That anonymous black, dark like Australian dark, Sydney streets during the blackouts. A leave he’d taken alone soon after he and Warrenholtz had trapped that Nip pilot in the field west of the base camp. Above Coco Mission beach it was, but he wouldn’t think of that and remembered instead coming back from the cinema in Sydney where he’d seen Gone With The Wind for the second time during the war. Theater full of soldiers with girls from a USO escort service, and he’d gone alone, walked back ignoring the clipped voices of the drab prostitutes. Just as he got to his hotel the air-raid sirens had wailed, drawling their panicky scales. Interior of the hotel lit only with dim green-shaded lights, seemed nearly empty. Eight flights to his room; he counted the landings. The sirens would cut off before long; as he assured himself of this, he came to the eighth floor and the sirens stopped.
He’d leaned against the wall, listening. No sound. It was late. He had the key in his hand but couldn’t see a damn thing. Had only checked in before he went out for dinner and they’d taken his bag, said they’d put it in his room and show him up later. He took his lighter out of his pocket and shook it; wet the wick, there, it caught and he held the small flame high. Numbers came up in the dark and he found his room, 808; he turned the key and went in, hit his shin on the metal bed frame. Fumbled on the nightstand with his hand, felt for the lamp and turned the switch, stupid, of course it didn’t work, and he touched the bed. Good, a double, the mattress lumpy but not as bad as it could be. The all-clear sounded as he’d known it would, and he lay down, pulled the pillows behind his head, and crossed his feet. Then the strange thing had happened. The power came on, trembling faintly in the walls, and the room turned bright, startling him. He looked at the room uncomprehendingly. It was plain, clean and ordinary, with a water closet to the left behind a narrow door—but he felt his skin prickle with an odd, interior fear and sat up on the bed. He put his feet carefully to the floor and gripped the edge of the metal bed frame.
The room was entirely taken up with a plain pine bureau, luggage table, nightstand and lamp, the bed—his eyes came back to the lamp. In its angled light he saw the flowered paper of the walls. The walls were plastered unevenly so that the fanlike pink flowers of the old paper seemed to ripple. He looked more closely then and understood. The paper was the same print as the pattern on his walls at home, at Bess’s house in Bellington. He sat, a stupid Yank son of a bitch. Then he stood abruptly, switched off the light. Laughed once, out loud. Felt for his suitcase and walked out. Fifteen minutes later, he had a room in a hotel two blocks away.
That’s why he’d been spooked last night, afraid of what he’d see when the lights came on. Not scared of the dark, scared of the light. And what was Katie afraid of? Afraid of that room, he guessed, being made to stay in it instead of going to school.
He touched the solid roof of the car: that silver gray shined up real nice with a good waxing but the chrome grill would take some work. Moving to the front of the sedan, he was conscious of the office girls in the hospital across the alley. Didn’t want to get to his knees to wax the ample grill, so he bent from the waist. Hold the can of wax in one hand, rub briskly with the other. Could leave it to sit and dry while he went inside. Check on Clayton, that’s what. He could take Clayton with him to meet Reb for lunch at the Elks’, make sure the old guy stuck to an innocent beer. Reb seemed to control his drinking; a beer at noon was his limit, though he likely drank more at night than people thought proper for a doctor. Reb could hold the liquor but Bess had said Clayton was “sick” Thursday, and sleeping in weekend mornings wasn’t like him. Bess pretended not to notice; did she complain in private? Probably not, those old girls knew their place and were smart: if a woman told a man not to drink, he’d drink till he fell down.
Mitch looked toward the small white house. Trellis roof of the little cement porch seemed fragile, overspread by gnarled, naked branches of the big buckeye. He could bring the porch swing out of the garage and hang it any day now. Though the weather was still cool, the snows were surely over.
Ease the screen door shut—there, the smallest thing could wake Katie. Standing in the kitchen, Mitch heard Clayton getting up—so, finally. A relief not to have to wake him. Could light the gas under the coffee now. Get the bread out of the drawer, put the loaf on the cutting board beside the knife: a setup, make it clear Clayton ought to eat something.
“Well, Cowboy.” Clayton stood in the hallway, rubbing the top of his bald head. “Near slept my life away. Surprised you’d let me have such peace.”
