Alone at Night

by Vin Packer

  Leydecker squeezed the tears brimming in his eyes, and wiped them away with his napkin. Long, long ago in the old days, on Christmas morning, it used to be that Min and he would sleep no later than seven o’clock, when Laura would bound into the room, golden-haired and laughing, and tugging at their blankets to go down to the tree… Even after Min’s death, there was always some polite and pleasant formality by the tree on Christmas; then breakfast afterwards… On her own, four or five years ago, Mrs. Basso had started coming in on holidays to serve him breakfast. It was the same time she had started her embarrassing habit of counting the Christmas cards, as if to say 172 people still cared, when the truth was: who did?

  Leydecker got out of bed and put the tray on the bed-table. On his desk, by the window overlooking Highland Hill, were the files of the Boost Cayuta Committee, and the zoning proposal he was to edit, before presentation to the City Council. At least his presence counted somewhere. He was nearly sure of General Electric now. If everything else around him was suspended in some sort of lethargic limbo, the city of Cayuta would not suffer the same dilemma. It would die if it did, just as it had been dying before L.E. got the contract from Kuwait. It took a long time for a city to die, and in the meantime, while Slater Burr dazzled city officials with his eloquence, and the dreams of turning Cayuta into a summer tourist resort, Burr Manufacturing Company realized a nice profit. He paid low wages and put nothing back into the company. Even the Cayuta Fire Department was afraid to declare all the flagrant violations in the plant, for fear it would set the city in a deeper economic recession, with a shut-down of one of the few existing industries.

  Kenneth Leydecker was his father’s son, same as Burr had old Roy Burr in him. Leydecker could remember Slater’s father, and the sniveling notes he wrote apologizing for days he missed work, like a child carrying a note to school after a day’s absence. Roy Burr had been a pasty-faced, groveling man, too old for his years, always suffering from a cold and fits of lethargy, a huge, clumsy fellow with hairless arms and weak pouting lips, with a brilliant spark to his brain, imprisoned by the doughy layers of irresolution. His inventions were visionary, save for two which L.E. used to their advantage, and it was an incredible and imponderable discrepancy that this half-hearted, fidgety fellow had been capable of concocting any useful thing. It had been to Kenneth Leydecker, Sr.’s credit that he kept him on the payroll. He was of no use during a work day, off sleeping behind crates, watery-eyed from his colds and too much sleep, shuffling and apologetic, seemingly with only one wish: to die, and he had accomplished that at a premature age.

  Ostensibly, Slater Burr was his opposite, a go-getter, wide-awake and angry as Roy Burr was docile, but the blood told as it always does, manifesting itself in a different and more lethal way. Leydecker had only to watch Slater Burr make up to Nelson Stewart, observe the subtle changes, beginning with his changing his name from Fran to Slater… then on down to his marriage with Carrie, his weak-egoed transfer of his name to Stewart-owned properties, his flashy accoutrements, and ultimately with Carrie’s death and his marriage to a silly girl half his age, the gradual self-absorption… the drinking, and the deterioration of the Burr plant, the-hell-with-it slough-off of a whole city, behind a façade of concern… He was, in the end, as weak and irresponsible as his father had been; worse than Roy Burr, because he was a schemer and his weakness had vitality.

  Well, and Kenneth Leydecker tucked his handkerchief back in his robe, with a testy gesture of resolution, he would rid Cayuta of Slater Burr, the same as he would rid a place of vermin. Slater Burr was just as noxious as vermin, to Leydecker’s way of thinking, and sometimes Leydecker believed that if Fate had not dealt with Laura in the strange way it had, it could have easily been Donald Cloward he would be fighting now… And if Cloward’s return meant he was to have two battles on his hands, then he would fight both of them!

  Kenneth Leydecker dressed, studying himself in the full-length mirror attached to the back of his closet door. He was small and inconsequential-looking; his reflection mocked his resolution, but his jaw, his eyes behind the rimless glasses, the fists of his hands, and the tiny squared shoulders were determined. For he was his father’s son, and Kenneth Leydecker, Sr., just as frail-looking physically, every bit as ineffectual in his appearance, had been a paragon of strength!

