From the living room came the sharp, brutal sounds of his brother-in-law’s voice. Smashing like a metal hammer against an anvil, the voice vibrated through the thin walls—cheap walls—into the bedroom. Bob Sorrell laughed, raised his voice, spoke to Sally, to Ellen. Hadley, standing in the dark shadows by his son’s bassinet, by the sleeping baby, heard his own name mouthed by the man. Sorrell was demanding to know where he was and what he was doing. It was necessary to account for himself and his actions; any moment Sorrell would rise to his feet and stride grimly into the bedroom.
He wondered what to do. He thought about telling Sorrell to leave—telling them both to leave. That was it: it was both of them, his sister, too. How had this come about? He tried to trace it back; when had the thought first come, the original realization that it was both of them, not just Bob…? He could find no origin; the thought had come from nowhere at no particular time. Once in his mind it could not be dislodged. He could not evade it; he was responsible for it. He wanted to get rid of both of them; desperately, he wished they’d leave, go home, drive back up the coast in their huge green Nash, never come back as long as they lived.
The door opened. Ellen slid into the gloom, closed the door softly after her, and hurried over beside him. “For heaven’s sake,” she grated, “what are you doing in here, just standing? Isn’t Pete all right?”
“Sure,” Hadley answered.
“Then what is it?” Vexation, worry, filled her face. “Darling, you have to come back; you can’t hide in here.”
His voice rose angrily. “I’m not hiding! I have a right to come in here and see how my son is.”
“You can’t walk out and leave me alone with them.” Ellen’s face stiffened coldly. “I’m not going to take it; I’m not going to carry the burden alone. She’s your sister, not mine. I’ll do my share; I’ll put up with them—but not alone. You understand?”
“Okay,” Hadley said. “All right, let’s go back before he breaks the door down.” In the living room, Bob’s loud voice boomed and echoed. “How could she marry him?” Hadley demanded futilely. “How could she get mixed up with a man like that?”
“She thinks he’s wonderful,” Ellen said gaily.
“It doesn’t make sense.” Hadley moved aimlessly through the half darkness, back toward the door. “Every time I see him—it’s always the same. He’s always been this way; even before they were married he was like this: loud and mean.”
Ellen caught his arm. “Darling, you have to expect it. She has her own life—we have ours. My God, she’s almost thirty. She’s a different generation from us; what do we have in common with them? Look at them—they treat us like kids, patronize us, tell us what to do…”
“I told her,” Hadley said.
“Told her what?”
“About the Society.”
For a moment Ellen was puzzled. “You mean the Watchmen business? That Beckheim person?”
“All she did was laugh.”
“No,” Ellen said emphatically, “Stuart, I don’t believe it. You’re all upset and mixed up in here, just like a spoiled sulking child. Come on back into the living room—honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.” Lightly, she hurried on: “You’re making us all so unhappy… No wonder Sally wasn’t sympathetic. You can’t expect us to—”
“It’s his fault,” Hadley broke in. “She wasn’t that way before. He’s an ape; he’s not human. Did you hear him boasting about beating up that Mexican kid? Some teenager half his size. He’s a monster—and she thinks he’s wonderful. You should have seen the way he treated Dave and Laura—it was horrible. He threw them out, made them leave.”
Ellen linked her arm briskly through his. “Well, she’s not so dumb. She’s got her wagon hitched to a rising star; I’ll say that much for her. She’s no fool, darling.”
Hadley jerked away. “Did you hear what I said? I told her and she just shook her head. I thought she’d understand—I thought there was one person I could go to…and she was just like everybody else. A lot of stupid words, bright remarks.”
Deep hurt blinding her eyes, Ellen said: “So the one person let you down? I’m sorry. It’s too bad, isn’t it? Times have changed; you can’t go lay your head in her lap anymore.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Come on,” Ellen said, “they can hear us; let’s get outside. We can talk about this later.”
“I want to talk about it now!” He barred her way. “What do you mean?” He grabbed her by the shoulders; the dim light of evening dully illuminated her small face, eyes large and dark, bright with tears, lips half parted, chin quivering. “Goddamn it—” His voice rose wildly. “You’re glad!”
