She turned off the light, went quietly down the stairs and let herself out. She walked down the night street, her clog sandals going clack, clock in the silence. She swung her meaty hips and hummed her little tuneless tune and stopped every once in a while to change the suitcase to the other hand. The damn thing was heavy. Midge was right, she thought. It sometimes works out just fine if you try a new neighborhood. She wondered if the wrist watch was a good one, and if those cuff links and lighter were real gold. For this lovely little girl of forty-three, it had been a very effective evening.
At a little after one o’clock on Wednesday afternoon Glenn Lawrenz walked through sunshine to Nick’s Daily Dozen. He felt as if he stood too tall and frail in an unkindly world. He squinted against the sun and had the taste of bile in his throat.
He opened the door and went into Nick’s. Two very young soldiers were drinking beer and watching a housewife quiz on television. Glenn went to the far end of the bar and sat moodily on a bar stool.
Nick ambled down and said, “When morning comes all the little flowers awaken and turn their faces to the sun.”
“I can’t take too much of that, friend.”
“I endured you last night. Bear with me today. Can I formulate a concoction to soothe your misery?”
“It would have to be on the cuff.”
Nick raised his shaggy eyebrows. “Indeed?”
“Who was that bim, Nick? Where can I find her?”
“Never saw her before until last night. She came in alone. On the prowl. People who still had their eyesight gave her the brush.”
“But not me.”
“Possibly she reminded you of your dear old mother. Why do you want to find her? Is it true love?”
“Nick, she cleaned me. I think I took her to the room and passed out. Money, clothes, suitcase, watch, lighter, every damn thing she could carry.” He would not tell Nick about his chest, still raw with scrubbing. Never tell anyone about his chest.
“That type pig,” Nick said thoughtfully, “is usually devoid of scruples.”
“Maybe I should call the cops.”
Nick went and gave the soldiers new beers and came back. “And sign a complaint? Avoid all dealing with those gentlemen.”
“But she got me for nearly three hundred bucks cash and maybe five hundred in clothes, Nick.”
“Dear boy, suppose you enlist the forces of law and order. Suppose, by some miracle, they apprehend the pig. You testify. Her lawyer points out you were stoned. His client, after helping you to your domicile, a kindly act in itself, took off, and obviously vandals entered and cleaned you. You are dreaming.”
“I would like to find her myself. I’d get her off somewhere and work her over until she had a face that would make a dog sick.”
“With all proper apologies, old buddy, she has that type face to start with. Accept your losses. Be a man. Chin up, shoulders back.”
“How about a loan of five, Nick?”
“I’ll spring for a pickup, only because you have touched my heart with your story of woe. But cash, no. It’s against my religion. I’m a devout miser.”
Nick mixed a remedy, a highly spiced Bloody Mary mixed up with one raw egg. New customers arrived. Nick went to talk to them. Glenn sat alone, sipping his drink. They never let you play it safe and small. They had to be after you all the time, giving you the roust. And quite suddenly, without any process of logic, any awareness of consecutive thought, he knew a decision had been made. It made his hands sweat. It made his losses minor.
He dug out the change Pru had left him, took a dime and walked over to the pay phone in a booth in the corner furthest from the jukebox. It seemed like a long walk. He felt as if he walked along a strange ridge that had appeared in the floor, so that it sloped away on either side.
The Crossroads was on the Walterburg exchange. He looked up the number for Peter Drovek and dialed it. He pulled the booth door shut. In that enclosed space he could smell the perfume stink of the lipstick on his chest. All his scrubbing had not removed the odor or the faint pink color.
“Hello?” Sylvia said.
“Pete Drovek there?” he asked, pitching his voice high.
“No. I think you can reach him if …”
“Baby, this is Glenn.”
“Oh.”
“I’m on the second shift now.”
“You are?” she said cautiously.
“Yeah. You know that … thing we were talking about. I wanted to tell you. I made up my mind. I’ll … do it.”
