by Lionel White
Len looked up and tried to get the man in focus.
“Where’s here?” he asked, his voice thick.
“Where you said to take you. Fairlawn Acres. Now tell me, which is your house? I’ll drop you off.”
He wanted to go back to sleep. His head was splitting and all he wanted to do was curl up in the seat and go back to sleep.
“Listen, Mister,” the driver said, "tell me where to take you. I want to get home sometime tonight, myself.”
Len made an effort and opened his eyes again. It took every bit of concentration possible, but finally he got the words out.
“Crescent Drive,” he said. “Take me to Cres’ Drive.”
“You gotta number?”
“Yeah—ninety-six. Nine six Cres’.”
Len closed his eyes again. He’d forgotten all about his glasses, which were lying on the floor at his feet.
It took the driver a half hour to find Crescent Drive. He cursed whoever it was who’d laid out the development as he drove around, straining his eyes to see street signs. He was tempted to drop his passenger at random and go on back to New York. But he remembered the twenty-dollar bill that the big gray haired man had given him and he resisted the temptation. The man might have taken down his license number before he had piled his passenger aboard.
When he did find Crescent Drive he looked at the long row of houses in disgust. Each one was an exact replica of its neighbor and try as he might, he was unable to see a number.
“Goddamn ’em,” he said, “you’d think they’d at least put the goddamned numbers where you could see ’em.”
He stopped finally and took a flashlight from his pocket. He flashed it on the front of a house and still found no number. So he climbed down from his seat and walked toward the front door. Finally the light found what he was looking for. It was number eighty-two.
Going back to the cab, he drove in low gear for several hundred yards until he came to the seventh house down. He didn’t bother to use the flashlight again, but got out and opened the back door of the cab.
"O.K. chum,” he said. “You’re home.” Once more he reached in and shook Len by the shoulder.
Len Nielsen looked up blankly, squinting his eyes and finally closing one of them. He grunted unintelligibly and then staggered from the cab. The driver hesitated a moment before taking him by the arm. They walked up the path and to the front door of the house.
“You’re all right now, bud,” he said. He turned as Len fumbled in his pocket for his keys.
Back in the front seat of the taxi, the driver slipped the car into gear and then hesitated, his foot on the clutch. He watched as Len tried to fit his key into the front door lock.
When the door wouldn’t open, Len started to reach for the bell, then hesitated. He was still pretty tight, but his mind was beginning to clear. He knew it was very late; the house was dark. AlEe would have gone to bed. He didn’t want to awaken her.
It was probably because he had lost his glasses, but somehow that damned door wouldn't open. Len knew the bedroom window would be half opened and he remembered that he himself had taken off the screen shortly after they had moved in.
AlEe was a heavy sleeper. She would never hear him.
Still staggering slightly, and holding one hand out in front of himself, Len carefully felt his way around the side of the house. He stumbled once over a small bush, but didn’t faU. He found the window and it was opened barely a crack. But he was able to put his hand in and wind the handle opening the casement wide.
He lifted one foot high and put it over the window sill. A moment later and he was in the room.
The taxi driver waited until Len had disappeared around the side of the house. Then he slipped the clutch and the car left the curb.
“Brother!” he said. “Some load. I wouldn’t want to have his headache tomorrow morning!”
He never said a truer word in his Efe.
Chapter Three
Actually, it is surprising that anyone at the Swansons’ heard the shots over the blare of the hi-fi phonograph and the general noises made by the party. And certainly it is even more surprising that of the more than a dozen persons crowded into the small living room and kitchen at 9 5 Crescent Drive, the one person who heard them was Myrtle McNally, Myrtle being, beyond any question of a doubt, the drunkest person at the Swansons’ that evening.
Howard, Myrtle’s husband, would have been the logical one to have caught the sharp double explosion, because Howard, at the time, was just closing the back door, having gone out into the yard in order to relieve himself. But Howard’s mind was concentrating on something which had suddenly seemed very important to him and when Howard was concentrating, nothing in this world able to penetrate the orderly processes of his thinking.