“Of course I’m glad. Darling, I’m so glad I want to shout it out at the top of my lungs.” Ellen made a hopeless effort to smile; tears slid down her cheeks and dripped onto her starched white shirt. “Her and her damn Waring blender. She’s going to give us the old one, the little one, the one they can’t use because it’s too small for them. And they’re going to fix us up with a house, so we can visit them every week—get our weekly instructions, our briefings. So they can run our lives, tell us what to do, the way she’s told you what to do all your life. You don’t care; you think that’s fine—but I care! That damn sister of yours isn’t going to tell me how to run my house and my life…” She threw her arms around Stuart and hugged him against her, burying her head desperately into his neck, soft brown hair choking him. “Why the hell can’t you come running to me with your stories? I’ll understand—even if I don’t understand. If you want this, it’s what I want. I’ll go with you; I’ll pray and roll around on the floor, whatever it is… It’s you I care about.”
In his bassinet, Pete had wakened up, aroused by the loud voices in the room. He began to cry, shrilly, furiously; his wails rose to an earsplitting scream. In the living room, Sally and Bob got up and headed impatiently for the bedroom door; Bob banged on it noisily and bellowed: “For cripe’s sake, what’s going on in there?”
Hadley clutched his wife. “I can’t stand you talking like that. Get out of here if you’re going to talk about her.”
“I won’t!” Ellen sobbed. “This is my house—I’m not going to leave and you can’t make me leave. For years I’ve had to listen to you talk about her—I’m sick of hearing about her. I’m through… I’ve taken all I can stand.” She yanked her arms away from him. “Don’t you hurt me like that.” Tears poured down her cheeks; her shirt was spotted with great rings of moisture. “And don’t grab me that way anymore.”
Over the baby’s screams Hadley shouted: “I’m not going to take that from you or anybody. If you had half the class she has; if you were anywhere like her—” His voice choked with emotion. “You’re not fit to say her name. You’re nothing but an easy lay! That’s all you are; she’s right—you’re nothing but an easy piece of tail!”
Shocked, terrified, Ellen stood gazing mutely up into his face. “Please don’t say things like that to me.” She looked around pathetically for help: her voice trailed off to a whisper. “Stuart, please don’t do any more. Please!”
He grabbed her tight, pulled her against him until her ribs cracked. “I can’t stand it anymore,” he gasped. “I’m finished. I’m leaving—I’m getting out.”
“No,” Ellen said, weak with terror. “Forget what I said; let it go. Please let it go—I’m sorry.”
Hadley’s face flushed a dark, ugly red. Apprehensively, Ellen shrank away as he released her. It was a look she had seen before; she dreaded it more than anything else in the world. He was going to do something; she knew it. The look always meant something; involuntarily, she put her arm up over her face. Once, only once, he had hit her. But she had hit him first; she had slapped him. Immediately, he had sat down on the couch and cried like a child; she had tried to comfort him. After that, he had got up and socked her in the eye. But he wasn’t going to do that now; he was going to leave. She wished frantically that he would hit her;
she wanted him to hit her. Anything was better than having him leave, having him walk out on her.
“Don’t,” she gasped, pushing between him and the door. Now she prayed he would hit her. “I’m not going to let you go; you can’t go.”
Hadley’s lips twisted. Convulsively, he raised his arm; she saw his elbow lift, sharp and hard, a triangle of bone inside the soft fabric of his sleeves. Then abruptly he grunted and jerked away, his hand fumbling for the doorknob. “Take care of yourself,” he said obliquely. “Have a good time. I’ll write to you.”
At that moment Sally pushed the door open and entered the gloomy bedroom. “My golly, you two kids can be heard all over the place! Come on out of there—” She herded them briskly into the living room. “Now kiss and make friends.” Curtly, she examined her wristwatch. “We’re going to have to fly; we’ve got to be out of here by ten.”
Bob had turned and was lumbering into the kitchen. “Can we get some fresh coffee going?” He began rooting around in the cupboards over the sink. “Ellen, where the hell’s your Silex? I’m not tackling that freeway without some hot coffee to wake me up.”
For a brief instant Stuart Hadley and his wife held on to each other. Then Hadley broke away from her. “I’ll see you later,” he said.