  When he opened the door, and went down the long hallway, his step began to lose its quickness. His heart took a dive. From the banister, he could see the tree in the parlor, which Mrs. Basso trimmed every year, and he felt Min watching. He felt the fullness behind his eyes… the same old thing. But he pulled himself up to his full five-three, nervously wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he paused before Laura’s door, and then he knocked.

  He heard the sounds of her television, as she turned it up at the knocking. Another movie.

  He knocked again.

  Louder, chaotic.

  As he opened the door, the room was dark, but the moment he stepped inside, she snapped on the very bright overhead light. She was sitting on the bed, in slacks and a blouse, barefooted, wearing one of the Robin-Hood caps on her head. At the sight of him, she doffed it, in her usual exaggerated greeting, and dropped it on her lap. There was just a fuzz on her head; less than on his own.

  “Please turn down the television,” he said.

  “You’re standing very near to the set, father. You do it.”

  He walked across and turned the knob, lowering the sound.

  With the remote control button, fixed to her bedtable, she raised it again, and laughed. “We must learn to meet Life’s little obstacles with courage!”

  “I have something to say to you, Laura.”

  “Oh, and is it Merry Christmas, father?” She laughed again.

  “Donald Cloward is back in Cayuta,” he said flatly.

  She turned off the sound. She sat quite still, looking at her father, the shock registering slowly in her eyes. She was surrounded by the usual dozens of books and magazines on the bed, and by the small box of clay. On the bureau across from her, were scores of small clay dolls, all wearing brown wigs, made from the hair of her own wigs.

  Kenneth Leydecker had, years ago, hired a woman to come to their home from Albany, New York, to fit Laura with a wig. She had come after a series of specialists had convinced him, that while there was no physical cause for Laura’s loss of hair, the psychological cases were just as stubborn and hopeless.

  Mrs. Tweed, the woman from Albany, referred to the wig as a “transformation.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised how many women have to wear transformations, and no one suspects!” she had said. “Movie stars come to me by the dozens; cafe society, debutantes… why we had a little eleven-year-old girl last month, poor dear, not a hair on—”

  And while she talked, matching strands to the fuzz left, explaining how to have a transformation dry-cleaned, and how to set one, saying “your transformation” this and “your transformation” that, Laura listened with no expression on her face. Mrs. Tweed worked four days, staying all the while at The Mohawk Hotel (“Don’t worry, my line is top-secret, same as the F.B.I.”) and at the end, she fitted Laura for two transformations, and presented her with three of the felt Robin-Hood caps, one in lime, one in bright royal blue, the third in scarlet. “For use when you’re by yourself, or when you sleep,” she explained. “The elastic inside holds them in place. It’s fun to wear them at a jaunty little angle, and they come in all colors. I’ll leave the catalog.”

  That was that… Laura never wore the wigs… She had already stopped going out of the house, long before the arrival of Mrs. Tweed. She would not even cover her head with a scarf for a breath of air in her own yard, and she did nothing to change things.

  She stayed in her room, mostly, and if she left it, it was to eat in the kitchen during Mrs. Basso’s absence, or to sneak a book from the library, off the living room. She had not set foot outside the house in seven and a half years, since the furtive trips to clinics outside Ca
yuta, with her father.

  The few confidantes Kenneth Leydecker had were sworn to secrecy; and Mrs. Basso was… That was that.

  “Donald Cloward is back, Laura,” Leydecker repeated.

  “Was he here?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he’s out. Free. So are the birds, father. It’s hardly my concern.”

  “I just thought that you ought to know.”

  “Are you disappointed, father? Had you hoped he would die in prison?”

  “To use your words, it’s hardly my concern.”

  “It really isn’t any more, is it? You haven’t a worry in the world. Everything is in God’s hands. Well, I just wonder what the hell God did with my hair, father! Do you suppose he gave it to some good little angel?”

  “God had nothing to do with that.”

  “Yes, his mercy endureth forever… I bet you thank Him because there’s no chance now of my seeing Buzzy, even if I wanted to. Do you thank Him, father?”

  “Laura… Laura, I never thanked God for a misfortune.”