Howard was thinking of girls; to be specific, one particular girl. A girl whom he had never seen up until some three hours ago, but a girl who interested him vastly.
The fact that this girl was not more than fifteen or sixteen years old, and was, at the very moment, home baby-sitting with Howard’s own infant daughter, didn’t prevent Howard from thinking about her.
At the very moment the two reports came to her ears, Myrtle, standing at the kitchen sink where she was attempting to get the cap off a fresh bottle of ginger ale, was watching Howard as he re-entered the house. Her mind was confused because of the drinking she had been doing, but still she was sober enough to wonder where Howard had been. Her lips moved slightly as she spoke under her breath.
“The son-of-a-bitch,” she said. “The dirty, skirt-chasing son-of-a-bitch! I wonder who was out there with him this time.”
And then she heard the shots and it seemed to her that they came from the direction of her own house, which was diagonally across the street. Her mind at once discarded all thoughts of her husband and went to her six-month-old daughter. She gave up trying to open the bottle and took a few faltering steps until she was facing her husband.
"Howard,” she said, “Howard.” She shook him by his arm, seeing the vague look on his face.
Howard twisted his head in annoyance and looked at her. He had to look up slightly as Myrtle was a tall woman and he himself was only five foot six. He weighed more than a hundred and ninety pounds and he had the round, guileless face of a newborn baby. His blond hair was thin and, within another
two or three years, would be completely gone, although he was not yet thirty-five.
Staring into his pale-blue eyes, Myrtle suddenly thought, good God, what can any woman see in him? What did I ever see in him?
“Howard," she said, her voice thick, “I just heard noises coming from over our way. Sounded like shots.”
Howard shook his arm free.
“Good Lord, Myrtle,” he said, “Don’t start that. Don’t start imagining things. With all of the noise going on in this place, you couldn’t have heard anything at all.”
He stared at her, unblinkingly, annoyance marring the baby smoothness of his face.
“Are you drunk already?” he asked. “I warned you not to...”
“Not drunk,” Myrtle said, sullenly. “Anyway, what did we come here for unless it was to drink?”
“Drink like the rest of the people do, then,” Howard said. “Can’t you have a few drinks and then stop? Do you always have to get slopped to the gills?”
“Where have you been?” Myrtle asked, quickly stepping back and changing the subject. She didn’t want to discuss her drinking. Damn it, she thought, what’s it to him if I do get drunk. If it wasn’t for him I’d never have started...
“If it’s any of your business,” Howard interrupted her thoughts, “if it’s any of your damned business, I’ve been outside taking a pee.”
Myrtle stepped back, weaving slightly and braced herself against the sink.
“You may have had your pants undone,” she said, “but...”
She stopped quickly as the kitchen door opened and Grace Swanson came in.
“Hey, where’s that
ginger ale,” Grace said. “You been out here for..” She suddenly saw Howard and stopped. “Well!’’she said, “you two lovebirds doing a little private necking here all by yourselves? Married couples, you know. That’s incest in this neck of the woods.”
She laughed and quickly reached for the ginger ale bottle and snapped the cap off.
“Comeon,” shesaid, “jointhecompany.We’regoingtochooseupforcha-rades.”
Myrtle decided to follow her into the other room where the rest of the guests had just finished dancing. Myrtle wanted to check up and see if anyone’s wife was missing.
Grace Swanson, who was throwing the party, had already gone through the door and Myrtle was about to follow her, when Howard spoke.
“What did you say, Myrtle?” he asked. “You heard something from over our way?”
Myrtle hesitated.
* "I thought I heard a couple of shots,” she said. “But don’t let it worry you.
Don’t let anything worry you at all. Just go on having a nice time. ’
She hiccupped as she turned toward the other room.
“O.K.” Howard said, suddenly. "O.K. I’ll just run over and see if everything’s all right. You tell them I’ll be right back.”