“Where are you going?” Ellen demanded fearfully; she hurried after him. “Please—take me along with you! I don’t care where it is; can’t I come along?”
“I’m going over to Dave’s,” Hadley said, at the front door of the apartment. “Somebody ought to apologize to them.”
Tearfully, Ellen caught up with him. “Please, Stuart, let me come along with you. I’m afraid you won’t come back!”
“You have to stay with Pete.”
“I’ll bring him along!”
Hadley laughed sharply. “On foot? We don’t have any car, remember.”
At the door of the kitchen, Bob Sorrell stood with the Silex in his hands, his heavy face wide with surprise. As Hadley tore open the front door he saw Sorrell’s amazement darken to angry resentment. Then the door closed after him; he was out in the dim, stuffy hallway.
He hurried to the stairs and descended two at a time, his hand on the banister. He rushed through the lobby, out past the open front door, onto the wide concrete steps. The night air was fresh, clear. He took a deep breath of it, hesitated momentarily, and then plunged off in the direction of the Golds’.
For an endless time he walked the hot, dark streets, hands thrust in his pockets, brooding and trying to collect his thoughts.
Already, he regretted what he had said to Ellen.
He crossed the street, passed run-down pool halls, bars, shoeshine parlors, cheap cafés and hotels. He was getting near the Golds’ place; he quickened his steps.
The Laura Gold who opened the door for him was chastened and quiet. “Hello, Stu,” she said, in a voice so faint he could scarcely hear it. “Come inside and have some wine.”
Like a dull, dead pudding, she stumped across the room and threw herself down in a chair. Hadley stood uncertainly by the door, adjusting himself. There were people: Dave Gold sitting at his desk, smoking morosely and watching him; two children; and a slim woman in slacks and a checkered shirt.
“How’s the painter?” the slim woman asked him.
Hadley was confused. He started to look behind him, then realized she was speaking to him. He identified her: she was Marsha Frazier. In the center of the room a low table supported a half gallon of dark purple wine, glasses, a package of potato chips, a mass of blue cheese with a table knife sticking into it, a box of soda crackers, a jar of peanut butter. The boy lay restless and bored, curled up with a magazine at the end of the Golds’ ratty old couch. He was perhaps nine, in faded jeans, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt. Like Marsha, his hair was tinged a faint rusty red. Sound asleep in a chair in the corner was a small girl, perhaps three, in a rumpled playsuit.
“Are these your children?” Hadley asked the woman.
“Haven’t you met my progeny?” Marsha nodded toward the boy. “That’s Timmy.”
The boy glowered up briefly. “Hello,” he boomed in a deep voice; and returned to his magazine.
Marsha indicated the sleeping girl. “That’s Pat.” Lifting her wineglass, she sipped thoughtfully, eyes on Stuart Hadley as he awkwardly found himself a place to sit.
Dave spoke up. “Marsha drove us home.”
“The Cadillac broke down,” Laura said faintly, in a voice small with shock. “We only got a few blocks. We had to leave it; we took a bus across town to Marsha’s place.”
Marsha Frazier was tall, gaunt; her face was bony with deep hollows. She wore no makeup. Her eyes were gray. Her skin was faintly freckled. There was an ascetic bleakness about her…but Hadley did not find her unattractive. A cleanness of fine: her body was as trim as a young boy’s, as straight and simple as that of her son’s. An unadorned body, with no useless bulges or flesh. Her arms, below her rolled-up sleeves, were bone and muscle, without softness. Her hands were strong and competent. As before, the conversation moved around her: she was the natural pivot. Both Dave and Laura were sunk in silence and apathy, withdrawn into stoic acceptance.
“Is that your coupe out front?” Hadley asked her. “That gray Studebaker?”
Marsha nodded. “It needs a bath.”
“It’s a nice-looking car.”
“It rides well,” she admitted. “But it doesn’t have any power. It’s easy to see out of it…the back of the cabin is almost completely glass.”
“I know,” Hadley said. “I’ve driven them. They’re nice.”
