“For Pete’s sake, watch it,” Ben said. “You’re getting the stove dirty.”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Put a lid on the frying pan. Use your head.”
“My head wouldn’t fit, Ben. It’s too small.”
Ben stared at him a moment, then he said sharply, “Stop doing that. Stop taking everything literally. You know damned well I didn’t mean for you to decapitate yourself and use your head as a lid for the frying pan. Don’t you know that?”
“Yes.”
“Damn it all, why do you do it then?”
Charlie turned, frowning, from the stove. “But you said, put a lid on the frying pan, use your head. You said that, Ben.”
“And you think I meant it like that?”
“I wasn’t really thinking. My mind was occupied with other things. Maybe with Louise coming and all like that.”
“Look, Charlie, I’m only trying to protect you. You pull something like this at work and they’ll consider you a moron.”
“No,” Charlie said gravely. “They just laugh. They think I’m being funny. Actually, I don’t have much of a sense of humor, do I?”
“No.”
“Did I ever? I mean, when we were boys together, Ben, before—well, before anything had happened, did I have a sense of humor then?”
“I can’t remember.”
“I bet you can if you tried. You’ve always had a good memory, Ben.”
“Now I’ve got a good forgetter,” Ben said. “Maybe that’s more essential in this life.”
“No, Ben, that’s wrong. It’s important for you to remember how it was with us when we were kids. Mother and Dad are dead, and I can’t remember, so if you don’t, it’s like it never happened and we were never kids together—”
“All right, all right, don’t get excited. I’ll remember.”
“Everything?”
“I’ll try.”
“Did I have a sense of humor?”
“Yes. Yes, you did, Charlie. You were a funny boy, a very funny boy.”
“Did we do a lot of laughing together, you and I and Mom and Dad?”
“Sure.”
“Louise laughs a lot. She’s very cheerful, don’t you think?”
“Louise is a very cheerful girl, yes.”
Slowly and thoughtfully, Charlie turned the fish cakes. They were burned but he didn’t care. It would only be easier to pretend they were small round tender steaks. “Ben?”
“Yes.”
“She wouldn’t stay cheerful very long if she married me, would she?”
“Stop talking like—”
“I mean, you haven’t leveled with her, Ben. She doesn’t realize what a drag I am and how she’d have to worry about me the way you do. I would hurt her. I would be hurting her all the time without meaning to, maybe without even knowing it. Would she be cheerful then? Would she?”
Ben sat down at the table, heavily and stiffly, as if each of the past five minutes had been a crippling year.
“Well? Would she, Ben?”
“I don’t know.”
Charlie looked dismayed, like a child who’s been used to hearing the same story with the same happy ending, and now the ending has been changed. It wasn’t happy any more, it wasn’t even an ending. Did the frog change into a prince? I don’t know. Did he live happily ever after with his princess? I don’t know.
Charlie said stubbornly, “I don’t like that answer. I want the other one.”
“There is no other one.”
“You always used to say that marriage changed a man, that Louise could be the making of me and we could have a good life together if we tried. Tell it to me just like that all over again, Ben.”
“I can’t.”
“All right then, give me hell. Tell me I’m downgrading myself, that I’d better look on the bright side of things, start putting on a front—that’s all true, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said. “Eat your supper.”
“How can I eat, not knowing?”
“The rest of us eat, not knowing. And work and sleep, not knowing.” He added in a gentler voice, “You’re doing all right, Charlie. You’re holding down a job, you’ve got a nice girlfriend, you’re keeping your nose clean—you’re doing fine, just fine.”
“And you’re not mad at me any more for being late?”
“No.”
“I flooded the engine, see. I had to wait and wait for the gas to drain out of it. I thought of calling you, but then I thought, Ben won’t be worrying, he knows I’m behaving myself, keeping my nose clean….” I watched from the road. The house is a long way back among the trees but I could see the child sitting at one of the front windows. Poor Jessie, poor sweetheart, resting her little bruised body. Why don’t her parents protect her? If anything happens to the girl it will be their fault, and their fault alone.
(6)
The Arlingtons arrived home from the beach at seven o’clock and Virginia went directly to her room, without saying a word. Howard was in the kitchen unpacking the picnic basket when the dog, Chap, began barking and pawing at the back door.
Howard called out, “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Uncle Howard. Jessie.”
“Oh. Well, come on in.”
Jessie went in, wearing a robe over her pajamas and carrying the book that weighed nearly half as much as she did. “Is Aunt Virginia here?”
“Oh, she’s here all right, but she’s incommunicado.”
“Does that mean in the bathroom?”
Howard laughed. “No, it means she’s sore at me.”
“Why?”
“A dozen reasons. She’s sunburned, she’s got sand in her hair, she doesn’t like the way she looks in a bathing suit, a bee stung her on the foot—all my fault, of course.” Howard put the picnic basket, now empty, on the top shelf of the broom closet, and closed the door. “When you grow up, are you going to fuss about things like that?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Atta girl.”