He left by the back door as Myrtle re-entered the living room.
Although he hadn’t bothered to put on his coat and was hatless, Howard wasn’t cold as he quickly started across the street heading toward the front door of his own house. The light snow had been falling for several hours now but it wasn’t sticking to the streets.
Howard wasn’t worrying about the weather. He was busy thinking about what had happened some three hours ago, before he and Myrtle had left the house to come over to the Swansons’ party.
Howard himself had been late getting home. He’d taken the new girl at the office out for a drink, after work. The girl was directly under Howard’s supervision and had not wanted to refuse a request from her boss. She was a rather plain girl, fresh out of business school and it was her first job. Unfortunately, Howard worked for one of the big insurance companies and didn’t do his own hiring. A personnel director took care of that.
As a result, few of the girls in Howard’s department would have qualified for beauty prizes, although in all fairness it must be admitted that without exception they were competent stenographers and typists.
The new girl—her name was Hazel Baumberg—interested Howard for three reasons. First, she was new and didn’t know anything about Howard’s reputation with the other girls in the office. Howard was referred to, in secret of course, as “Itchy Fingers,” by most of the female employees.
Secondly the new girl was young, not more than nineteen or twenty, and although she was a plain girl whose features were too large for her pale, egg-shaped face, she had a very nice form. Howard, who had an eye like an X-ray machine, was perfectly able to visualize her overdeveloped breasts, fully appreciating their seductive contours despite the fact that Miss Baumberg had modestly enveloped herself in a rather severe tweed suit.
The third reason which made the girl interesting to Howard was probably the most important of all. She had acquiesced to his invitation and Howard never passed up any possible opportunities. One could never tell just what a drink might lead to.
Unfortunately, the drink had led to nothing except making Howard late in getting home. Miss Baumber had accepted the drink, carefully removed Howard’s hand from her upper thigh, and in no uncertain manner had let Howard understand that if her job depended on submitting to passes from
her boss, she was perfectly willing to look for a new job.
Howard had not asked her to have a second drink. He had held no resentment, however, but had merely shrugged the entire thing off. One thing about Howard, he tried them all and if he was snubbed and turned down, he merely went on to someone else. He worked on the theory that the law of averages would take care of him, and surprisingly enough, it usually did.
In spite of his wife and child and his own rather unfortunate physical appearance, an amazingly large number of women found something in him to appeal to them and willingly succumbed to seduction.
Howard arrived at number 100 Crescent Drive just after six-thirty. He knew that he and Myrtle were expected that evening over at the Swanson’s and he also knew that he would have to hurry with his dinner in order get showered and dressed in time.
Myrtle was in the kitchen with Melanie, the baby, when Howard walked into the house. She was standing at the stove, a spoon in her right hand, as she stirred pablum into warm milk. In her left hand was a glass containing rye and soda. On the burner next to the pablum, a pot of spaghetti and meatballs slowly simmered.
As he entered the kitchen, pulling his arm from his coat sleeve, Howard had been about to say something, make some sort of excuse for being late. But when he looked at Myrtle and saw the drink in her hand, his face flushed with anger and he turned and removed his other arm from the coat and hung the garment on a hook in the closet.
He didn’t speak as he turned back into the room and walked over to where the baby lay in her portable crib. His eyes, however, were on his wife.
Myrtle was about ten years younger than her husband, a large, handsome girl with very lovely azure eyes, long blond hair and a fine, slender body. She is, thought Howard, one hell of a lot better looking and more attractive sexually than that silly Baumberg female. On the other hand, Howard felt not the slightest desire for her. He hadn't, in fact, been aroused by her since long before the baby had been born.
Sometimes he couldn’t understand it himself. This complete aloofness to his own wife, who was, byany standard, a lot more desirable than most of the women who so intrigued him. It never occurred to Howard that the fact she was always available, might have had anything to do with it. She merely seemed like another piece of furniture around the house.
