“Yes, I think I see it. I think I do.” Hazel walked over to the window, her hands jammed in the pockets of her jeans as if it was necessary to keep them under control. The sun poured through the net curtains, a golden stream of warmth and light. “Where did you hide it?”
“In the garage.”
“Whereabouts in the garage?”
“I—can’t tell you.”
“You’ve got to.”
Ruth stared down at the floor, mute and suffering.
“Now try and be sensible, Ruth. I looked in the garage a few minutes ago and couldn’t find it. You’re sure you hid it there?”
“Yes.”
“What part? Tell me.”
“I want to, I want to, but I—” She moved her head from side to side, like an animal with a pain it couldn’t understand or communicate.
“Ruth. Listen to me.”
“Yes.”
“You’re over the bad part, you’ve admitted you took it and hid it some place. That was hard for you, but you did it.”
“Yes.”
“The rest can’t be any harder. Tell me where it is and I’ll take it back to him and we can forget the whole thing. Are you listening to me, Ruth?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“The—the buggy.”
“Buggy.”
“That Harold got for the baby. It’s right—right there. I didn’t hide it. I just put it down—it seemed—such a good place for it.”
“Yes,” Hazel said quietly, “I guess it was.”
“You won’t—tell Josephine?”
“No.”
“She’d be mad—germs and everything.”
“I won’t tell her.”
“I don’t know—why I took it. It’s only a clipper.”
“Sometimes things have a special meaning.”
“What meaning could it have? Only a clipper.” She raised her head, slowly. “To you it must seem—quite humorous.”
“No.”
“But it is, it is humorous, in a way. I often see the funny side of things only I can’t laugh easily like some people. Oh, yes, I see the humor in it. You must, too, only you won’t admit it—a grown woman spying on a Mexican gardener, yes spying, and then stealing his hedge clipper and hiding it in a baby buggy. That’s humorous enough. You’re a great laugher, why don’t you laugh?”
“I don’t feel like it,” Hazel said. “I’ll go and get the clipper.”
“Wait. I’ll go with you.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“I must.” She grasped the bedpost and pulled herself to her feet. Two spots of color had appeared over her cheekbones like round red poker chips. “I must learn to face things.”
The garage smelled of oil and dust and dead leaves. Each time a gust of wind blew past the door the leaves were sucked up into the vacuum it left behind; they jerked and spun for a moment like frenzied dancers and then drifted down to the concrete floor, rustling with self-applause.
Throughout the morning dust had sifted into the garage like snow, and now it covered everything, the oil leavings from Hazel’s car, the broken chair from the kitchen, the bicycle Harold had used on his paper route years and years ago, Ruth’s trunkful of books, George’s collection of shells and driftwood; and, in the far corner near the window, the buggy which Harold had gotten, fourth- or fifth-hand, from the furniture store where he worked. Someone (Josephine? Ruth?) had covered the buggy with an old yellow slicker.
Ruth approached it slowly, holding a handkerchief against her mouth, partly to control its trembling and partly to protect it from the dust.
Her voice came through the handkerchief, muffled and strange. “Everything is so dirty. I must clean.” I must face things, I must expiate, I must clean, I must, I must . . . She removed the yellow slicker and a faint odor of urine rose from the mattress pad and vanished.
The hedge clipper lay snugly on its side, but it did not breathe or move; it did not look or smell or feel like a real baby, and yet for a brief time in Ruth’s mind it had been real. It had breathed against her scrawny chest and warmed her arms and made loving sounds in her ear.
She reached into the buggy and pulled the clipper out roughly by one handle.
“Only a clipper,” she said with a sharp little laugh. “You see? It is funny.”
“Yes.”
“I wish you’d laugh. You laugh at other things, why not at this?”
Hazel didn’t answer.
“I suppose you think I’m crazy. Well, I’m not. I sometimes wish I were. Life can be so dirty, so cruel, so terrifying.” Life is dirty, I must clean; it is cruel, I must be kind; it is terrifying, I must be brave, face things.
“Where does he live?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Escobar.” It was the first time she had ever called him by his name.
“On Quincy Street, 509, I think.”
“You said the hard part was over, Hazel. You were wrong.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m going to take the clipper back myself. That will be the hardest part, explaining to him.”
“For God’s sake, Ruth, be sensible. You can’t explain to him, you—”
“I must.”
She turned and walked back through the dead leaves and the dust, with the hedge clipper hanging loosely from her hand, striking her thigh as she moved.
She took a bus across town in the direction of Quincy Street. Since it was Sunday, the bus was nearly empty and the driver had to go very slowly to kill time. On weekdays, in order to keep to his schedule, he was compelled to drive at a wild clip, dodging in and out of traffic, blowing his horn, spurting through the streets like a grounded pilot demoted to the wheel of a dilapidated bus but not admitting it for a minute.
