Wheels

by Arthur Hailey

  She had mixed a whisky and water for each of them, then whipped up a simple meal of eggs and bacon which she served on trays in the living room; after that, with Rollie increasingly relaxed and helpful, they talked.

  Later, Barbara brought the whisky bottle in and poured them each a second drink. Outside, the dusk—climaxing a clear, benevolent day—had turned to dark.

  Rollie looked around him at the comfortable, tastefully furnished, though unpretentious room. He asked, “How far we here from Blaine and 12th?”

  About eight miles, she told him.

  He shook his head and grinned. “Eight hundred, more like.”

  Blaine and 12th was where Rollie lived, and where film scenes had been shot the night Brett DeLosanto and Leonard Wingate watched.

  Barbara had scribbled Rollie’s thought in a few key words, thinking it might work well as an opening line, when her father walked in.

  Matt Zaleski froze.

  He looked incredulously at Barbara and Rollie Knight, seated on the same settee, drinks in their hands, a whisky bottle on the floor between them, the discarded dinner trays nearby. In her surprise, Barbara had let the pad on which she had been writing slip from her hand and out of sight.

  Rollie Knight and Matt Zaleski, though never having spoken together at the assembly plant, recognized each other instantly. Matt’s eyes went, unbelievingly, from Rollie’s face to Barbara’s. Rollie grinned and downed his drink, making a show of self-assurance, then seemed uncertain. His tongue moistened his lips.

  “Hi, Dad!” Barbara said. “This is …”

  Matt’s voice cut across her words. Glaring at Rollie, he demanded, “What the hell are you doing in my house, sitting there …?”

  Of necessity, through years of managing an auto plant in which a major segment of the work force was black, Matt Zaleski had acquired a patina of racial tolerance. But it was never more than a patina. Beneath the surface he still shared the views of his Polish parents and their Wyandotte neighbors who regarded any Negro as inferior. Now, seeing his own daughter entertaining a black man in Matt’s own home, an unreasoning rage possessed him, to which tension and tiredness were an added spur. He spoke and acted without thought of consequences.

  “Dad,” Barbara said sharply, “this is my friend, Mr. Knight. I invited him, and don’t …”

  “Shut up!” Matt shouted as he swung toward his daughter. “I’ll deal with you later.”

  The color drained from Barbara’s face. “What do you mean—you’ll deal with me?”

  Matt ignored her. His eyes still boring into Rollie Knight, he pointed to the kitchen door through which he had just come in. “Out!”

  “Dad, don’t you dare!”

  Barbara was on her feet, moving swiftly toward her father. When she was within reach he slapped her hard across the face.

  It was as if they were acting out a classic tragedy, and now it was Barbara who was unbelieving. She thought: This cannot be happening. The blow had stung and she guessed there were weal marks on her cheek, though that part was unimportant. What mattered was of the mind. It was as if a rock had been rolled aside, the rock a century of human progression and understanding, only to reveal a festering rottenness beneath—the unreason, hatred, bigotry living in Matt Zaleski’s mind. And Barbara, because she was her father’s daughter, at this moment shared his guilt.

  Outside, a car stopped.

  Rollie, as well, was standing. An instant earlier his confidence had deserted him because he was on unfamiliar ground. Now, as it came back, he told Matt, “Piss on you, honky!”

  Matt’s voice trembled. “I said get out. Now go!”

  Barbara closed her eyes. Piss on you, honky! Well, why not? Wasn’t that how life went, returning hate for hate?

  For the second time within a few minutes the house side door opened. Brett DeLosanto came in, announcing cheerfully, “Couldn’t make anybody hear.” He beamed at Barbara and Matt, then observed Rollie Knight. “Hi, Rollie! Nice surprise to see you. How’s the world, good friend?”

  At Brett’s easy greeting to the young black man, a flicker of doubt crossed Matt Zaleski’s face.

  “Piss on you too,” Rollie said to Brett. He glanced contemptuously at Barbara. And left.

