCaffrey would go home to her set in Cleveland and tell them all that though Parsons Point was just a dump where there was nothing to do at all, where you simply went crazy sitting around all day doing nothing, there was one of the most wonderful fellows there that she had ever known in her life and before she got a chance to know him very well, the most terrible thing happened—it had plunged the whole place into the most awful gloom . . . He gazed across the dark racing waters of the bay and thought: Next week all this will be the same, all this will be here, and I will not . . .
When the Wrinkle pulled in at the wharf below the Bluff and they all piled out, he waited till the last passenger had left the cabin before he climbed down the ladder and got off. In the moonlit dark he heard the cries of “So long” and “See you tomorrow” as the group broke up and the fellows took home their dates. Then he started up the steep path of the Bluff alone, careful to hang back so that he would not overtake those who were walking slowly on, arm linked in arm, ahead of him.
He came in through the back door of his parents’ cottage and reached overhead for the string of the kitchen light. By now he really was sweaty, his shirt was sticking to his back under the tweed jacket, and he was chilled through and through. On the white oilcloth of the table he found a note in pencil from his mother, written on one of those oblong cards found in Shredded Wheat packages and held down by a saltcellar so that it wouldn’t blow away in the breeze that came in strong through the screen door:
“Be sure and empty the ice pan and this time don’t forget!!!”
He smiled sadly to himself. What did his mother know—what did anybody know—of what had been happening to him this night, what he had been through and what he was feeling in his heart . . .
When he went out to his cot on the sleeping porch, which was open on three sides to the cold night breeze, he found that his mother had left his pajamas for him beside the pillow and turned the blankets down, ready for him to get in. An idea came to him. He stripped off the blankets and even the sheet, rolled them up in a great bundle and fired them into a corner of the porch; then he fired his pajamas after them. He would sleep raw tonight and really catch that death, just as Lynette McCaffrey had said he would. He started taking off his clothes.
But when he got down to his B.V.D.’s, it occurred to him that maybe it wasn’t nice to go to bed naked, not when he was in love. If it had been just any old tramp, that would have been a different thing; but if he was going to do this because of a girl like Lynette McCaffrey, it wouldn’t be quite decent for them to find him in the morning lying there without a stitch on. He got on the bed in his underwear and lay flat on his back with his arms folded under his head and gazed off into the freezing night. He made every effort to lie rigid and stiff as a ramrod but it was difficult, because his body was shaken again and again by shudders of chill. But he refused to accept his physical feelings; he recognized only feelings far different, deeper, and truer. He had heard about mind-over-matter and he concentrated intensely on his emotion and his thoughts. Now another line of poetry sprang unpremeditated into his head and with a melancholy satisfaction he thought it was the most wonderful thing that had ever been thought or said in the world—why, it was as if it had been written for him alone:
“Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain . . .”
Suddenly he was wakened out of a deep sleep by a violent shaking that was not of the cold. He rolled over and sat up, startled. His mother stood there beside the cot, her hand on his shoulder, scolding him unmercifully.
“George Burton, are you out of your mind! What’s the big idea of going to bed on a night like this without a blanket over you or even a sheet, for heaven’s sakes? And my stars, sleeping in your underwear—are you crazy?” Scolding away, she fished up the roll of blankets and sheet from the corner of the porch, shook them out and spread them over his cot, tucking him carefully in on all sides. He didn’t say a word to her but he was very grateful and surprised at himself all the same, as he was just about dying of the cold and he didn’t think he could stand it another minute.
“Goodness knows how long you’ve been lying there exposed to the world like that—do you realize it’s after two o’clock in the morning? Good thing for you, young man, that I got up to see if you were in! Really, George Burton, you’re simply not to be trusted at all . . .”
When she had gone back to her own room, he lay there with the blankets wrapped up tight and warm around his neck. He was asleep before he had time to think, almost before he had time to realize that above every other person on earth he hated Lynette McCaffrey . . .
In the morning he knew he would find her sunning, alone, on the pier. There was a small spur of pride in him as he told himself how he had finally seen through her. He was sure now that she had led him on, and that she had nearly made him kill himself.
“. . . To cease upon the midnight with no pain,” he quoted to himself again. But it would be broad daylight now, and he didn’t suppose it would be absolutely painless . . .
He went up to meet Lynette McCaffrey with no weapon but his hands, and he didn’t even give a thought to what must inevitably come after.
NECKTIE PARTY
Robert Turner
There was a quiet, restrained atmosphere about the place that you could feel the moment you walked into it. It looked pretty much like any other Times Square side street cocktail lounge and restaurant. There was the bar and leather-cushioned booths and a dining room in the back. The lighting was subdued without being gloomy. But there was this feel, this air about the place that somehow seemed inviolable, so that cruising drunks, going from bar to bar to look for conversation or excitement or a pickup, walked in here and sensed the atmosphere and turned around and walked right out again. Or perhaps had one drink and used the Men’s Room and then left.