Sunday was different, low gear, five miles an hour. He had time to look around and enjoy himself and study his passengers through the rear-view mirror. The young Negro couple were in love, probably newly in love, from the way they sat and looked at each other in utter silence; the old man behind them was smiling drowsily to himself as if the bus was his own private Cadillac and he was taking a Sunday drive.
Only the gray-haired woman sitting taut and rigid near the rear exit door with a parcel across her knees seemed anxious for a destination. She kept peering out at the street signs.
“Driver?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You heard me say Quincy Street?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be sure and—?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He looked at her curiously. Her features reminded him of a teacher he’d had years ago in Jefferson grade school, a very gentle, pretty, young woman who had trouble keeping the class quiet. When she said goodbye on the last day of school she had cried a little and most of the children had cried too. Miss Kane. He hadn’t thought of her for years.
“Quincy Street,” he said, and the woman got up, clutching her parcel, and headed for the door.
He swung around in his seat and stared at her, his eyebrows raised, as if he expected an answer to some question.
Miss Kane?
She stared back at him for a moment, and then turned away. Sorry, Miss Kane doesn’t live here any more.
The door closed behind her and the bus moved away, its ageing insides grumbling and letting off wind.
She stood and watched, remembering the bus driver perfectly, his name, his age, his report card. Melvyn Schlagel, grade three. Dear Mrs. Schlagel, Melvyn is a bright and lovable boy, and I am sure his indifferent marks are merely the result of high spirits and will improve greatly in time to come. Sincerely, Ruth Kane.
Miss Kane?
Yes, Melvyn.<
br />
She raised her hand and waved, just as the bus reached the corner. She was not sure whether Melvyn waved back or whether he was making a left-turn signal. No, they never make signals, she thought, he must have waved back at me. He knew me after all these years. I can’t have changed so much. Perhaps next time, if I see him again, we will have a little chat about old times. What a noisy class I had that year, but I loved them all.
The bus turned the corner and Ruth began to walk in the opposite direction down Quincy Street, a new glow in her eyes and a bounce in her step, as if the unexpected reminder of happy years made them more real in the past and more possible in the future. The gap between the two seemed suddenly smaller, its walls lower, its moats easier to leap across, its doors already half-open.
Quincy Street was packed solid with small square frame shacks, their front windows no more than six feet from the sidewalk. Five hundred and nine was in the middle of the block, indistinguishable from its neighbors except for two potted geraniums precariously balanced on the sagging railing of the tiny porch. On the front door someone had printed in chalk, “Viva la Fiesta,” and in ink, on a card above the doorbell, “Out of Order.”
She banged on the door with the side of her fist to make herself heard above the street noises, the rumble of roller skates, the shrieks of children, the barking of dogs. She was aware that people were watching her as they watched anyone new or different in the neighborhood. Windows were raised, blinds snapped up, lace curtains parted, eyes narrowed.
She knocked again and waited, half-hoping that Escobar would answer right away so that she could get the whole thing over with, and yet dreading the moment when she would come face to face with him and try to explain: Here is your hedge clipper, Mr. Escobar. You didn’t lose it, you didn’t leave it anywhere. I took it, yes, quite deliberately. I committed a sinful act. I must pay for it. I must—
A young Negro in a T-shirt and a straw hat came around the side of the house and looked at her over the porch railing.
He said, in a monotone, “Ain’t nobody in.”
“Oh.”
“They went away couple hours ago. Fishing. They eat a lotta fish.” He folded his arms on his chest and teetered back and forth on the balls of his feet. He was wearing very long pointed shoes the color of mustard. “I live next door. Name’s Jenkins.”
“I’m Miss Kane.”
He tipped his hat briefly. “Pleased to meet you.”
“I—you have no idea when they’ll be back?”
“Depends on the fishing.”
“Could I—I wonder if I could leave this parcel here on the porch? It’s Mr. Escobar’s hedge clipper.”
“Oh, that. I heard them talking about it. The walls are thin,” he added, as if that explained everything. “It fell off his bicycle.”
“No. No, it didn’t.”
“Just saying what I heard at supper.”
“He never had it on his bicycle!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Still holding his arms over his chest he took a step back, as if her voice had struck like a spear at his vital organs.
“I know, because I took it. I—”I stole it, I committed, a sin. I must expiate. Viva la Fiesta. Out of Order. She inhaled deeply and the hot dusty air rattled in her throat like gourds. “I took it and put it away in the garage—for safekeeping.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tell him—tell him I found it in the back yard, just where he left it.” She propped the clipper up against the front door and turned away, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Tell him he is to be more careful of his tools in the future.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much, Mr. Jenkins.”
She walked back toward the bus stop, feeling extraordinarily light and agile without the weight of the hedge clipper. The noises of Quincy Street, the children, the dogs, the passing freight train, mingled with the remembered noise of the classroom into a pleasant dissonance she had not heard before.