“The Cadillac can’t be fixed,” Laura spoke up dismally. “I guess we’re going to junk it. We can get twenty bucks for the parts.” She added: “It’s parked up on Mission. I guess tomorrow the San Francisco police will tow it away, anyhow.”
“That’s too bad,” Hadley said. He tried to speak with feeling, but his sympathy for the Golds was rapidly dwindling. Their dark, unpleasant faces repelled him. Two trolls, he thought. Hoarse-voiced trolls, with big feet and shovel hands. Warty and gruff, exactly like in the fairy story. He had lost interest in them already; his attention had turned toward the slim, gray-eyed woman.
He poured himself some of the cheap wine. “Why did you call me a painter?” he asked Marsha.
“We told her,” Laura said. “About your pictures—you know.”
“I haven’t done anything for a long time,” Hadley said. But it made him feel strange; he could easily think of himself as a painter, he realized. “You run a magazine?” he asked. “You’re the editor of Succubus?”
“That’s right,” Marsha said, in her toneless contralto. A rational voice, secure and efficient. A voice certain of itself. “But we’re like you… We haven’t put out a copy in six months.”
“Why not?”
“No money.”
There was a pause while all of them considered money. The Golds looked blank, aimless. Timmy, knees up, magazine in his lap, was uninterested. The magazine was a quarterly art review; he was probably used to seeing them around, as Hadley had grown up with the house organ of the AMA.
Outside the apartment, beyond the dark squares of open windows, cars honked and signals changed. The dull odor of the Bay filtered in, corroded rubber and oil. In the next apartment a shrill radio squalled remotely. Thumps, the movement of people overhead. The room itself, cluttered with books and papers, heavy with the smell of dust, decaying food, rubbish and debris.
“What does it cost to put out a magazine?” Hadley asked.
Marsha smiled; her teeth were, like her hair, skin, and eyes, a neutral mixed shade: not shiny, not metallic. As if she were compounded from old wood and bone, rubbed and aged to a dull finish, with the bleached roughness of driftwood. There was a solid earthy quality about her body; in spite of her slimness, her small face, narrow arms, she looked strong. “It depends,” she answered, “on what sort of magazine you intend to put out. The SEP for example costs in the hundreds of thousands
.”
“What’s that?” Hadley asked.
“Saturday Evening Post. We don’t have much income, a little trickle from university fellowships, a few thousand now and then from the Ford Foundation.” She grimaced wryly. “But we’ve lost that… No more from them.”
Hadley wondered if he should say he had never seen a magazine called Succubus. He tried to imagine what it looked like. He recalled the college literary quarterly; it probably looked like that: square, hygienic pages of prose and poems, no capitals on the cover, modernesque title page. Heavy book-bond paper, white and porous. Fifty cents. Consisting mainly of critical essays on Capote, Proust, Gide, Willa Cather. No advertising, except, perhaps, an occasional textbook shop.
The room was peaceful, too peaceful for conversation or thought. Hadley relaxed into contentedness, lay back and sipped his wine. Nobody spoke. The tension was gone, here; like Sunday afternoon on a park bench, there was no pressure of time, no struggle or ambition. Even Laura, usually full of brash talk, had nothing to say; their experience of the day had deprived her of will. The Golds had come up against a brick wall, in the form of Bob Sorrell. His huge, brutal cruelty had shocked them into impotency. They had not protested or fought back. They had collapsed in the face of it, wilted by the sheer massed weight of his heedlessness. Bob Sorrell could ride roughshod over such people as the Golds; they were incapable of giving back the treatment they had received. Under their veneer of loud talk, quick gestures, was a gentleness easily exposed. Like Hansel and Gretel, they had been lured out into the world and then systematically mashed flat. The dazed blankness in their eyes was clouded with bewilderment; they still did not comprehend how they had been hustled about, shoved aside, sent off and disposed of. They had been handled like inorganic objects; their basic humanity had been ignored. In them was no response, no adjustment. In the face of brutality they simply died.
But Hadley relaxed and enjoyed this void. The absence of braying talk lulled him; he was grateful for Laura’s silence. And the quietude that lay about Marsha Frazier was not the crushed stupor of the Golds’. The woman’s equanimity came from confidence, not fear. She was totally in control; it was her way of life.
Voices From the Street Page 16