“Oh.”
“Can’t you talk or something? Is anybody there?”
“No. I’m alone.”
“Honey, while I was out yesterday somebody broke in my room and cleaned me out. Clothes, money, everything.”
“That’s too bad.”
“I go on at four. Can you stop by and bring some money? I got to get through till payday. You got any money?”
“How much do you need?”
“If you can scrape up twenty-thirty bucks.”
“All right.”
“I got to see you somehow. We got … plans to make. Details. You know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“When, baby?”
“He’s going away Friday afternoon with Jack Paris. A fishing trip. Friday night?”
“Late, it’ll have to be. Twelve-thirty, same place.”
“All right.”
He walked back to the bar. The sweat felt cool on his back, under his shirt.
Nick said, “You appear to have regained your normal condition of good cheer with unanticipated rapidity, old buddy.”
“Me? No, I’m still sore. I don’t feel any better. Thanks for the medicine, Nick. See you around.”
Back at the house next door to Pete’s house, Joan Paris hung up as soon as Glenn and Sylvia were off the line. She felt actually physically ill. She had gone home in the early afternoon to lie down for a little while and see if she could cure a headache. She had to be back in the office at four for a conference with some people from the supermarket chain about an expansion of employee washroom facilities. She had taken two aspirin, darkened the bedroom, set her alarm on the off-chance that she might be able to sleep, taken off her clothes and gotten into her bed. A few minutes later she had remembered something she had meant to tell her secretary before leaving. She had sighed, rolled up onto one elbow and picked up the bedside phone. The four Drovek houses were on a party line.
She heard Sylvia say, “Oh!”
Joan had no desire to listen to anyone else’s conversation. But as she was about to hang up she heard an unfamiliar male voice say, “Can’t you talk or something? Is anybody there?”
“No. I’m alone.”
And then, of course, she could not hang up. She listened to all of it and hung up when they were through. She could not identify the man. But the situation was unmistakable. Ordinary. And nasty. It indicated a liaison that had been going on for some time. Long enough for them to have a place to meet. The man sounded coarse, and quite arrogant.
It had been a shock to all of them when they had gotten Pete’s wire from Mexico well over a year ago. And a shock of a different kind when they had met the bride. She was certainly an exotic-looking little item.
Of all the family, with the possible exception of Nancy, Joan felt that she had made the greatest effort to get to know Sylvia. At first she had thought the girl had a shyness that made it difficult for her to communicate. But eventually she had come to the unhappy conclusion that the young girl actually had very little to communicate or contribute. Hers was an utterly circumscribed mind, concerned solely with the trivia of clothes, hair-styling, movies and hit tunes. She read confession magazines, TV magazines and comic books. She seemed pleasant enough, and anxious for acceptance, but hers was an incurably pedestrian outlook.
In listening to her romanticized versions of her previous careers, Joan had decided that Sylvia had been in one of the grubbier divisions of the modeling profession. This was conf
irmed after Sylvia trusted her enough to show her the photographs in a large scrapbook. She also detected in Sylvia that little unavoidable coarseness of outlook, that unmistakable hardening of the texture of the emotions which is the inescapable fate of every woman who has been used by too many men, too casually. And, from little inadvertent things Sylvia said, she was able to guess how the marriage had come about.
It was a sadness in her that Pete should have trapped himself in this way. He was the last and youngest child by a full seven years, and they had all had special hopes for him, wanting for him one of those wise golden girls of myth and legend. Joan knew that her ambitions for Pete had probably been greater than those of the others. After their mother had died, when Joan had been nine, she had been the one most directly responsible for the youngest. She had loved him, and did love him, in a special way.
She wondered what their marriage was like. Despite Pete’s apparent blithe unconcern there was a quickness and subtlety to his mind which could certainly not be complemented by any spark from Sylvia. Certainly their union had a lusty, tireless sexuality. At a hundred paces there was no mistaking Sylvia’s prime function, no confusion about the primal chore for which she had been superbly designed.