The owner prided himself that in twenty years in the business there’d never been any violence in his place. Some close calls, but never any real action. This was because of the owner’s infallible judgment of character. He knew the kind of people he wanted as customers almost on first sight and everything was done to encourage them; extra service, drinks on the house, credit, check-cashing, almost unctuous hospitality. The owner also knew the kind he didn’t want. Everything politely possible was done to discourage them. His was a place for gentlemen and ladies, a place to drink, even to get quietly and genteelly drunk if you cared, to have a good meal after a few drinks and to relax.
He was a short, stocky, shiningly bald man, the owner, with a round, seriously intelligent face. He spoke precise English and was unusually well read and was an almost preciously agile conversationalist. With the favored customers, that is. With the others he was gentle but firm. That was the secret of running his kind of a place. When he listened to the other owners discuss the various troubles they had in their places and what to do about them, he couldn’t help smiling a little smugly.
It was so easy. If you had any perceptiv
eness at all, you could spot by a customer’s reactions when he first came in, while he was taking his first drink, by every little action and reaction, whether or not he had already taken too much, if he was hostile, inclined to boisterousness. You studied these things and it became very easy. The owner had trained his bartenders and waiters to do likewise, although, of course, they were never as good at it as he was because it didn’t matter as much to them.
The bartender, this night, was new. He was a relief man the union had sent up when the regular night man called in sick. The owner watched him work, from his place by the cash register at the end of the bar, and was quite pleased. The bartender was medium height, clean cut but not so handsome that the men customers would resent him or the women start trouble by flirting with him. He had the right combination of friendliness and reserve and he knew his job. He seemed to be a smart, a good man. The owner was quite pleased.
The real test came, though, when, toward the end of the dinner hour, the door burst open and a man in an old Army field jacket came in. He was clean-shaven but he somehow looked rumpled and dirty. His hair was long and it stuck up in sprouts all over his head as though he’d just got out of bed. It was medium brown hair, except for a perfectly square patch of white on one side. He had a thin, ferret-like face, with a lot of blackheads in it. His eyes were kind of strange; not staring, exactly, but too intense, sort of fixed in their gaze and on nothing in particular. He took a seat at the bar between two groups of regular customers. The conversation at the bar, which had been rather spirited in a controlled sort of way, died down when this man sat at the bar. Everybody watched the drumming of his fingers. He didn’t look at anybody. He looked down at the bar.
The owner smiled a little. It would be interesting to see how the bartender handled this one. It was obvious that he was not their kind of customer. He wondered how long it would take the bartender to get rid of him.
The bartender stopped in front of the man in the field jacket and said: “Yes, sir?”
The customer, without looking up from the bar, said, a little thickly: “Bar whiskey and water.” He pulled a crumpled dollar bill from his pocket and wadded it onto the bar.
The drink was poured and the customer took it straight, washing it down with the water. He looked up, then, toward the bartender, but the bartender had walked away to the other end of the bar and was talking there with a regular customer. The man in the field jacket kept staring at him and drumming his fingers on the bar. Twice the bartender turned and saw the customer staring at him but politely, smilingly ignored him, even though it was obvious that the man wanted another drink. The owner smiled. The bartender was doing fine.
The first few seconds that the customer banged his glass on the bar for attention, the bartender continued to ignore him. Then he turned slowly and walked toward him. With his eyebrows arched disapprovingly, the bartender said softly: “You don’t have to do that. You’re disturbing the other customers.”
“Oh, I am?” The customer’s voice was too loud. There was a strange tightness, an almost clenched sound to it. His fixed gaze now centered straight onto the bartender’s eyes. “You’ve been ignoring me. What the hell am I, a bum or something, I can’t get served? This is a high class gardam place or something?”
The bartender pursed his lips. “Please, sir! I’m afraid I can’t serve you any more. You’ve had enough.”
“Enough?” The customer said. “What do you mean, enough? I’m not drunk. You pour me another drink. You hear me?”
The owner frowned. He couldn’t have this. This loud fellow was disturbing his regular people. He watched the bartender and the raucous customer while their eyes locked for a moment and he saw something he didn’t understand. The bartender flinched as though he’d been struck. He seemed to go pale. Too abruptly, he turned away from the customer and, with an agitated quickness, walked toward the owner at the end of the bar.
He glanced back nervously and saw the customer still sitting there, drumming his fingers on the bar and staring fixedly into the backbar mirror. The bartender said: “What do you want me to do? If you ask me, I think we’d better give him another one, pacify—”
The whole bar was silent now. All the regular customers were pointedly avoiding the man in the Army field jacket. The silence was almost chilling. The owner said:
“Don’t be absurd. Give in to him and you’ll have him sitting here the rest of the night, maybe getting more pugnacious after another drink. Don’t do anything. Just let him sit there. He’ll get bored. Ignore him. He’ll leave after awhile. I’ve been through this thousands of times. If he doesn’t, I’ll talk to him and get rid of him.”
