Mrs. Cora Rook positioned herself on a chair in front of the picture window, insuring that she was back-lit and her profile was turned to her guest. At seventy she was elegantly emaciated in the style of the Duchess of Windsor and Isak Dinesen in their old age, women who expected clothes and men to hang well on them.
She took several brisk, bird-like nips at her whisky. She knew that it was a lady’s duty to be entertaining but she wasn’t sure what a bank inspector would find amusing. So she decided to conduct the conversation along customary lines. She asked Reg what his last name was.
Reg said that he was not allowed to divulge that for security reasons – it was a rule with bank inspectors.
“In that case,” she said, “you’ll have to stop calling me Mrs. Rook and call me Cora. First names both. It’s only fair.” And much nicer too, she thought. Reg had the same pleasant feel on her tongue as Len had. The names were remarkably similar. Three letters each. Reg, Len. Len, Reg. She leaned across the coffee table and clutched the whisky bottle in her be-ringed fingers. “Let me top that up for you, Reg,” she said.
“Only if you’ll join me, Cora,” said Reg. You only live once, he reminded himself, this was thirty-five-dollar-a-bottle whisky. “It’d be criminal to refuse,” he said, barking laughter.
Cora laughed too, although the joke didn’t mean to her what it did to him.
By four o’clock in the afternoon Cora was finding it uncomfortably warm being back-lit by the blazing July sun. She rose and, drink in hand, swayed to the air-conditioner, turned it on full blast, and swayed back to her chair to resume the conversation where she had left it suspended in mid-sentence.
“– and I’ll tell you another secret, Reg, no fooling, you remind me of my deceased husband–”
“Leonard Darwin Rook,” interjected Reg. Yesterday he had thoroughly cross-examined her on her family situation. Now he dug up the name more or less to prove to himself that he wasn’t drunk yet. Far from it. Miles off.
Cora wobbled with whisky and astonishment. In a voice that had slurred and deepened with cigarettes and scotch over the course of the afternoon, she declared that, “You, Reg, have an amazing memory.”
She wasn’t going to get an argument out of Reg. “In my line of work – you have to. If you don’t – one slip and its game over.”
“Figures,” said Cora.
“What?” Len was having some difficulty concentrating. He put it down to all that hot sun shining in his eyes.
“Figures,” repeated his hostess. With her index finger she wrote several numerals in the air - 3, 8, 10. “In your line of work you have to be able to remember figures.”
“Of course,” said Reg, finally catching what she was getting at. He raised his drink aloft. “This is my sixth glass if I don’t stand corrected.” He pointed his finger at her. “And I don’t, do I?”
“Who’s counting,” said Cora. “Not little old me. I have a terrible memory for numbers.” She smiled a small, helpless smile. “But I never forget a face or a pleasant moment. And I just want to say, Reg, that I have seldom spent a more congenial moment than the congenial moments that you and I have passed this afternoon. They are congenial moments that I will recall in days to come with much pleasure.”
“Very enjoyable, very enjoyable,” Reg muttered into his glass.
“I’m not afraid to say it, Reg. I am one of those women who have always preferred the company of men. I have always believed in the mingling of the sexes. Don’t you agree that we only present our best sides when we have someone of the opposite sex to present them to?”
“There’s something to be said for that opinion, Cora.”
“Does your wife feel similarly? Women most often do.”
“I never married,” said Reg. This was not strictly the truth, not if commonlaws counted.
“How sad,” said Cora.
“Yes,” said Reg doubtfully.
“Since Len passed on I haven’t been the same,” Cora confessed, skinning her palms along the slippery satin encasing her thighs. “I miss the companionship.” Reg failed to respond so Cora adopted a more elegiac tenor. “He always brought out the best in me. Men do that for women, you know. I dressed only for my man!” She indicated her outfit. “This was a favourite of his.” She sighed. “But I’m afraid grief has led me to neglect my appearance.”
“Cora,” said Reg, “if every woman neglected herself the way you do, men would have no reason to complain.”
“Reg, you have no idea how I appreciate that.”
Reg didn’t appear to have heard her. He was staring at the face of his watch trying to decipher the time. When he did, he lurched abruptly to his feet. “I’m late,” he said.
At the door Cora did what she could to delay his departure. “I’ve enjoyed working with you. I’d do it again in a minute,” she said, propped up against the door jamb.
“You handled yourself like a real pro,” said Reg. “You handled yourself beautifully.”
Cora was reluctant to let the moment pass. “What if there are more of them in on it? I could go back and do it again. Just to make sure.”
“I see where you’re coming from. One bad apple can spoil the barrel. Right?”
“Exactly,” said Cora.