  Brett asked the other two, “Now what in hell was that about?”

  He had driven directly across town from Metropolitan Airport when his flight from California landed less than an hour ago. Brett had wanted to see Barbara, to tell her of his personal decision and plans he had begun formulating during the journey home. His spirits had been high and were the reason for his breezy entry. Now, he realized, something serious was wrong.

  Barbara shook her head, unable to speak because of tears she was choking back. Brett moved across the room. Putting his arms around her, he urged gently, “Whatever it is, let go, relax! We can talk about it later.”

  Matt said uncertainly, “Look, maybe I was …”

  Barbara’s voice overrode him. “I don’t want to hear.”

  She had control of herself, and eased away from Brett who volunteered, “If this is a family mishmash, and you’d prefer me to leave …”

  “I want you here,” Barbara said. “And when you go, I’m leaving with you.” She stopped, then regarding him directly, “You’ve asked me twice, Brett, to come and live with you. If you still want me to, I will.”

  He answered fervently, “You know I do.”

  Matt Zaleski had dropped into a chair. His head came up. “Live!”

  “That’s right,” Barbara affirmed icily. “We won’t be married; neither of us wants to be. We’ll merely share the same apartment, the same bed …”

  “No!” Matt roared. “By God, no!”

  She warned, “Just try to stop me!”

  They faced each other briefly, then her father dropped his eyes and put his head in his hands. His shoulders shook.

  “I’ll pack a few things for tonight,” Barbara told Brett, “then come back for the rest tomorrow.”

  “Listen”—Brett’s eyes were on the dejected figure in the chair—“I wanted us to get together. You know it. But does it have to be this way?”

  She answered crisply, “When you know what happened, you’ll understand. So take me or leave me—now, the way I am. If you don’t, I’ll go to a hotel.”

  He flashed a quick smile. “I’ll take you.”

  Barbara went upstairs.

  When the two men were alone, Brett said uncomfortably, “Mr. Z., whatever it was went wrong, I’m sorry.”

  There was no answer, and he went outside to wait for Barbara in his car.

  For almost half an hour Brett and Barbara cruised the streets nearby, searching for Rollie Knight. In the first few minutes after putting her suitcase in the car and driving away, Barbara explained what had occurred before Brett’s arrival. As she talked, his face went grim.

  After a while he said, “Poor little bastard! No wonder he took off at me too.”

  “And me.”

  “I guess he figures we’re all alike inside. Why wouldn’t he?”

  They drove down another empty street, then, near the end of it, their headlights picked up a shadowy figure, walking. It turned out to be a neighbor of the Zaleskis, going home.

  “Rollie’s gone.” Brett glanced across the front seat of the car inquiringly. “We know where he lives.”

  Both knew the reason behind Brett’s hesitation. It could be dangerous in downtown Detroit at night. Armed holdups and assaults were commonplace.

  She shook her head. “We can’t do anything more tonight. Let’s go home.”

  “First things first.” He pulled to the curb and they kissed.

  “Home for you,” Brett said carefully, “is a new address—Country Club Manor, West Maple at Telegraph.”

  Despite their shared depression from tonight’s events, he had an excited, breathless feeling as he swung the car northwest.

  Much later, lying beside each other in the darkened bedroom of Brett’s apartment, Barb
ara said softly, “Are your eyes open?”

  “Yes.” A few minutes previously Brett had rolled over onto his back. Now, hands behind his head, he was regarding the dimness of the ceiling.

  “What were you thinking?”

  “About something clumsy I once said to you. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  It had been the night Barbara had prepared dinner here and Brett had brought Leonard Wingate home—the first meeting for the three of them. Afterward, Brett tried to persuade Barbara to stay the night with him, and when she wouldn’t, had declared, “You’re twenty-nine; you can’t possibly be a virgin, so what’s our hangup?”

  “You didn’t say anything when I said that,” Brett pointed out, “but you were, weren’t you?”

