chapter 49
Otto Scaper stomped across the front hall into the law office and winked at Luke Packer's sister, Susan, who appeared to be behind her desk but was really on a honeymoon in Martinique. For she was clandestinely reading a novel in which a beautiful, lonely, orphaned heiress had to choose among four handsome millionaires after sleeping with one on his yacht in Monte Carlo, with one in his penthouse suite on Sutton Place, with one in his Learjet over Stockholm, and with one in his diamond mine under Johannesburg. The heroine couldn't bring herself to choose among them until after she had modeled for some magazine covers, been caught up in a Third World revolution, been nearly raped by a guerrilla, exacted vengeance on the villain who had sold out her father on the big merger, and spent the night with a beautiful, lonely, famous lesbian. Finally, on page 850, she had chosen the American. Abernathy's secretary sighed; perhaps she would have taken the Swedish industrial designer on the rebound, overlooking a penchant of his for prepubescent boys that was obviously intermittent anyhow, since no one had even known about it until page 790.
"Your boss in, honey?"
"Yes, sir." What a dull job. Of course Mr. Abernathy was in.
What else would he be doing? Certainly not off entering the Grand Prix. She liked him, but couldn't imagine falling in love and having an affair with her employer, as magazine executive assistants often went to New York to do. Susan Packer was a Cosmo girl, forced to live a Saturday Evening Post existence, but refusing to compromise lifestyle to life. She wore discounted versions of the most current fashions, she wore stylishly uncomfortable shoes, she awakened a half-hour earlier to force her hair and her face into modishness, and she did all this to walk to and from Three Branch Road in Madder and Abernathy & Abernathy in Dingley Circle, and to eat calorically counted lunches at the Tea Shoppe, and to sit behind her desk escaping to Martinique. There were only three men in the building where she worked: Winslow Abernathy, his son Arthur (whom she didn't even like and who was already engaged anyhow), and Otto Scaper, who was seventy-four years old and weighed three hundred pounds. "You women." He grinned. "Always got your head in a book." At least, Susan thought, Dr. Scaper seemed to notice her sex, which was more than anyone else did.
The fat old doctor found Abernathy looking at a photographic triptych of Beanie, Lance, and Arthur. Each was fixed in black-and-white unease: the boys at thirteen in their Alexander Hamilton Academy blazers—Lance, tieless, his head cocked mischievously as a popgun at the photographer; Arthur, terrified into pomposity behind his middle-aged glasses; and Beanie, like a victim of lockjaw, searching for a person she doubted she'd find behind the camera. Scaper took his stethoscope from the pocket of a linen jacket that had probably once been white. Over Abernathy's protest he pressed the instrument to the lawyer's thin chest, then his back. "Just seeing how you're holding up, Winslow. Breathe in. Out. Again. Okay. Beanie's over at the Strummers' house, I don't know if you thought she'd left again or what. I didn't hear about that mess (you and her) until Arthur told me last night. Always thought Beanie had her feet on the ground.
What do I know? Obviously nothing. Hold still." He grabbed up the thin wrist in his enormous paw and felt for the pulse. "She told me that poor jerk of a son of yours drove off without saying good-bye. Two broken bones in his hand!" He took Abernathy's blood pressure.
"Whole town's falling apart. I've got to have some help, that's all."
"What are you doing, Otto?"
"I want you to take it easy, goddamnit. Try not to let things upset you. What's so funny?"
Abernathy sat down. He was too tired to feel the dislocations of his life with the seriousness they deserved. "What's funny? Nothing.
I don't know. How are the girl's parents?"
"About how you'd expect. But they'll manage. Folks do somehow. Just don't you start feeling sorry for yourself and let that blood pressure go up. Hey, you got any cigars? Cigarettes? Hell's bells, there's just no justice, is there? My lungs are as sound as a bell and yours are a mess. You explain it!"