“Just about to haul you out. Want some coffee?”
Clayton shook his head. “Not yet. Think I’ll have a red-eye. Hair of the dog that bit me.”
Mitch opened the Frigidaire, surveyed its contents as though he didn’t already know Bess had gotten rid of that six-pack. “You’re stuck with caffeine, Clayton. Or straight tomato juice.”
“Who the hell drank all the beer?”
“Looks like Bess drank it, after she put you to bed last night.”
Clayton sat at the table, his arms folded, and chuckled. “I bet you that coffee she left me is black as sin.”
“See for yourself.” Mitch poured a cup and set it in front of Clayton; they both observed the steaming liquid. It smelled strong, like burnt grounds. “Want some milk, lighten it up?”
“No use trying to dilute it.” Clayton held the cup to his lips and took a swallow. “Best drink it when it’s so hot I can’t taste it.”
“Better get some toast in your belly to sop it up.”
“No, thanks.” Clayton frowned. “Katie wake up yet?”
“Awake most of the night, Bess told me. Sleeping now. I’ll take her to the movies this afternoon. Some Disney movie she’s nuts about.”
“Damn, suppose I kept her awake.”
“You weren’t loud, Clayton.” Mitch said it off-handedly but felt Clayton’s relief.
“Right.” Clayton smiled, drank the coffee with a grimace. “This potion will set me up.”
Mitch watched him, lit a cigarette, and sat back in his chair. Clayton’s hands were steady but he was bleary in the eyes, tired, flushed-looking. Didn’t seem like himself. Drinking more since Mitch had come home, these last six months—like now there was another man around to help hold things together. Wasn’t true though. If Clayton didn’t straighten up, the whole situation would go to hell.
Clayton widened his eyes, yawned, then shook his head to clear it. “You seeing Reb for lunch at the Elks’?”
Mitch nodded, then assumed a mock-serious expression. “I don’t know Clayton, seems to me you’re leading that Reb in bad ways. Doctor needs to be strait-laced. He’ll be sewing his clamps up in some poor bastard’s stomach.”
“Hell, Reb didn’t drink much. Keeping me company mostly.” Clayton leaned forward, touching the cup with both hands. “How’s the new Pontiac running? Get her waxed yet?”
“Nearly. Some of us been up for hours.”
Clayton half-stood from his chair, leaning to see out the kitchen window. Mitch didn’t look; having already memorized the image of the car, he watched Clayton’s face instead. Crazy how men loved cars. Clayton did his characteristic wink and click of the tongue, a gesture Mitch remembered from the first summer in Bellington: fourteen years old and looking up, seeing this big balding man, a stranger who had the power to say whether Mitch stayed or went. Went where?
“She looks like heaven,” Clayton said now. “Katie’s head will turn—she don’t have any other escorts with new Pontiac Eights.” The chair creaked as he sat back down. He was still a big man, healthy-looking except for the bad color in his face.
“You be here for lunch with Bess and Katie, or you want to come up to the Elks’ with me?”
“Can’t do either. Told Twister I’d come watch his basketball practice. That kid is growing like a weed, getting so he looks five years older than Katie instead of two—”
“She’ll catch up, Clayton.” Mitch put his cigarette out, stubbing it into the ash tray
harder than he needed to.
Clayton nodded. “Sure, maybe she will.” He was silent a moment, turning the coffee cup a meditative half-circle. “I don’t mind how tall she is or how big, or even whether she goes through school—that kind of thing don’t matter so much for a girl. But she’s got no strength. Doesn’t seem to gain an ounce. Smallest thing sets her heart to beating like a drum.”
Mitch stood and turned to the sideboard, busied himself cutting the bread. If someone made it for him, Clayton would have to eat it. “You talk to Reb about Katie lately?”
“Some. Reb seems damn optimistic. Can’t trust him.”
Mitch put the knife down. “Reb would tell you if Katie was in a dangerous way.”
“Don’t mean that,” Clayton said. “I know he’s done everything he can.” Scraping of the cup across the saucer. “Look at you, cutting that bread when I told you not to. Working for old man Costello over at Winfield must be adding to your cussedness.”
“That’s for damn sure.”