But that could not be enough for Pete, endlessly.
Joan felt guilt about seeing so little of Sylvia for the past few months. She knew the girl had been lonely, perhaps restless. She did not seem to fit in, to have any resources within herself. And Pete seemed to have established a routine that closed her out of every part of his life except that which revolved around that ridiculously large bed. She should have seen to it that Sylvia had more function than that of being a sturdy little convenience. But, damn it, the girl bored her blind.
Now, apparently, the damage had been done. Loneliness and restlessness had resulted in what was, perhaps, the only likely outlet, considering Sylvia’s basic capacities. Some greedy clown. Inevitably one of the employees, because that would be the most probable opportunity. Digging money out of her. Getting a big kick out of giving it to a Drovek wife. Some man too careless or too stupid to stay off a party line.
What to do about it?
First, she thought, I should find out who he is. I can tell myself that is a constructive move, when probably it is just female curiosity. No name was given. He comes on at four. She has nothing to do. So she will probably take him the money between four and five.
But will I do anything? Should I? Pete, in spite of his pose of indifference, has too much pride to stand for a thing like that. But I don’t think he’s deeply enough involved with her to do anything reckless. Violent. He’ll smile and tell her to pack and get out and probably give her a friendly swat on the fanny as she goes out the door.
Should I talk to Sylvia? Probably. But I won’t. And I know why. Because, in my heart, I want her to be reckless and foolish and get caught and get thrown out. If I talk to her, it may scare some sense into her. And Pete will be better off by far without her.
The man had said to her, “We got plans to make. Details. You know.”
It could very well mean that they planned to run off together. And it would be a shame to spoil a plan like that. From the sound of his voice, they deserved each other. A fine match.
I can’t tell Papa about a thing like this. And I can’t set Leo to dithering and bumbling around, making shocked noises. Talking to Betty is exactly the same as talking to Leo. There is no point whatsoever in talking to Jack. Nancy is too young. You can’t reach Clara.
Face it, girl. You want to tell somebody, and the only possible one to talk to is Chip. And wouldn’t that be dandy? “Chip, dear, Sylvia is playing around with one of the employees.” And you, dear Chip, are playing around with one of the tenants. Your dalliance is less reprehensible. In fact, I am glad it is going on. I hope she is good for you. I like her more all the time. And you need something like that. If you’ll only be careful and not give all the empty little mouths a chance to flap about the boss man.
She wondered how many people knew about it, about Chip and Jeana. She hoped she was the only one. A month ago she had paused in front of the gift shop to admire a huge ceramic ash tray in the window. She had looked into the shop and had not seen Jeana. But she had happened to be standing in just the right place to be able to see, in a small gilt-framed mirror on the left wall, a reflection of that portion of the storeroom just beyond the door into the shop, a place that would not be seen by anyone entering the shop. She saw the back of her brother’s head, one big hand on Jeana’s shoulder. His head was nodding as he seemed to be talking to her earnestly and emphatically. She was looking up into his face with such a special, unmistakably luminous look that Joan knew at once how it was with them.
For a time she had been apprehensive about it. The girl was at least twelve years younger than Chip. Chip was a very successful man. With her beauty and her natural charm she could be quite coldly taking advantage of the special susceptibility which Chip’s bad marriage had created. But soon she came to believe that Jeana was a good person, good in that special private meaning of the word—as Chip was good, and Papa was good, and Pete—if he would permit himself to be. And as she hoped she was.
She realized, with a certain irony, that Jeana was, in fact, quite close to being the imaginary girl that she had envisaged for Pete, the golden one.