Across the hail, as she waited in Scaper's office, Dr. Ruth Deeds was eating potato chips and a Snickers bar. She was there because she had finally persuaded her grandfather to attend to his infected leg, which meant, in his terms, to go "see a real doctor." That his son's female child could command prescriptions from Smalter's Pharmacy or that he, Deeds, should go so far as to swallow any medication she did obtain was hardly likely. It was hardly any likelier that Otto Scaper, whose 1926 graduating class at the state medical school had included only males, would suspect that the Bredforets' chauffeur's grandchild was an M.D. At least he didn't think so until she declined to wait outside, until she peered around his arm as he felt the pus-inflamed wound, until in a carefully casual tone she remarked, "I'm a little worried about secondary septicemia. He's probably running a slight temperature; he wouldn't let me take it. But I'd like him to have something. Dicloxacillin maybe." She didn't look at Scaper's face. She was tired of seeing the shock.
Bill Deeds growled up from the examining table. "Ruth here's a doctor, lives down in Atlanta."
"Well, I'll be damned," Scaper replied.
Dr. Deeds was long accustomed to the ordeal of steeling herself for every first encounter with her professional colleagues. She had been the only female of her race in her medical school class and often felt that it might have been easier to work her way up through the ranks of the Ku Klux Klan than through such a self-centered, self-satisfied, self-aggrandizing clique of sexist pigs. Having endured everything from their sadistic jokes on the gynecology ward to the lowest salary in her department, she had come to expect the worst.
Otto Scaper, however, now surprised her. He liked women and had outgrown his fear of them years ago.
"Why Atlanta? What's your specialty?" he asked.
"I'm at the Center for Disease Control there. Internist."
"Hell's bells! You busy this evening? Hold still, Bill. Thing is, maybe you're just what the doctor ordered. I'm pretty bamboozled about some symptoms I've been getting tied in with endocarditis on some patients of mine. Done much with heart disease?"
"Not really, Dr. Scaper. Most of my research's been with chemical side effects. Artificial carcinogens, Agent Orange, stuff like that."
"Don't say? Don't say? Don't believe in chemicals myself, Ruth.
Ruth? My name's Otto. Anyhow, think you'd mind taking a look at some of my files, just for curiosity's sake? Why don't I bring them over to Willie's later on?"
"Well…"
"Those damn whippersnappers over at the hospital won't pay a damn bit of attention to me. Wouldn't surprise me if they thought I was daffy, or dumb as a skunk. You know how they can be. Think I'm making up problems that aren't there. But something's funny."
"Hey, listen, sure. I'll be glad to take a look."
Limus Barnum skulked close to the buildings and kept the huge black German shepherd in sight until it trotted away in pursuit of some other dogs. They scrambled up the hill beside the library whose summit was the town burial ground. All after some bitch in heat, Barnum concluded, and then asked himself, Who was this black bitch walking out of Scaper's with that toothless monkey of a chauffeur Deeds? Always honking his horn at cycles. Give a nigger a big car and…! Who was she? Somebody forked out plenty for that outfit of hers. What was she doing in this junk town? Good ass. Tits too small. Snotty bitch. Looking at him like he crawled up out of a crack in the sidewalk. Good ass from the rear. But do it to a nigger? Must be smelly. Look at Hayes give her the once-over.
"Lime."
"How's it going, A.A.?"
"Fine."
"Look. About yesterday, the thing about the gun, okay? Look, that dwarf just rubs me the wrong way. He asks for it. No hard feelings, huh?"
"None."
"Pretty horrible about the Strummer girl."
"Yes. Horrible. Excuse me, got to get back inside, I'm expecting a call."
Sure he was. That lousy bastard, he didn't know who his real friend was. But when
the time came, when the people of America finally woke up about what was going on in this country and turned to the party to put down the mugging and looting, the niggers and spics let loose by their Jewish money bosses and their Communist agitators, when the whole rotten roof fell in and the only thing between Hayes and death was the strong arm of good ole Lime, then he'd know who his true friends were. Look at that window. Still broken. How much was it going to take to show people they needed somebody tough to take over here? A lot of the work wasn't even his doing. Sure, he'd done Hayes's window, but who knew who'd got to the Troyes biddy's patio? He needed to do less and less. They'd better believe their precious Dingley Falls was crawling with vandals, like everywhere else.