Jessie put the book on the table, then leaned over to pet the dog. Chap, smelling the butter that had dribbled down her chin from an ear of corn, began licking it off. Jessie was so flattered she stood the tickling without a giggle, though it was almost unbearable. “Do you think Chap likes me, Uncle Howard?”
“Obviously.”
“Does he like everybody?”
“As a matter of fact, no,” Howard said dryly. “He doesn’t even like me.”
“Why? Is he afraid of you?”
“Afraid of me? Why should he be? What gave you that idea?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I don’t beat him, kid, if that’s what you mean. He’s just been spoiled rotten by women. All he has to do is roll his eyes and he gets a T-bone steak. A little more,” he added, “is required of the human male though God knows what it is.”
Jessie wasn’t sure what he was talking about but she realized he was in a bad mood and she wished Aunt Virginia would come out of communicado.
Howard said, “Who’s the book for?”
“Aunt Virginia. She gave it to me this afternoon, only when my mother saw it she told me I had to give it back.”
“Why?”
“It cost twenty dollars.”
“Oh?” Howard opened the book and looked at the price on the inside back jacket. “So it did. Twenty dollars.”
He sounded very calm but his hands were shaking and both the child and the dog sensed trouble.
“Virginia!”
There was no response from the bedroom.
“You’d better come out here, Virginia. You have a visitor, one I’m sure you wouldn’t want to miss.”
&n
bsp; Virginia’s voice answered, soft and snuffly, “I’m in bed.”
“Then get out of bed.”
“I—I can’t.”
“You can and you will.”
The dog, tail between his legs, crawled under the table, his eyes moving from Howard to the bedroom door and back to Howard.
The door opened and Virginia came out, clutching a long white silk robe around her. All of her skin that was visible was a fiery red and her eyes were bloodshot. “I’m not feeling very well, Howard. I have a fever.”
“You also have a visitor,” Howard said in the same calm voice. “Jessie has come to return the book you gave her this afternoon. It seems her mother considered it too expensive a gift for her to accept. How much did it cost, Virginia?”
“Please, Howard. Not in front of the child. It’s—”
“How much?”
“Twenty dollars.”
“And where did you get the twenty dollars, Virginia?”
“From my—purse.”
Howard laughed.
“Where did you get the money in your purse? Perhaps you’ve taken a job and the twenty came out of your salary?”
“You know I haven’t, it didn’t. . . . Jessie, you’d better go home now. Right away, dear.”
“Let her stay,” Howard said.
“Please, Howard. She’s only a little girl.”
“Little girls can cause big troubles. And do. I want you to tell me, in front of Jessie, just where the twenty dollars came from.”
“From you, Howard.”
“That’s right. From my pay check. So that makes me the Santa Claus of the neighborhood, not you, Virginia. Right?”
“Yes.”
He picked the book up from the table and held it out toward Jessie. “Here you are, kid. Take the book, it’s all yours, with love and kisses from Santa Claus.”
Jessie stared at him, wide-eyed. “I can’t. My mother won’t let—”
“Take it. Get it out of here. I’m sick of the sight of it.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You don’t want it. I see. Maybe you’d rather have the money, eh? All right.”
He reached for his wallet, pulled out two ten-dollar bills and thrust them into her hand. Behind his back she saw Virginia nod at her and smile a shaky little smile that asked her to humor Howard. Jessie looked down at the bills in her hand, then she put them in the pocket of her bathrobe, quickly, as though she didn’t like the feel of them. She remembered the conversation she’d had with Mary Martha about grownups buying children and she wondered if she had been bought and what buying and selling really meant.
Sex had no particular interest or mystery for Jessie. Her mother and father had explained it to her quite carefully. But nobody had ever explained money and why people were affected by it. To Jessie it seemed like black magic, nice when it was on your side and bad when it wasn’t, but you couldn’t tell in advance which it would be. Money was what bought things to make people happy, like the new house, but it was also what parents quarreled about when they thought the children were sleeping; it caused Virginia to cringe in front of Howard, and lie about the patio umbrella; it made her mother irritable when the mail arrived and made her brother Michael threaten to quit school and get a job. It was as mysterious as God, who had to be thanked for blessings but couldn’t be blamed for their lack.
The pocket of her bathrobe felt heavy with power and with guilt. She could buy things now, but she had also been bought.
“What are you standing around for, kid?” Howard said. “You have your money and your earful. That’s about all you can expect from one visit.”
Virginia walked quickly to the back door and opened it. Her face appeared very peculiar because she was trying, with one part of it, to give Howard a dirty look, and with the other part, to smile reassuringly at Jessie. “Good night, dear. Don’t worry. I’ll explain things to your mother in the morning.”
“I bet you will,” Howard said when Jessie had gone. “The explanation should be a doozy. I wish I could stick around to hear it but I can’t. I’m leaving.”
“Why? Haven’t you done enough damage for one night?”
“I’m afraid I might do more if I stay.”