Joan lay on her side in the darkened room, her fisted hand under the pillow, thinking about Sylvia, knowing that she would tell no one. We poor damn Droveks, she thought. Perhaps Leo is the only one of us who is entirely content. And when they built him, some minor errors were made. A few of the essential little gears were spaced too far apart so that the cogs do not mesh, and the machine spins busily, without direction or purpose. Chip has Clara, and what she is is not his fault. It happened to her long before they met. She is the inevitable result of her childhood. Pete has his Sylvia. And I … I have Jack. My substitute for the children he has not given me. Applaud all his little triumphs of skill. Condone and even reinforce his self-deceptions. Just the one part of it is so good.
She stretched her long strong body, luxuriating for a moment in a pure animal awareness of herself as a woman, with all of her satins and spices.
Perhaps, she thought, this is our only strong and consistent heritage from the blood and flesh of Anton and Martha, this uncompromising earthiness, these forth-right glands. But with me, as with Pete, it seems such a wasted thing. I could have had a dozen. With love enough for all of them, and some left over.
At twenty minutes after four, after Joan had been standing by the Crossroads Motor Hotel pool for ten minutes, she saw Sylvia in her gray Chevy come down the long wide curve of the asphalt drive and turn north. Joan had selected that spot because it gave her a commanding view of all operations north of the interchange. Sylvia, with that exaggerated caution of the poor driver which is almost as dangerous in fast traffic as recklessness, went up to the gap in the medial strip opposite the restaurant and turned south. If she went through the underpass, Joan would at least have eliminated the employees north of it.
But Sylvia pulled into the large gas station opposite the Motor Hotel. Joan knew she could not have selected a better place from which to watch her. Though the islands closer to the station itself were at the moment empty, Sylvia pulled into the farthest island. A tall young man hurried out to the car. Big shoulders, lean hips, long legs, brown muscular arms. Joan was too far away to see him clearly. Sylvia did not get out. It did not take him long to work on the car. She headed out, driving south. Joan waited. Five minutes later Sylvia reappeared, turned into the Motor Hotel drive, and continued on back toward home.
It would be a gas jockey, Joan thought with exasperation. It was so trite it had the flavor of inevitability.
At five-thirty, after she left the office, Joan drove her pale-blue Thunderbird down to the station. She parked by the island and got out. She said to the short blond attendant, “It doesn’t need much gas, but I’d like it greased and the oil and filter
changed and have it washed, and have someone deliver it at the house.”
“Okay, Mrs. Paris. You want it in a hurry?”
“No. Any time this evening, thanks.”
She went into the station. Marty Simmons was checking the register tape. He straightened up and smiled at her with genuine pleasure. “Hi, Joan! Sometimes I don’t see you for weeks any more. Not like the old days.”
Marty was a bald, stocky man in his fifties, with hound dog wrinkles and dewlaps. He had come with them thirty years ago. He was honest and sincere and energetic. As manager of the two stations north of the interchange, and the more extensive service facilities at Truck Haven, there was no need for him to wear the service station uniform. But, like an old coach, he felt more comfortable suited up. When there was a rush at any station and he happened to be there, he would step in and pump gas, scrub windshields.
“How are you, Marty? How’s that talented daughter of yours?”
“Mary Lee’s got a scholarship to study in Rome next year.”
“I heard about that. I think it’s wonderful.”
“We wondered about letting her go so far. But she’s not a crazy kid any more. It’ll be a tremendous experience. I don’t know where she gets it. Sally and me, we can’t even carry a tune. Bucky’s working on the road this summer. Big muscles for football. That’s all he wants. Tommy’s going in the Navy. They grow up too damn fast, Joan. They really do.”
“It hardly seems possible. How’s Pete doing?”
Marty said, with telltale heartiness, “He’s working out just fine. He comes up with some real good ideas. He’s quite a kid. He’ll keep you laughing all the time.”
Just then the one she had been waiting for came into the station. She saw the name embroidered over his pocket. Glenn. She looked at the heavy-featured, superficially handsome face, the long sideburns, the careful cut and comb of the thick glossy hair. He said, very politely and pleasantly, “Good evening, Mrs. Paris.”
The Crossroads Page 11