Yes, horrible about the Strummer girl. Beautiful little girl like that destroyed because some rich s.o.b. doesn't give enough of a damn about what goes on on his own property. Beautiful girl; hair like an angel. Yes, he ought to get a floral arrangement or something for the Strummers. Decent people, never knew what hit them. Lost their son to the lousy Communists and the government wouldn't do a thing about it. Pretty obvious that the recession had wiped Jack Strummer out with his movie theater. Way over his head. Pretty bitter about the way life's done a number on him. Ought to take him over some of the literature. Give him some answers. Show him what the right party could do.
"How's it going, Coleman? Why doesn't the government take a little of our dough and air-condition this post office? Like a sweat shop in here. Hey, let me give you a hand with that. Quite a package. Typewriter?"
"That's okay, Limus. I've got it."
Don't kid yourself, Lime ole pal. They could have bought one of your typewriters if they'd wanted to, if they believed that shit about supporting your local businessmen. But they got it in for me, that's all; simple as that.
There she was. And there was that boy, Smalter's pal; the punk that tried to start something about the motorcycle. Was he trying to get her talking or just buying some crummy stamps? What was it about her? The Packer kid knew she had it, the way he was watching her move. Lots knew. Her asshole husband leaves town for a week, and lots start sniffing around. Like Abernathy. His own wife gives him the brush-off and runs off with some crummy hippie. Then he comes panting first thing and invites somebody else's wife to a lousy tea party at the Lattice biddy's. And women fall for that pansy bullshit. That's what kills you. They always do. And all the art-fart crap that goes with it. They'll hold your dick under the table if they don't have to know it's there. Just want to blab, blab, blab about love, like their life depended on figuring it out. Just want to be licked, and easy enough so they don't have to know you're there. But not this cookie.
They weren't going to shove his nose in their goo and smother him.
No, siree.
But she was the real thing, wasn't she, locked away behind those bars, white and pale, everything ironed smooth and spotless. Not looking at him, keeping her eyes down on the counter, waiting on other people, never looking up over to his corner. But boy, you better believe she knew he was there. She knew how long, too. And there was not a thing she could do about it. It was a free country, wasn't it? She was scared of him, too. You could almost smell it.
Sweat was popping out across her nose. She couldn't keep from knowing, if she was pure as an angel. She knew what she was doing.
Even if she covered herself with starch, she had skin under there.
Boobs with nipples and they got hard rubbing on her bra. She had hair between her legs just like the rest, and a hole up her, and probably stuck her fingers up it every now and then even if she thought she was the lousy Mother of God. Damn straight, she had a belly and boobs under there, and her ass rubbing her pants sweaty in this heat.
It was all there, covered up and behind those bars. She knew she was making it happen. Rising up, hot, pushing on his pants. She could see it, goddamnit, couldn't she? Hard as a fist, hard as a gun, power over her, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Mrs. Haig was very relieved when her replacement, Mrs. Lowtry, finally returned from the "facilities" to which she had excused herself half an hour earlier. Limus Barnum was still there by the table with his postcards, but he wasn't writing. He made her feel the way the dogs made her feel. Then doubt spun up through her, and she worried that she would faint. Was she insane? Why should Mr. Barnum, a successful businessman, a former candidate for selectman, be doing anything but what he seemed to be doing, writing postcards? Why should she be so overwhelmed by realities that were not real to other people, that other people at least appeared not to notice? Always since her childhood there had been this chasm between her and others, her sense that they were feeling more (hurt or anger or shame or torment) than they either actually did feel or than they would admit to; this sense of a wavery unreality somewhere in herself or across the chasm where everyone else seemed to be standing in easy conversation as if they and the world were not mad at all.
The boy who had come just now to collect Mr. Smalter's mail, was there hidden in his eyes, along with a new sadness, a new anger at her, a relationship to her that had not been there when he had said hello a few days earlier? How could she know such things? Why should she have to? At last Mr. Barnum was turning to leave. Sarah MacDermott certainly wouldn't have been intimidated by the man.