  He heard her gentle, rippling laughter. “If anyone’s in a position to know …”

  “Okay, okay.” She sensed him smiling, then he turned sideways so that their faces were together once again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It isn’t the sort of thing you talk about. Anyway, was it important, really?”

  “It’s important to me.”

  There was a silence, then Barbara said, “If you must know, it was important to me, too. You see, I always wanted the first time to be with someone I truly loved.” She reached out, her fingers moving lightly down his face. “In the end, it was.”

  Brett’s arms went around her, once more their bodies pressed together as he whispered, “I love you, too.”

  He had an awareness of savoring one of life’s rare and precious moments. He had still not told Barbara of his own decision, made in Los Angeles, or spoken of his future plans. Brett knew that if he did, they would talk until morning, and talk was not what he wanted most tonight.

  Then urgent desire, reciprocated, wiped out all other thoughts.

  Afterward, again lying quietly, contentedly, beside each other, Barbara said, “If you like, I’ll tell you something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  She sighed. “If I’d known it was as wonderful as this, I wouldn’t have waited so long.”

  23

  Erica Trenton’s affair with Pierre Flodenhale had begun early in June. It started shortly after their first encounter, when the young race driver accompanied Adam Trenton home, following the weekend cottage party at Higgins Lake.

  A few days after that Sunday night, Pierre telephoned Erica and suggested lunch. She accepted. They met next day at an out-of-the-way restaurant in Sterling Heights.

  A week later they met again and this time, after lunch, drove to a motel where Pierre had already checked in. With a minimum of fuss, they got into bed where Pierre proved an entirely satisfactory sex partner, so that when she went home, late that afternoon, Erica felt better, physically and mentally, than she had in months.

  Through the remainder of June, and well into July, they continued to meet at every opportunity, both in daytime and during evenings, the latter when Adam had told Erica in advance that he would be working late.

  For Erica the occasions were blissful sexual fulfillments of which she had been deprived far too long. She also relished Pierre’s youth and freshness, as well as being excited herself by his lusty pleasure in her body.

  Their meetings were sharply in contrast with the single assignation she had had, months earlier, with the salesman, Ollie. When Erica thought about that experience—though she preferred not to—it was with disgust at herself for letting it happen, even though she had been physically frustrated, to the point of desperation, at the time.

  There was no desperation now. Erica had no idea how long the affair between herself and Pierre would last, though she knew it would never be more than an affair for either of them, and someday would inevitably end. But for the moment she was enjoying herself uninhibitedly and so, it seemed, was Pierre.

  The enjoyment gave each of them a sense of confidence which led, in turn, to a carelessness about being seen together in public.

  One of their favorite evening meeting places was in the pleasant colonial surroundings of the Dearborn Inn, where the service was friendly and good. Another attraction at the Dearborn Inn was a cottage—one of several on the grounds—a faithful replica of the one-time home of Edgar Allan Poe. Downstairs, the Poe cottage had two cozy rooms and a kitchen; upstairs, a tiny bedroom under the roof. The upstairs and downstairs portions were self-contained, and rented separately to Inn guests.

  On two occasions when Adam was away from Detroit, Pierre Flodenhale occupied the lower portion of the Poe cottage, while Erica checked in upstairs. When the main outside door was locked, it was nobody’s business who went up or down the inside staircase.

  Erica so loved the historic little cottage, with its antique furnishings, that once she lay back in bed and exclaimed, “What a perfect place for lovers! It ought not to be used for anything else.”

  “Uh, huh,” had been all that Pierre had said, which pointed up his lack of conversation and, in fact, a general absence of interest in anything not connected with motor racing or directly involving sex. About racing, Pierre could, and did converse animatedly and at length. But other subjects bored him. Confronted with current affairs, politics, the arts—which Erica tried to talk about sometimes—he either yawned or fidgeted like a restless boy whose attention could not be held for more than seconds at a time. Occasionally, and despite all the satisfying sex, Erica wished their relationship could be more rounded.

