I'll Call Every Monday

by Orrie Hitt

  “Today.”

  “Oh.”

  I told her that her premiums were overdue, that her insurance was in danger of lapsing. I gave her a good act but I could see that she wasn’t listening to me. She was staring down at the floor, rubbing her hands across her stomach.

  “The son-of-a-bitch!” she kept saying over and over.

  Then she looked at me, her lips quivered and her face fell apart. She gathered the robe around her and ran over to the table and sat down. She put her arms on top of the table and her head down there and started crying like hell. The way she sat there, relaxed and wide open, I knew what was the matter with her. And I knew where Dell’s money had gone.

  I went out and closed the door and walked downstairs. I felt as though I wanted to throw up.

  I drove downtown and went up to see a lawyer I had canvassed for a retirement plan. He showed me a policy he’d bought from another company, thanked me for my interest and I got out of there.

  I had dinner in a quiet little restaurant off the main street. Some forty-dollar-a-week clerks were up at the bar, drinking more than they could afford. A girl came in and sat down at the end of the bar and the fellows got quiet. They drank and looked at the girl and the busters she had under that sweater. They were still tossing mental coins as to who would be first on that when I paid my bill and went back to the phone.

  The nickel was hot in my hand as I dropped it into the slot. I dialed the wrong number once and got a greenhouse on the other end. By the time I got myself squared away I was coming back to normal.

  “Hello?” she said.

  That voice of hers crawled up and down my spine.

  “Mrs. Schofield?”

  “Yes.”

  Her husky drawl jumped off my spine and went all the way around me.

  “This is Weaver.”

  “Oh, yes. The insurance man.”

  “I thought I’d call before I came on out, Mrs. Schofield. I didn’t want to come barging in, like I did before.”

  She laughed. I guess she was remembering how I’d found her. I knew I was.

  “I’ll be home all evening,” she said. “Any time is all right.” Then she added, “I’m alone, Mr. Weaver.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right out.”

  “I’ll be expecting you.”

  Then she was gone and I sat there holding the dead phone like some stupid jerk. I put the receiver back on the hook. The sweat was running down my face and arms. I got out my handkerchief and soaked it up. My hands were shaking.

  I went out through the bar. The girl at the end had her legs crossed, her skirts up high. The bartender was talking to her.

  “Lay off, Belle! How’d you like it if I sold drinks up in your room?”

  The girl just shrugged, moving those busters around.

  “Maybe I should,” the bartender said. “Most of my customers are up there, anyway.”

  I gave the Buick its head and went boiling down Main Street and out past the city limits. The sun slanted over the hills burning hot. There were some guys and girls along the road hitch-hiking their way out to the hotels and the camps. Any other time I would have filled up the car.

  I got behind a couple of trucks, swore at the drivers, threw her into the overdrive and shot on by. Anybody or anything in the middle of the road that afternoon would have been cold turkey. There are some things that just won’t wait.

  There wasn’t any car in the garage so I pulled the nose of the Buick in there, out of the sun. The policy was in the glove compartment, so I got that out and stuck it in my pocket. Then I got out and ambled over there to the front door.

  “Hello, Mr. Weaver.”

  I turned and got a good look at the chassis carrying that throaty voice around the corner of the house. I was disappointed. She had on a thin green dress that covered up too much and kept me guessing at every ripple of her curves.

  She came up and held out her hand.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “I was out under the arbor.”

  She kept her hand on my arm and I followed her back around the house. She’d moved a little table out there under the grape vines and there was a container of ice, a bottle of Mount Vernon and some soda and ginger ale.

  “I’ll bet you don’t get refreshments every place you go,” she said.

  “You can say that again, Mrs. Schofield.”

  “I’ll let you have the honors.”

  “Okay, but I pour them strong.”

  She looked at me closely and sat down. The dress hung down over her thighs, lying flat and close to her skin. She moved her legs a little and the dress sagged down, forming a deep V. I tore my eyes away from her before I started digging up the sod with my feet.

  “I like them strong,” she said.

  I fixed two doubles, dropped in some ice and a splash of soda. I handed her the glass and she put it on the table. I lowered myself onto the other bench, crossed my legs, and gave her a long stare.

  Through the green dress I could see the black streak of her bra, big and full. She had her hair pulled back over her shoulders, letting it hang in long golden waves. She had applied the make-up to her face sparingly, just enough to bring out the glow and keep it that way.

  “To insurance,” she said, lifting her glass.

  “That’s a lousy thing to waste good whiskey on.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Mr. Weaver.” She thought that over for a moment. “Let’s make a silent toast and drink to that.”

  I lifted my glass, my eyes hard on her, going over her, not letting up. The color in her face got higher.

  “Skoal!”

  The liquor was good and warm and it burned just right going down.

  “Here’s a check for my policy,” she said, getting the purse off the bench beside her. “Is that the right amount?” I glanced at the check.

  “Sure,” I said. I took the policy out of my pocket and laid it on the table. “Maybe you want me to go over the provisions of the contract with you?”

  “There’s no need for that.”