He went into the bedroom. His suitcase was lying on the floor, open but still unpacked except for his toothbrush and shaving kit. He gave it a kick and the lid fell shut.
Virginia said from the doorway, “You don’t have to be childish.”
“It’s better than kicking you or the dog, isn’t it?”
“Why do you have to kick anything?”
“Because I’m a bully, I’m the kind of guy who forces sweet little wife to go out in the nasty sun and fresh air down to the nasty beach. That’s your version of this afternoon, isn’t it?”
“I can’t help it if I sunburn easily.”
“Well, here’s my version. This is my first day at home in two weeks. I wanted to be with my wife and I also wanted to get some fresh air and exercise which I happen to need. That’s all. Not exactly reaching for the moon, was I, Virginia?”
“No. But—”
“Let me finish. I realized my wife had a delicate skin so I bought her a large straw hat and a beach umbrella. She decided the hat wasn’t becoming enough, and after a while she got bored sitting under the umbrella so she went for a walk. The sun was strong, there was a wind and there was also, unfortunately, a half-dead bee which she stepped on. To complicate matters, she became conscious of all the young girls on the beach with young figures and by the time we were ready to eat she’d decided to go on a diet. She didn’t eat anything. I did, though, the way any man would when he hasn’t had a meal at home in two weeks. My wife sat and watched me. She was sunburned, hungry, nursing a sore foot and silent as a tomb. It was an interesting afternoon. I thank you for it, Virginia. It makes going back to work a real pleasure.”
“Is that where you’re going now, back to work?”
“Why not?”
He picked his suitcase up off the floor and tossed it on the bed. A sock and a drip-dry shirt fell out and Virginia went over to pick them up. The shirt was clean but wrinkled, as if Howard had laundered it himself and hung it up on the shower rod of any of a dozen anonymous motor courts or hotels.
Virginia held the shirt against her breasts as if it, more than the man who wore it, could move her to pity. “Did you wash this yourself, Howard?”
“Yes.”
“Where? I mean, what city, what hotel?”
He looked at her, puzzled. “Why do you want to know that?”
“I just do.”
“It was the Hacienda Inn in Bakersfield. There was an all-night party going on next door. Instead of taking a sleeping pill I got up and did some laundry.”
“Howard, your job isn’t much fun, is it?”
“Sometimes it is, in some ways,” he said brusquely. “I don’t expect to go around laughing all the time.”
After a moment’s hesitation Virginia went over to the bed and started taking the things out of his suitcase and putting them away in the clothes closet and the bureau drawers. She worked quickly and nervously as if she wanted to get it done before he had a chance to protest. Neither of them spoke until the suitcase was empty and snapped shut and hidden under the bed. Then Virginia said, “I’m sorry I was such a poor sport this afternoon.”
“I knew you were a poor sport when I married you,” Howard said quietly. “I should have had more sense than to plan a beach picnic.”
“But you wanted one, you deserved one. You work hard at a difficult job and—”
“Come on now, don’t go to extremes. I do a job, like any other man. I also get mad and lose my temper. Yes, and I guess I get jealous, too. . . . I’m sorry I made an ass of myself in front of the kid. G
iving her twenty dollars like that—God, what’ll Dave and Ellen think when she tells them?”
“Nothing. She won’t tell them.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’d make her return the money and she doesn’t want to.”
Howard sat down on the edge of the bed, shaking his head ruefully. “I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.”
“Stop thinking about it. We were both wrong and we’re both sorry.” Virginia sat down beside him and put her head on his shoulder. “I’m a poor sport and you’re a jealous idiot. Maybe we deserve each other.”
“Your sunburn—”
“It doesn’t hurt so much anymore.”
After a time he said, “I’ll be very gentle with you, Virginia.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I know that, too.”
She lay soft in his arms, her eyes closed, thinking that it had been exactly seven months and one week since she’d told Howard that she loved him.
(7)
Louise dressed carefully in a blue linen sheath with a Peter Pan collar, matching flat-heeled shoes that emphasized the smallness of her feet, and white gloves so tiny that she had to buy them in the children’s department. At the last minute she pinned a bow in her short brown hair because Charlie liked girls to wear bows in their hair.
She went to the living room to say good night to her parents. Mr. Lang was doing the crossword puzzle in the evening newspaper, and Mrs. Lang was embroidering the first of a dozen pillow slips she would send to her relatives at Christmas.
“Well, I’m off,” Louise said from the doorway. “I won’t be late, but don’t wait up.”
Mrs. Lang peered at her over the top of her spectacles. “You look just lovely, dear. Doesn’t she, Joe, look lovely?”
Mr. Lang put down his paper and stood up, as if Louise were a stranger he had to be polite to. Sitting, he had appeared to be of normal size, but when he stood up he wasn’t much taller than Louise, though he held himself very straight. “You look very lovely indeed, my dear. Is this a special occasion?”
“No.”
“Where are you going?”
The Fiend Page 6