“You still like that rooming house where you’re staying?”
“It’s all right.” Mitch put the thick slice of bread in the oven, feeling the wave of heat on his face as he bent to latch the oven door.
“All right, eh?” Clayton smiled. “I know what rooming houses are. You give Mary Chidester the address last night?”
“Figured I’d give it to her tonight, if she beat it out of me.”
“Better not. She’ll show up at your door next thing you know, move in.” He laughed. “These young ones are really something. She must have heard you’re selling a lot of trucks over there.”
“Could be.” Mitch got the butter from the Frigidaire.
“Costello raise your commission yet?” Clayton drank the coffee and spoke softly to make the question less loaded.
“Not yet. The salary is passable but there’s nowhere to go with Costello.” Mitch took the toasted bread from the rack. Christ, it was hot. He’d burn himself being a goddamn waitress.
Clayton nodded. “Costello is a damn tight Talie, and crooked besides. But goes to Mass every whipstitch. Here, give me that toast. I reckon I can butter my own bread.” He took the plate and heated the knife on the toast before slicing the butter. It was something he did Mitch liked to watch. “Dagos are close-knit. I was surprised he let you have that job.”
“He brags how he hired every experienced vet that applied, just so I don’t get a swelled head. It’s an education, rooming there on Dago Hill.”
“Dagos aren’t bad people,” Clayton said. “They just aren’t our people.” He ate the bread slowly; Mitch knew he wouldn’t finish it.
Jam. Mitch got the jam from the shelf and put it near Clayton’s plate. Damn if he didn’t get nervous, talking about work with Clayton. Might as well be a teenager again. He leaned back from the table and looked out the window at his car. Now was as good a time as any.
“You know, Clayton, while I was gone I used to think you and me ought to start up a business. A war over and room for new people. Look at Costello—he’s cleaning up.”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“Oh, a supply business, maybe concrete. Did a lot of that work in New Guinea—and I can keep about any engine running.”
He didn’t look at Clayton but at Clayton’s hand on the tablecloth. The hand was big and finely shaped, the fingers tapered, the fingernails so perfect they looked manicured. And when he raised his eyes, Clayton was watching him with that still, contemplative gaze Mitch had thought about in the war, wondered about.
“We’ll see, Mitch,” he said. “Things calming down now. We’ll see.”
They sat while Clayton finished the coffee. There was an easy silence in the room. Only the sound of the clock, and a car going by in the alley.
Mitch hadn’t gone to the Elks’ much before the war but now he went for lunch nearly every day he was in Bellington. The aura of the back barroom was overpoweringly familiar: smells of tobacco and men, the sound of men’s voices. He liked the ritual of the locked door with the triangular window, the card he stuck in the slot beneath the doorknob, the official sound of the buzzer as the door unlatched. The people were always the same, the food modest and cheap. Past the dining room, it was just the men. Mitch paused a moment at the swinging door to the bar, hearing a low hum of conversation, then walked on through into an ocher, interior shade.
The Elks’ barroom was always a little dark, dark enough that the electric beer signs along the back wall shone with a pale night-light glow even at noon. Windows along the single row of booths were draped with dark green pleated curtains that kept the sun out; behind the drapes the window glass was thick and patterned, opaque as bottle bottoms. The wall behind the bar was almost solidly covered with clippings, jokes from men’s magazines, newsprint photos. Scattered heroics: twenty years of high school sports wins; service news of local boys; color photos of Roosevelt, MacArthur, Patton. Patton was a favorite of McAtee’s, the bartender; a miniature Fourth of July flag bordered Patton’s picture. On the far end of the wall, near the mirror, McAtee had tacked up Life newsprint of Patton’s funeral, wrinkled black and white images of a blurred cortege. Directly below, the plastic Schlitz beer wagon lamp looked like a battered toy, the illuminated horses gone white in patches where color had flaked away.
Mitch and Reb habitually sat at that end of the bar. Reb wasn’t here yet; Mitch walked back and sat down as McAtee brought him a draft.
“Cowboy, my favorite bachelor. How goes it?” McAtee wiped the already polished bar top and set the frothy beer in front of Mitch.
“Not bad, McAtee. Where’s our Doc? Fell asleep over his operating table probably. Out causing trouble last night.”