Right now, however, Howard was feeling anything but indifferent.
“Jesus Christ, Myrtle,” he said, “why in the name of God do you want to start drinking now? Can’t you wait until we get to the party?”
Myrtle stopped stirring the pablum, laid the spoon down and carefully dipped her index finger into the mixture to test it for temperature. Then she
looked up at him and spoke.
“I’m just having a cocktail before dinner, ” she said. “Why don’t you make one for yourself while I feed Melanie. It might make you a little better na-tured.”
“There's nothing wrong with my nature,” Howard said, shortly. He leaned over the baby and spoke to her, using that strange gibberish which all adults employ in communicating with infants.
“Who’s going to be there tonight?” he asked. He knew that it would be pointless to pick on Myrtle because of her nipping. It would only make her contrary and when she got contrary, she’d drink more than ever.
Myrtle splashed some whiskey and water in a glass, tossed in an ice cube and handed it to him before answering.
“Drink this,” she said, her voice more friendly. She had detected the subtle change in his own voice, a change which let her know that he wanted to avoid an argument. “It’s nasty out and it’ll keep a cold away.” She lifted her own glass and finished the drink. “Well, I don’t know. I met Grace at the super market this morning and she said Tom was having some people from his office.”
“He’s with one of the plane companies, isn’t he?” Howard asked. He didn’t much care where Tom Swanson worked, but he wanted to keep the conversation going. He wanted to keep Myrtle in a good mood. If Myrtle felt all right, she would probably control her drinking and behave herself.
“Yes. I think Republic, but I’m not sure. Anyway, they’re having the office people and maybe a few of the regulars from the neighborhood. By the way, I met the new neighbors.”
Howard set his glass down and lighted a cigarette. ‘People who moved in next door?” he asked.
“Yes. That is I met her. I think she’s some sort of foreigner or something. They have a little girl. She,
the mother, stopped by for a second this noon to ask about getting milk deliveries. Seemed a little strange and when I invited her in for a cup of coffee she hesitated for a second and just then somebody from her house called out. I guess it was her husband. Anyway, she acted sort of half frightened and said that she wouldn’t be able to—that is, be able to stop in for coffee. She turned and hurried right back into her house. ”
Howard grunted.
“This goddamned neighborhood is filled with freaks,” he said. “I guess one more or less won’t make much difference.”
“Most of the people are nice enough,” Myrtle said.
Howard snickered.
"Yeah? Nice like the Neilsens, I suppose? The stuck up sons-of-bitches.”
Myrtle looked at him, surprise on her face.
“They aren’t stuck up,” she said. "They just like to keep to themselves. I think Mrs. Neilsen is very nice. And that little boy of theirs is a real doll.”
“They're stuck up,” Howard said. “I ran into Neilsen the other day down at the gas station. Asked him to drop by and see the fights on television and he told me he wasn’t interested in fights. Stupid bastard.”
“Well...” Myrtle reached for the bottle to pour another drink. She decided to let it go. She didn’t want to start another argument. Certainly not about the Neilsens. “Well, anyway, the Swansons are good people and a lot of fun. Maybe we’ll meet some other people who are fun tonight.
“You keep knocking off that goddamned rye and you won’t be able to tell,” Howard said.
Myrtle looked at him, not concealing the disgust on her face.
“And you’ll make passes at their wives and you’ll probably think they’re stuck up, too.”
Howard’s face went red. He took a step toward Myrtle and for just the fraction of a second, felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to hit her. Unconsciously he closed his right fist, half raising his arm.
“Go ahead,” Myrtle said. “Go right ahead, just try it. I’ll smash this glass down your fat throat! ”
Quickly Howard dropped his hand and stepped back. The fact was he knew that she actually would. The last time he had struck her, shortly after Melanie was born, Myrtle had put her hand to her bloody mouth and stared at him for a moment, saying nothing. He’d turned away and the next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor with blood pouring from the back of his head. She’d crashed a frying pan over his skull.