Reg aimed his forefinger between her eyes. “I get you. The rot spreads.” He paused. “Why the hell not? Let’s do it again.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Without question or comment. And this time, pull two thousand.” He stooped over her, breathing a confidence down into her uplifted face. “Because you know, Cora, the more they steal, the longer the sentence they get.”
In the next week Cora made three more trips to the bank, withdrawing two thousand dollars each time. It was thrilling, the adventure of a lifetime. In early afternoon Reg would arrive to collect the evidence and Cora would serve drinks and snacks and they would have long, intimate conversations. She could feel the strength of their regard for one another growing day by day. A difference in age was no impediment to mutual respect and affection.
Reg was sweet in an irresistibly boyish sort of way – she couldn’t forget how he had pretended to resist when she had coaxed him into dancing with her to Perry Como on the stereo. A bachelor’s shyness. Whatever he might have said to the contrary, Cora was sure that dancing had done him as much good as it had done her. It had made her blissfully happy.
Reg was not happy. Despite having seven thousand dollars in his pocket, his stomach hurt. After three thousand dollars, he’d told himself That’s enough, pack it in, get while the getting is good. He’d told himself the same thing after five thousand and seven thousand but he couldn’t stop. He knew the longer he hung in, the greater the risks he ran. If he kept on with this life – aspirins for tension headaches and whisky to take the kinks out of his neck – his guts were going to end up Swiss cheese.
Wasn’t this always the way? A man gets to the very peak of his career, he’s conducting some old broad like she was an orchestra, and still he can’t shake the queer feeling that he’s had ever since he laid eyes on her – that he’s losing control of his own life.
“Reggie,” said Mrs. Cora Rook, stretching her arms out to him, “let’s dance.” Andy Williams was on the stereo.
“I don’t want to dance,” said Reg. It was true. He didn’t like the way she felt under her caftan when he held her in his arms. It was like steering a bundle of sticks and twigs.
“Reg,” said Cora, “a gentleman does not refuse the invitation of a lady.”
“The middle of the afternoon is the wrong time for dancing,” argued Reg. “Have another drink instead.”
“No, it isn’t. Len and I often had a dance in the afternoon.”
“Well, I’m not Len.”
Cora pouted, held out her glass for him to fill. “I’m feeling gay and Mr. Growl Bear is being a poop.” She had started calling him that in the past couple of days. He didn’t like it. But what was he going to say? She had volunteered to go to the bank again wh
ich put him under some obligation to be nice to her. Come to think of it, maybe it was only wise to dance.
He did. Cora crooned “Moon River” in his ear the whole time.
Reg developed a theory about Cora. After four drinks she got unpredictable and could go one way or the other, sunshine or showers. One afternoon she rained on him for hours, telling him how hard her life was.
“There are some women – I won’t mention names – who like being widows. But not me, because if you have a loving heart you want to share it. Len used to say to me, ‘Dicky bird, I’m the happiest man alive and I owe it all to you.’ And truer words were never spoken. I gave myself completely to that man’s happiness – his slightest wish was my command – but the way I look at it, that’s the least a woman owes a man who takes charge of all the more sordid details of life. I don’t think a woman wants to be involved in the sordid details of life, money and taxes and bank accounts and all that sort of rigmarole. That life isn’t for me, Reg. I don’t know who is cheating me and who isn’t. A very masculine type of woman could maybe manage this, but I was not made to be bumped and bruised. Len used to say to me, ‘Honest to God, dicky bird, you were not made for this world.’ If he knew the heartache his money has given me, I’m sure Len – even though he was a very jealous man – would want me to marry again. Marry a man with a little business expertise, a man with financial experience like yourself, Reg, who could take over these things and relieve my mind and make me happy again. A man for who I could be Queen of the Home. Do you think I’ll ever find a man like that, Reg?”
Reg walked for hours that night, up and down darkened streets. It was clear to him that there was no future for him in his present occupation. Years of preparation and effort and what did it get him? A stomach in knots, a case of nerves you wouldn’t believe. And yesterday, diarrhoea. What did it count that he was twice as intelligent as anybody else in his field of endeavour, that he had taken the trouble to make an analysis of it, read books and try to improve himself, always pay attention to the smallest details? Who else had come up with plastic sandwich bags and receipts? Not those other schmucks, those snatch and grab goons. And yet they still did as well as he did – better – despite being dumber, despite falling far short of his charm and savoir-faire and good looks and je ne sais quoi – all qualities that were supposed to be at a premium in this line of work. Which only went to show you a man was only as good as his luck and Reg Stamp’s had always been bad. If he’d been born into the right family, given a proper start, he was sure that a man of his abilities could have been every bit as big a success as the famous Len. He, too, could have been the owner of six dry-cleaning outlets and up to his ass in clover. But when it came to luck, he’d been short changed.