  “Well, give yourself time, father. Perhaps when you’re kneeling down this very Christmas night, a little prayer will slip out. ‘Dear God, all knowing and just, thank you that Laura is bald as an eagle, and not married to Buzzy Cloward, with whom she copulated in evil bliss and—’”

  “Laura! That’s blasphemy! Nasty-tongued blasphemy!… I did not come in here to gloat! What if the phone should ring, and suddenly you should find yourself speaking with him! You answer the phone sometimes! I came in here to prevent embarrassment for you!”

  “Oh, I’m not surprised. You’ve always been considerate and attentive.”

  “I’m sorry if you can’t see it that way.”

  “Why, if you hadn’t been so terribly thoughtful and considerate, and kind, and attentive, there might be a whole family of little Clowards running around downstairs by the Christmas tree now, instead of Mrs. Basso. Oh, thank your lucky stars, father! It’s much better this way, isn’t it?”

  “Laura, I—”

  “Because we would have had a big family, father! Buzzy and I were naturals, father? Did I ever tell you we were naturals?”

  “Very well, Laura, if you’re going to start that talk, then there’s nothing more I can say.”

  He turned and started out the door.

  “At least I won’t die a virgin, father… Put out the light, as you leave, please. I only put on the overhead light in your honor, father, so you can have a good look at me.”

  He flicked the light button with his finger.

  “And a Merry Christmas to all!” said Laura Leydecker, as he shut the door.

  eight

  “I think he probably has Blue Eye, Miss—Miss—” Chris McKenzie fumbled for her name.

  “Miss Sontag, Dr. McKenzie. Mona Sontag. I work in the office at Burr. Secretarial.” She pushed her empty glass forward on the mahogany bar, and Jitz Walsh put it under a beer jet to fill it.

  “Well, I’m sure it’s Blue Eye. Is the cornea a bluish white?”

  “Sort of. Yes, and the white of his eye is all red. Poor little dog. We named him Burr. My mother did.” She giggled, and turned to Slater. “No offense. I just been working there so long and all.”

  “No offense,” Slater agreed.

  It was late Christmas afternoon, near four. Most of the lake places closed in the winter, but Walsh’s Place bragged: OPEN YEAR ROUND, EVERY DAY.

  Jen and Lena were filling the jukebox with quarters, and while Miss Sontag solicited medical advice from Slater’s brother-in-law, Slater sipped scotch, and tried not to get into conversation with the fellow a few stools to his left. His name was Secora, and he too worked for Slater, had worked for him as far back as World War II, when the plant was making precision forgings for airplanes and warships, and Nelson Stewart was still alive.

  That day after Slater and Jen had their first rendezvous at Blood Neck Point (where they had seen Secora drive off with Rich Boyson’s wife as they drove in to park) Secora had called to report his ribs were broken in an accident. Eventually, Slater learned Rich Boyson was the accident, but at the time he had shrugged it off without connecting the two incidents. He had ordered Miss Rae to keep Secora on the payroll during his long recovery, a gesture he would have shown any long-term employee. Secora returned months later with a chummy display of gratitude, which took the form of slapping Slater’s back during Slater’s rounds of the plant, and a few times, an invitation for a beer at the bar across from the plant, refused by Slater. Time passed and Secora’s attitude changed; he was thick with the union leaders in the plant, less friendly, and Slater felt, slightly bitter at the bad times B.M.C. was realizing. That afternoon, Secora was bent on fond reminiscences of Nelson Stewart and “the old days,” and Slater sensed he was working himself up to a fight, despite his euphoric air.

  Secora was saying, “Those were the days! Say, Mr. Burr, did we win four Army-Navy “E” awards or five?”

  “Five,” said Slater.

  “I was just starting in at B.M.C. then. ’Course, then it was Stewart Company.”

  “Umm hmm.”

  “We could sure use another war,” said Secora, “or another industry in this town.”

  Slater got off the barstool, as Chris McKenzie was advising Miss Sontag to bathe her dog’s eye with warm two per cent boric-acid solution, several times a day. It had been Jen’s idea to come to Walsh’s Place and bring her brother and Lena, to make up for Slater’s absence at their home last night. Jen liked to “slum,” liked crummy little bars like this one and Boyson’s. Slater realized she enjoyed the attention she received from the people in those bars, enjoyed having them watch her… and perhaps envy her. That was part of Jen, part of her youngness and her restlessness.