The bartender licked his lips. He was sweating a little over the bridge of his nose. He said: “This man isn’t any ordinary drunk, sir. I don’t think we ought to fool with him, antagonize him.”
“What do you mean?” The owner was nettled at his judgement being questioned.
“There’s something wrong with him. He’s ready to flip. Believe me. I know this kind. I worked at a State Hospital for a year and a half. I’ve seen lots of ’em like that and I’m tellin’ you, this one is just about to go.”
The owner raised on tiptoe and looked over the bartender’s shoulder. The customer was just sitting there, drumming his fingers and looking down at them.
“I think you’re being melodramatic,” the owner said. “But even if you’re not, all the more reason to get rid of him.”
Abruptly, the bartender said: “Excuse me. I’ve got to go to the john.” He pushed past the owner.
Up at the middle of the bar, the customer started banging his empty glass on the bar. The owner sighed. He walked up there, his round, intelligent face quietly composed. He put his hands flat on the bar in front of the customer, who didn’t look up but stopped banging his glass.
“Sir,” the owner said, very softly. “We appreciate your patronage and we’d love to have you come back some other time but right now we feel you’ve had your share. You look like a nice intelligent fellow. Surely you can understand my position. We’re just not allowed by law to serve anyone who has passed a certain point. Please be a nice chap and go home now and come back and see us some other time.”
The customer looked up at the owner. His dirty gray eyes fastened on the owner’s and the owner saw what the bartender had meant, but that odd glassiness, he knew, was because this man had taken too much to drink. He was really plastered, even though he could still sit and probably walk straight. It wasn’t an unfamiliar type of drunkenness.
A rather vacant smile formed on the customer’s peaked face, showing small, crooked, carious teeth. “Is that the way it is?”
The owner smiled back, nodding. He told himself this was the way to do it. Gentle but firm. It always worked. He wished the bartender was here to watch him in action. He felt the admiring glances of his regular people and could almost feel the easing up of tension in the place.
“Or is it just that you don’t like my looks?” The customer said. One hand, small, thin-fingered and dirty, gestured toward himself. The other one clenched the water glass so hard his knuckles showed white and the owner feared for a moment he might break the glass.
“Don’t be absurd, sir,” the owner said, gently and firmly. “A customer is a customer to us. And there’s nothing wrong with the way you look.”
“I see,” the customer said. His hand loosened from around the glass. “In that case, I believe I’ll have something to eat. There’s no law against serving me food, is there? Let me see a menu.” He still spoke thickly but it wasn’t the usual drunken kind of thickness, the owner observed. It was more as though his tongue was suddenly too big for his mouth.
The owner thought fast. He had to settle this once and for all. He had to get rid of this fellow, this drunken or crazy or whatever-he-was bum. The drinking question was apparently over. But he couldn’t have this one in his clean, quiet dining room, to disgust his regular dinner clientele. This wasn’t any one-arm joint.<
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“I’m sorry, sir,” the owner said. “We have a strict rule that gentlemen must wear a tie to be seated at a table here. A very strict rule. We couldn’t possibly make an exception.”
The customer looked startled. He put his hand to the neck of the dirty T-shirt he wore under the field jacket. He looked along the bar and then craned to look back in the dining room. The owner smiled. He had checked and made sure that everyone in the place was wearing a tie before he spoke. The customer’s eyes came back to his. They looked full of laughter, an almost childish, secret laughter.
“God damn,” he said. “Have to have a tie to eat here, huh? I’m too drunk to be served liquor and I can’t eat because I got no tie.”
The owner shrugged his soft shoulders. “I’m sorry, sir. That’s the way it is. You understand, of course.” He moved away, indicating that the conversation was obviously over. The man would leave now. The owner glanced in the backbar mirror and saw the customer, shaking his head, dazedly, slide off the stool and stand up. The owner told himself that it was so easy if you knew how. There was no need to have any trouble with the bums, the misfits, the lowlifes. You were just firm but gentle and that was it. Who was the owner of the place, anyhow? Who decided these things? In quietness and gentleness, there was strength.
The owner decided that the bartender wasn’t such a good man after all. There was no reason why he couldn’t have handled the same thing in the same way. He could have if he hadn’t let the man frighten him. You couldn’t let these people frighten you, bluff you.
Abruptly, the owner realized that the customer in the field jacket hadn’t left yet. He was standing behind the stool he’d vacated. He was looking at another man, a fat, prosperous-looking man with flowing white hair and horn-rimmed glasses, who had just entered and sat down at one of the booths. The fat man, who was one of the owner’s regular people, had been for years, was looking at the menu and giving his order to the waiter who had instantly glided up to the booth.