  Around the time that the wish was developing into a mild irritation with Pierre, an item linking their names appeared in the Detroit News.

  It was in the daily column of Society Editor Eleanor Breitmeyer, whom many considered the best society writer in North American newspaperdom. Almost nothing which went on in the Motor City’s social echelons escaped Miss Breitmeyer’s intelligence, and her comment read:

  Handsome, debonair race driver Pierre Flodenhale and young and beautiful Erica Trenton—wife of auto product planner Adam-continue to relish each other’s company. Last Friday, lunching téte-à-tête at the Steering Wheel, neither, as usual, had as much as a glance for anyone else.

  The words on the printed page were a startling jolt to Erica. Her first flustered thought as she read them was of the thousands of people in Greater Detroit—including friends of herself and Adam—who would also see and talk about the column item before the day was out. Suddenly, Erica wanted to run into a closet and hide. She realized how incredibly careless she and Pierre had been, as if they were courting exposure, but now it had happened she wished desperately they hadn’t.

  The News item appeared in late July—a week or so before the Trentons’ dinner with Hank Kreisel and their visit to his Grosse Pointe home.

  The evening the item was published, Adam had brought the Detroit News home, as he usually did, and the two of them shared it, in sections, while having martinis before dinner.

  While Erica had the women’s section, which included Society, Adam was leafing through the front news portion. But Adam invariably looked over the entire paper systematically, and Erica dreaded his attention turning to the section she was holding.

  She decided it would be a mistake to remove any part of the newspaper from the living room because, however casually she did it, Adam would probably notice.

  Instead, Erica went to the kitchen and served dinner immediately, taking a chance that the vegetables were done. They weren’t, but when Adam came to the table he still hadn’t opened any of the newspaper’s back sections.

  After dinner, returning to the living room, Adam opened his briefcase as usual and began work. When Erica had cleared the dining room, she came in, collected Adam’s coffee cup, straightened some magazines and picked up the pieces of newspaper, putting them together to take out.

  Adam had looked up. “Leave the paper. I haven’t finished.”

  She spent the remainder of the evening on a knife edge of suspense. Pretending to read a book, Erica watched covertly each move which Adam made. When a
t last he snapped his briefcase closed, her tension mounted until, to Erica’s unbelievable relief, he went upstairs to bed, apparently forgetting the newspaper entirely. She hid the paper then, and burned it next day.

  But burning a single copy would not, she knew, prevent someone else showing the item to Adam or referring to it in conversation, which amounted to the same thing. Obviously, many on Adam’s staff, and others he associated with, had read or been told about the juicy piece of gossip, so for the next few days Erica lived in nervous expectation that when Adam came home he would bring the subject up.

  One thing she was sure of: If Adam learned of the item in the News, Erica would know. Adam never dodged an issue, nor was he the kind of husband who would form a judgment without giving his wife the chance to state her case. But nothing was said, and when a week had gone by Erica started to relax. Afterward, she suspected what happened was that everyone assumed Adam knew, and hence avoided the subject out of consideration or embarrassment. For whatever reason, she was grateful.

  She was also grateful for an opportunity to assess her relationships with both men: Adam and Pierre. The result—in everything except sex and the small amount of time they spent together, Adam came out far ahead. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—for Erica, sex continued to be important in her life, which was the reason she agreed to meet Pierre again a few days later, though this time cautiously and across the river in Windsor, Canada. But of all their rendezvous, this latest proved the least successful.

  The fact was: Adam had the kind of mind which Erica admired. Pierre didn’t. Despite Adam’s obsessive work habits, he was never out of touch with the sum of life around him; he had strong opinions and a social conscience. Erica enjoyed hearing Adam talk—on subjects other than the auto industry. In contrast, when she asked Pierre for his views on a Detroit civic housing controversy, which had been headline news for weeks, Pierre had never heard of it. “Figure all that stuff’s none of my business,” was a stock reply. Nor had he ever voted. “Wouldn’t know how, and I’m not much interested.”