  He went back near the jukebox and caught a hold of her, waltzing her around the small space with an exaggerated aplomb. McKenzie’s wife drifted back to the bar.

  “Hey, Slater, it’s a Twist, not a Waltz.” Jen laughed.

  “Only one knows the difference is Chris. He’s the only one drinking ginger ale.”

  “Be nice to him, though, hmm? It’s Christmas.”

  “Oh, I’ll be darling to him.”

  “Having a good time?”

  “Divine, Jenny, a divine time!”

  Jen grinned up at him. “I know. But we have to make some effort with them, once a year anyway… and it’s more fun out here, than in their place. Lena doesn’t think so. ‘Jen,’ she said to me, ‘you and Slater pick the lowest places. I mean, the people here.’”

  “Too close to home.”

  “Don’t I know it! Do you know she used to date Jitz Walsh?”

  For awhile, they danced without talking. Slater’s mind was back on Leydecker. The latest was that Leydecker had called an emergency meeting of the zoning board for next Tuesday. He was determined to push through his proposal. G.E. was ready to scout Cayuta some time in the spring, and it was Leydecker’s thought that by then, a demolition crew might already have in progress the removal of the Burr plant. A park could take its place—a beautiful park, for public use, landscaped and lovely, in center town. The mayor had called Slater that morning to tell him about the meeting. The Cayuta Macaroni plant was owned by the mayor’s brother, who wanted a new industry kept out just as badly as Slater did. It was an indisputable fact that Slater’s plant was not only an eyesore, but also a source of labor disputes and unrest—another bad mark for the city. No company wanted to move in on trouble, but if the zoning proposal were passed, the trouble would be removed.

  The mayor had said, “We’ve got to appeal on the basis that B.M.C. is a local business, and no city progresses by putting its own people out and letting in outsiders… Now, that’s the approach, but it’ll take a lot of fast talk, and you’ve got to work on a loan and promise great improvements via it. I can’t fight, Slater. I’m in no position to, and it’d look bad if my brother fought, so it’s up to you! You’ve got to stop Leydecker!”

  “A penny?
” Jen said.

  “Oh, I was just thinking about…” Slater began, but stopped short. The door had opened and closed, and Donald Cloward stood by the cigarette machine, at the entrance to Walsh’s.

  “What’s the matter, Slater?” Jen said. “See a ghost?”… Then she saw him too.

  For a moment, he watched Slater and Jen; then, when they saw him, he gave a slight nod, and went across to sit by Secora.

  “The Cloward boy!” Jen said. “My God in heaven! What’s he doing out?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They kept on dancing, watching while Cloward ordered a beer, and Lena McKenzie moved away from him. Chris nodded at him, and Secora punched him in the arm with a big grin and asked him when he got sprung. Cloward’s face went red with embarrassment. Again, he glanced over his shoulder at Jen and Slater.

  “Let’s say hello to him, Slater.”

  “What for?”

  “What do you send him Christmas cards for? To be nice.”

  “Oh, hell—nice!”

  “He keeps looking at us, Slater. Let’s!”

  She took the lead, and Slater followed.

  Cloward stood up and made a jerky little bow. “Hello. You’re—” and for a moment the words stuck in his throat. “You’re—Mrs. Burr.”

  “Yes. How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m all right, thanks.” Then—and there seemed to be some special significance attached to the greeting and the look in Cloward’s eyes, he said to Slater, “Hello there, Mr. Burr. I’m glad to see you again.”

  “Buzzy.”

  Secora was watching the whole moment with open curiosity, turning on the stool, and staring at the trio. Chris McKenzie was noticing out of the corner of his eye, still talking about antibiotic treatment for Blue Eye in a dog. Lena was lurking behind her husband, and Jitz Walsh had turned on the water in the bar sink full force, and was rattling glasses busily and nervously. The only one disinterested seemed to be Miss Sontag, who was trying to get Chris to help her remember the word “terramycin.”