  “You ought to know what you bought.”

  “I know,” she said.

  The sun was falling faster now and the shadows crept in across the fields. A slight breeze came up and rattled the heavy leaves on the grape vines.

  “Mr. Schofield away today?” She laughed.

  “You wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.” She sipped some more of her drink and smiled at me across her glass. “How the hell he managed to drive is more than I know. His face was so puffed up he could hardly see.”

  I wondered if I should tell her what had happened up at the hotel. Perhaps she knew. But I decided to find out before I stuck my foot into that one.

  “He sick?”

  “He said a tree limb hit him.” She put the glass down, sat there thinking about it. “Must have been a two-legged tree with ten fingers,” she said. “What the hell, I suppose he asked for it.”

  It would have been a good time to ask her about that picture, and what her husband was doing to her, but I decided to let it drift. There was plenty of time to find out about stuff like that.

  “Another one?”

  She fixed the next round. When she stood up her figure was cut out clear against the dying light on the horizon. I liked the way her hair looked soft and smooth, the thrust of her chin with just the shadow of a dimple in it.

  “You spoke about some insurance for Mr. Schofield?”

  “Yes.”

  I had an idea I’d need a shotgun in my hand if I was going to canvass him, but if she was stuck on that idea I’d go along with it for a while. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sell him the great wall of China for a Confederate note and I’d be just as pleased if I never saw the bastard again.

  “What about term?” she wanted to know.

  That startled me a little. Most people don’t know much about term, especially women. You’re more apt to get that kind of a question from a business man or an ex-army or navy guy
.

  “It’s cheap,” I said. “And hard to get.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The risk is so great. And you’re not building up any cash value. There’s a lot of other reasons, but they’re the most important.”

  She held her head back and looked up at the grapes. The lines of her throat were clean and brown, and when she sat like that her breasts pointed at me across the table.

  “He’s thirty-four,” she said. “How much would term cost for him?”

  He’d looked older than that, but I was willing to take her word for it.

  “How much coverage?” I asked her.

  “Oh, fifty thousand,” she said, quite simply.

  I picked up my drink, hung onto my seat, and let it go down in a hurry.

  “That’s a lot of insurance,” I said.

  She didn’t say anything to that. It was getting harder to see her in the gathering dusk. A couple of cars went up the road, their lights on.

  “Of course Northern will issue that much on term,” I said. “But everything has to be right.”

  “I was aware of that, Mr. Weaver.”

  “I could draw up a plan,” I said. “I’ll bring it around and show it to you and you can go over it with him. That ought to be the best way to do it.”

  “You could do that,” she agreed. “You could bring it out next Monday.”

  A week seemed like a slice out of eternity.

  “I’ll do that,” I said.

  The night was all around us, now, deep and dark. The only thing about her I could see was a dim outline.

  “There’s no law against us having another drink,” she said.

  I didn’t have any trouble finding the bottle, or the ice, and when I picked up her glass our hands touched for a moment. I got the drinks poured, spilling some on the table.

  “That’s good stuff,” she said. “You ought not to waste it.”

  “No.”

  She moved a trifle on the bench.

  “Anyway, Mr. Weaver, you make them nice and strong.” I sat down beside her. “Yeah,” I said.

  She was right up close and I could feel her hip rolling against my leg.

  “You’re kind of big,” she said. “You need a bench all by yourself, almost.”

  “It’s more fun this way.”

  “Is it?”

  We both knew what I had come over there after and we didn’t waste any more time on the liquor. I got my arms around her and brought her in to me, mashing her breasts flat. She pushed against me with her hands a little, making out that she was trying to get away, but she didn’t work at it very hard.

  “I told you you were a hell of an insurance man, Mr. Weaver.”

  “You might better call me Nicky.”

  “All right-Nicky.”

  I kissed her briefly. Her arms slid around my neck. “You must think I’m some wife,” she said. “Doing a thing like this.”

  “Maybe you two don’t get along.”

  She spoke against my mouth. Her breath was clean and hot. “You’re pretty smart, Nicky.”

  “I know what I like.”

  “And nothing else matters?”

  “I guess not.”

  I kissed her again, and her tongue was there, stabbing at me in hot streaks. Her hands moved up to my shoulders, across my neck and down over my face.

  “The first day I saw you,” she whispered, “I knew it would be this way.”

  “Me, too.”

  “It isn’t awful, is it?”

  “No.”

  She reached around and got one of my hands and guided it to the top of her dress. My fingers crawled down inside the V, poking at the top of her brassiere.

  “Kiss me,” she said.

  I kissed her.

  “Rip it off!” she told me, her voice shaking. “Rip the damn thing off!”

  I gave the dress a tug and the cloth screamed and fell away. She had her hands up there now, helping me, and the brassiere slipped loose. She got her fingers into my hair and pushed my head down. I started to tremble. I felt her legs moving across my knees. The dress got in the way and I had to hold her so she wouldn’t fall.

  “Why can’t we go in the house, Irene?”

  “It’s awful hot in there.”