Sitting on the concrete bench at the bus stop with her eyes closed against the wind and the sun, she breathed a quiet prayer. Thank you, Hazel, for being kind. Thank you, Mr. Escobar, for going fishing. Thank you, Mr. Jenkins. Thank you, God.
14
On Sunday night after church Elaine Foster went to her minister for advice. The minister, a worldly man called Kriger, knew perfectly well that Elaine was incapable of taking advice, so he didn’t offer any. Instead, he let her talk. She talked for over an hour, being as truthful as she ever had to anybody, and when she had finished she went home and phoned Ruth.
The following morning about eleven o’clock, Ruth arrived carrying a suitcase and leading Wendy by a leash.
Elaine met her at the door. She looked coldly at the dog but didn’t say anything.
She spoke in a stage whisper: “The children are playing in the kitchen. I don’t want them to know you’re here until we’ve had a chance to discuss matters. They get so excited.”
“Have you told them yet?”
“Just that Grandma was sick and I have to go to Chicago to look after her for a week or so. They wouldn’t understand the truth.”
“Perhaps not.” Ruth hesitated, and then reached down and took off the dog’s leash. “I hope you don’t mind my bringing Wendy. I thought the children might like—it might take their minds off things.”
“I don’t mind in the least.”
“Besides, there’s no one at home to look after her. Harold and Josephine are moving today. They found a small house in the canyon.”
“I am very fond of dogs,” Elaine said, and leaned over and patted the little dog firmly on the head.
Leaving the suitcase on the hall stairs the two women walked on tiptoe into the living room. The drapes were drawn so that the morning sun wouldn’t fade the carpet and the slipcovers, and the room was twilight dark. From the kitchen came the sounds of the children playing, muffled by closed doors. Everything seemed muted, as if somewhere in the house, a person was about to die and mustn’t be disturbed by noise or light or movement.
“I hate to leave,” Elaine said. “But the Reverend Kriger told me it was the best thing to do, go away for a while and gain some perspective, think things out. If I sat around here feeling sorry for myself, I’d go mad.”
“You’re holding up wonderfully well.”
“That’s what he said, too. Some women would be simply prostrate, he said, having the bottom drop out of their lives like this. But I can’t afford to give in to my emotions.” She paused. “I wired Mother last night. Not that she’ll be surprised, she’s never had much use for Gordon. She was practically heartbroken when I married him. Reverend Kriger didn’t actually say so, but he implied that perhaps I am being punished for not taking Mother’s advice in the first place.”
She began to pace up and down the room, and the little dog, thinking that she might be taking a walk, followed, sniffing, at her heels.
“I told you about the charge accounts at the market and the pharmacy.”
Ruth nodded.
“You’ll need some cash too, for the laundry and the paper boy and things like that. I’ve left fifty dollars for you in the top left-hand drawer of the buffet in the dining room. We haven’t discussed your salary yet.”
“There’s no hurry.”
“I don’t even know how much I’ll be able to pay you.”
“You mustn’t worry about it.”
“That’s what Reverend Kriger said, I mustn’t worry about other people so much, I must think of myself.” The Reverend Kriger had done nothing more than nod and make a sympathetic sound, but out of these Elaine had fabricated a whole moral philosophy: You must be completely selfish, Mrs. Foster. “He said, what about money, and I said, I don’t know, I just don’t know how we’ll manage. With the house to pay for and thr
ee children to feed and clothe we’ve never been able to put much aside.”
“Dr. Foster certainly won’t let you starve.”
“Won’t he?” Elaine’s mouth twitched with a grim little smile. “How will he make a living?”
“Hazel says he’s a wonderful dentist.”
“Really?”
“First-rate, she said.”
“It seems to me Hazel might be a little prejudiced.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I wonder, why.” She had stopped pacing and the little dog had stopped too, and was standing at her side looking up into her face, trying to read her expression. “I saw her this morning.”
“Hazel? Where?”
“At the bank. She avoided me.”
“Oh, I’m sure she didn’t mean—”
“It was quite intentional.”
“She’s nearsighted.”
“Not that nearsighted. She was in line at the very next window.”
“Well.”
“She cashed a check, a large check, judging from the number of bills the teller gave her.”
“They could have been ones.”
“They could have been, but they weren’t. I am not nearsighted. They were twenties.”
“Hazel doesn’t keep much money in the bank. I can’t understand it.”
“I can. It wasn’t her money, it was mine. Half mine, anyway.”
“I don’t see—”
“When my turn came I asked the teller to check the joint account I have with Gordon. There was five hundred dollars missing. It adds up, doesn’t it? She wasn’t cashing that check for herself but for Gordon. She knows where he’s gone. She must, if she’s going to send the money to him. It’s laughable, isn’t it?—she and Gordon may have planned this whole thing weeks ago.”
Wives and Lovers Page 24