Did that mean there was no menace? Judith could never be certain if she misread the rest of the world, or if everyone else either would not or could not read as carefully as she did, or if they read different books—as when she and her husband watched television and he laughed at stories that left her sick at heart.
Judith's temporary replacement, Mrs. Lowtry, jammed her purse under her wide, pasty arm and, with a jerk of her head at the clock, followed Mr. Barnum into the street. Grateful to be alone, Judith tried to calm herself after his intrusion by sweeping the floor of her post office. Then she straightened everything, locked her drawers and her safe. She went down the steps to lower her flag. There was no breeze, and dusk air held close the heat of the day. Nearby in the circle two women parked in front of the cream brick building. A large, vibrant woman got out of the car and went inside. His wife, thought Judith. And Mrs. Abernathy's friend would apparently wait for her in the car. The postmistress turned so that she could fold her flag without seeing into Winslow Abernathy's life or obliging him to deal with his life in her sight.
Mrs. Haig hurried back into her post office, closed her windows, lowered her blinds, and turned off her lights. She made the tasks last as long as possible, but when the doors locked shut behind her, Abernathy still stood with his wife beside the car. Mrs. Canopy still sat inside it. Judith knew she could not simply remain motionless on the steps, but nor could she force her body to walk past the couple.
She must be insane; a week ago the man had barely spoken to her.
Why should she feel so painfully deprived, so unwilling a witness at this scene of marital intimacy? The woman, his wife, reached out and enclosed Abernathy in her arms. He put his arms around her, too.
They stood quietly, embracing each other, then his wife took his hands, squeezed them in hers, turned away, and got into the car. Her friend drove her quickly away out of the circle. The lawyer stood, not watching them, then—his hands feeling absently from one pocket to another—he turned back toward his office door.
Only when he was inside did Mrs. Haig feel free to pass his building. She hurried past it to the Tea Shoppe, which regularly closed hours earlier but was now unlocked. There were no customers there.
Prudence Lattice was bent behind the counter, her hands in a steaming sink of cups and saucers. The picturesque ceiling fans did little with the heat but shove it at people, and the elderly shopkeeper had a worn, misty look. Conversation was awkward. Between Prudence and Judith there was only one connection, Chin Lam Henry, and Chin Lam was no longer there but was walking to the trailer park to search for the German shepherd, Night. At some point, unnoticed, the dog had vanished from the green where for most of the day he had lain
in the shadow of Elijah Dingley's copper beech.
"Will she meet her husband there?" Judith asked.
Miss Lattice stacked cups as she dried them. She didn't answer for a moment, then spoke in evident discomfort. "Well, no, you see, Chin doesn't know when he'll be released."
"Oh, but I understood it was definitely to be this afternoon.
Didn't Mr. Abernathy tell you?"
"Well, yes, of course, that is, Winslow did call me to say they'd arranged bail, but I haven't exactly had a chance to explain it to Chin, we've been so rushed, and then Night runs off!" Miss Lattice kept busy as she spoke. "And you see we'd already planned on our dinner for this evening and then I just didn't want for her to wait out there with no idea what might happen to her."
Judith was confused. "Perhaps I misunderstood. I had just assumed that she'd want to go to Argyle, or arrange to be at their home when—oh, watch out!" She reached across the counter at a cup that had slid from Miss Lattice's nervous hand. It smashed on the floor. "Oh, your cup, I'm sorry. It's broken."
The shopkeeper dropped the pieces into a trash basin. "Oh, it doesn't matter a bit." She smiled. In cups and saucers, if not in companionship, Prudence Lattice, heiress to a bankrupt china factory, would always be rich. The myriad crates of crockery that had escaped the liquidation of her father's substance were now in service to all Dingleyans who frequented the Tea Shoppe. Thus, chinaware supported the last Lattice still; no longer sold, but served to customers. It was the one commodity she felt she had in sufficient supply.
Michael Malone Page 46