  “One of us is going to break a neck here,” I said. She laughed and nibbled at my neck with her teeth. “If you don’t know, darling,” she said, real low, “I’m not going to tell you.”

  I picked her up and held her close. Then I carried her around the corner of the arbor where the grass was green and soft and high. I took off my coat and threw it down. She squirmed out of her dress and dropped it alongside. In the shadows I saw her step out of her briefs. Moments later she lay there, naked and whimpering.

  She helped me a little and then her hands were at my back, all over me, digging and slashing. Her body raced alive and wild as she pulled me into the torrent with her, plunging me down a swift incline that left us bruised and torn and welded together.

  “Irene! Irene!” I kept saying, over and over again.

  And she’d kiss me back.

  “Nicky! Nicky!”

  And we’d kiss some more.

  I don’t know how long it was that we were there like that, but it was a long time because the grass around us got damp with the dew of the night hanging low in the sky. I knew that she was getting cold. I could feel her shiver once in a while. Finally, she sat up and pulled what was left of the dress down over her head.

  “I may be a bitch,” she said, kissing me again. “But I enjoyed every moment of it.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  She got up, standing over me in the gloom, looking down.

  “This won’t be the end of it for us, will it, Nicky?”

  “No.”

  I stood up and kissed her for a long time. We went over to the arbor and picked up the stuff lying around there and carried it across to the house. I had the booze and the glasses, and my briefcase. She had the insurance policy in one hand, her bra and panties in the other.

  “Kiss me again, Nicky,” she said, at the door.

  “I thought I was coming in.”

  Her lips brushed across my mouth.

  “That’s the first time you’ve been wrong tonight.”

  I stood the glasses along the foundation, right in the pansy bed.

  “I don’t see why not. Hell, he’s in New York, isn’t he?” She slid inside and got the screen door closed. “Maybe I want to think,” she said, her face up close to the screen.

  “I guess I’m the one who should ask if this is the end?”

  “You know better than that, Nicky.”

  “Well, thinking is no fun.”

  “Yes, it is,” she said. “If it’s beautiful — the way it is for me now.”

  “Let me know how you make out,” I said “Next Monday night,” she whispered. “I’ll let you know then.” Our lips met briefly against the screen. The smell of her floated all around me.

  “And figure out a plan of insurance for my husband, Nicky.”

  “Sure.”

  “We can talk about it then.”

  “I’ll come early,” I said. “And talk fast.”

  Her laugh followed her into the darkness of the house. I waited for a couple of seconds, then turned and wandered slowly toward the car.

  I climbed into the car and started it. Maybe she was right. This night could stand a little thought. About her. About me. A whole lot about both of us. At least five minutes.

  There was no doubt about it. She was going to ask me to do something for her. I didn’t know what it was. But I did know how I’d handle it.

  I’d do it for her — whatever it was.

  It had to be that way.

  CHAPTER IX

  NOT MANY PEOPLE SHOWED UP AT DELL Walters’ funeral, just his widow and two children, the guys from the office, and a handful of neighbors who looked pretty sad about the whole thing. The parting phrases were murmured by a bald-headed minister
in a dreary undertaking chapel on West Street. After the final prayer was finished and the casket closed, all of us from the office got hold of the handles and lugged Dell out to the hearse. After we slid him inside and the door was locked tight we all went to our cars.

  “Jesus!” Austin said from the back seat, as I throttled the Buick down behind the taxi carrying the family. “You wouldn’t think a guy would string himself up by a rope just because of losing a job, would you?”

  Nobody said anything. I guess Austin sort of blamed himself for Dell hoisting his weight up onto a garage rafter, but nobody else did. A shortage was a shortage and bad underwriting is another sin. Austin had done his job as he saw it. I don’t think anyone else knew about the girl over the Grand Union and I hadn’t said anything about her. Dell had paid a terrific price for fooling around with that. She still had her own price to pay. No useful purpose could be served by kicking their names around in a lot of mud and slime.

  The cemetery was just on the edge of town. The family gathered on the green carpet by the new mound of earth, waiting for us to bring the casket up there. It was hard walking up the narrow path but we eventually got Dell laid out on the straps over the hole that was to claim him. Everybody bowed his head and the preacher got into high gear again. He spoke of how good Dell had been and of his pity for the family. None of it, of course, did any good and finally the preacher gave up, said “Amen” and walked away.

  We started back to the car.

  “Mr. Weaver! Mr. Weaver!”

  I stopped. Dell’s kid — the boy with the white face and the blue suit, the kid who was in fifth grade — came running up to me. “My mother would like to talk to you if she could.” I looked at Austin.

  “We could ride back with the minister,” he said. “All right,” I said to the boy. “Sure.”

  Mrs. Walters came toward me slowly. She was a slim, dark-haired girl in her early thirties. She had a serene, quiet face that showed little of the utter grief that was in her heart. A six- or seven-year-old girl clung to her hand, stumbling on the ground as the tears clogged up her eyes.

  “I hate to bother you, Mr. Weaver.”

  “No bother,” I said. “I meant to see you before.”