“Yeah?” McAtee gestured toward the door. “Don’t let him get away with that. Here he is now.”
“Hey, Old Man Hampson.” Reb saluted as he walked toward them, then shook hands as he reached Mitch. His hands always felt cold and dry and clean; the alcohol, Mitch guessed, sterile hands. “Clayton up yet?”
“Just barely,” Mitch said.
McAtee grinned as Reb sat down and leaned on the bar, sighing with satisfaction. “Home,” Reb said.
Mitch watched the two men; he raised his eyes to McAtee’s jovial face and glimpsed behind him the Life newsprint pictures—they looked almost like enlarged Kodak snapshots, out of focus and aged. Mitch smiled. “Home is damn morbid lately, McAtee. I don’t know why you have to have those funeral clippings right here where Doc and I sit.”
“I’m trying to get you boys to think serious,” McAtee said.
Reb raised both hands to his eyes and peered at the pictures as though through binoculars. “Fate does play the old trick.”
“Damn right. Never can tell how things will turn around.” McAtee set the beers up and gestured toward the clippings. The glossy paper of the pictures shone slightly in the light of the lamp. “Look at old Blood and Guts. Liberated the damn graveyard and then laid down in it. All those battles and then breaks his bastard neck in a kraut car wreck.”
Reb pulled his beer mug closer, turning it by the cracked handle. “Plenty broke their fool necks for him.”
“Right, Doc.” McAtee made a show of scowling. “Broke their necks to save yours.”
Reb grinned. “Old Man here saved my neck personally—I know that for a fact. Isn’t that right, Cowboy?”
“That’s right, and I’d say you owe me a little sobriety.” Mitch threw McAtee a collaborative glance. “You’re an insult to your profession and to Bond Hospital.”
Reb laughed. “He’s on me again, McAtee. Reads me like a book.” He took a long drink, draining half the glass. “Damn you, Cowboy, you know I don’t take a drop till one in the afternoon. McAtee, tell him.”
“I got work to do. You two want the special? Yeah, you want the special.” McAtee moved down the bar away from them, pulling his long apron tighter. Behind him the glass bottles registered the shading of his passage, then shone again with their same dull spark
le.
Mitch leaned on the bar, his hands touching his cool glass. “Really, Doc, you and Clayton been keeping some late hours here.”
“Cowboy, I believe you’re serious.” Reb was quiet a moment, then tipped the glass and drank slowly. “Clayton’s been hitting it lately.”
“He was damn drunk when you brought him home last night. Finished that bottle the two of you started.”
“No kidding.” Reb took his cigarettes from his suit jacket pocket. “My drinking buddy is getting ahead of me.”
“Maybe you’d better talk to him, Reb. Be a doctor, give him a scare.”
“Hell, Mitch, where you been? He’s already scared, that’s why he’s drinking so much. He’s scared about Katie. Thinks she’s going to die and then Bess will go to pieces. Trying to beat Bess to it, fall apart himself before anyone else does.” Reb lit a Marlboro. “He’s wrong. Bess could stand up under anything.”
“Die? Katie?” Mitch felt his stomach tense as though in preparation for a blow.
“Listen, she’s not going to die. I just said Clayton thinks she will, though he won’t admit it.” He took a drag on the cigarette, then looked at Mitch squarely. “Katie’s on a daily dosage of penicillin now. She’s safer from infection than you or me, but Clayton doesn’t believe it. The truth is, Katie scares him every day. She’s not the healthy kid she used to be. Clayton can’t take it.”
Mitch touched the rim of his glass. The edge was blunt and thick. “Katie won’t ever be any better, will she?”
“She’ll get some stronger, maybe, but she’ll always have that heart murmur, tire easily … be delicate. No way to repair a damaged heart. We never even knew about that first strep throat. Katie kept it a secret because she didn’t want to miss school. Strep symptoms go away, show up later as fatigue, pain in the joints—and by then it’s rheumatic. But everyone in town had a flu then, and Bess thought Katie had it too. Kept her in bed and gave her aspirin. I saw her after about a week, heard the murmur, knew what had happened. That was in December. She just didn’t have much resistence afterward and got pneumonia in February.”
Machine Dreams Page 8