And now his nerve was gone. Without it he was nothing, less than nothing. When the nerve went, jail was just around the corner. Jail was not his cup of tea, to tell the truth it scared the holy shit out of him. Of course, the ignorant general public would never understand the difference between him and your usual run-of-the-mill criminal who lacked Reg’s sensitivity.
He’d been in twice. The first time he’d got one year less a day. The second time he was sentenced to thirty months. He had barely survived the longer sentence with his sanity intact. The problem with the pen was the kind of people you found there, very low-rent, very crude individuals. Nobody was noisier than a criminal, always shouting threats, slamming cell doors, screaming in their nightmares, playing their radios full throttle, showing absolutely no consideration for their neighbours, none. Reg hated noise. It interfered with his reading magazines and books from the prison library.
And they were violent. If there was anything Reg hated more than noise it was violence; he lacked a drop of violent blood in his veins. Regardless of any other complaints they might have had about him, several of the women he had lived with in the past had commented on this remarkable aspect of his character – no matter how mad he got he never hit them. A gentleman at all times.
Really, he could hardly be considered a criminal. Not if the word meant anything. Who had he ever really hurt? Okay, he had received money from people who should have known better. But in what way was that different from what so-called honest, respectable businessmen, so-called pillars of the community, were doing every day of their lives? And what did it amount to, the money he had taken? Peanuts. A thousand dollars from this one for aluminum siding, a thousand dollars from that one for a burial plot, a thousand dollars here and a thousand dollars there. Nobody could tell him that they hadn’t been able to spare it either. What a bunch of crap. If they hadn’t been able to afford it, they wouldn’t have parted with it!
It was the unfairness of it all that got him down. He had met a guy in the Prince Albert Pen who had murdered three people, two of them children. With an axe. And he was never sick a day in his life, ate like a horse, slept like a baby. But Reg Stamp, who had never done anything much worse than a sort of practical joke, a complicated prank, he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t find a second’s peace.
He would be fifty-three years old in six months. If he continued on this way he might never see another birthday, the stress and strain of this life was going to kill him. Other men in precarious health could fall back on disability pay, draw on company pension schemes. Not him. Other men could look forward to a secure retirement. Not him.
There was nobody to take care of Reg Stamp but Reg Stamp himself. In his current dilemma, he couldn’t see any way out except to marry her. At least it was legal and most likely a shorter sentence than he’d get if he were convicted again. How long was an old lady like that likely to last, abusing herself with alcohol the way she did? To put it in perspective, all you had to tell yourself was that it was like waiting for a Canada Savings Bond to come due. While he waited he could relax, take life easy, rebuild his health. If he made like he’d given up a promising career as a bank inspector to manage her affairs she’d be delighted, eternally grateful. She’d probably even buy him a classy present.
And the beauty was it was all legal, no financial hanky-panky involved. Good fortune made him feel generous, magnanimous. He expected to give something in return, that was his style. He knew what these old ladies like Cora wanted – a little care and kindness. So what if she went fishing for a compliment once in a while, he’d give her one. It was no skin off his ass. So what if she wanted to sit and drink Glendronach in the afternoon, he wasn’t averse. So what if she wanted to have a little dance now and then, he didn’t mind dancing. After all, keeping her happy today would ensure his happiness tomorrow.
They were married ten days later, a whirlwind romance. Reg argued for a private wedding, by which he meant secret. “Let’s surprise our friends,” he urged, overlooking that he had none. Reg didn’t want someone meddling and queering the deal at the last minute. The ceremony was performed by a marriage commissioner, the witnesses were the caretaker of Cora’s building and his wife. Reg gave them twenty bucks a piece.
There was some confusion in the beginning because the marriage commissioner kept trying to pair Cora and the caretaker together, assuming, because of their ages, they were bride and groom. When it finally got sorted out, with much shuffling and shifting and switching of places, Reg was pretty peeved because he had been made to feel ridiculous. Also, the commissioner giving him the hairy eyeball all through the service didn’t do anything for Reg’s increasing bad humour either. And Cora insisting on playing the blushing bride and carrying an enormous bouquet bristling with baby’s breath just topped it all off. Every time Reg looked over at her he asked himself, “Who does she think she is? Doris Day?”
But he pecked the bride and it was mercifully finished with, the happy couple returning to the apartment to order Chinese food and drink the two bottles of champagne that had been left chilling in the fridge. Cora giggled a lot over her new name, Mrs. Cora Stamp, slamming her foot to the floor every time she said it. She hadn’t had much time to get accustomed to it because she had lear
ned it only after Reg had proposed and security restrictions were lifted because he was quitting his job. Reg bridled inwardly whenever she laughed because he didn’t see anything funny about his name. Of course, when Cora got drunk she could find paint on the wall hilarious.
After they polished off the two bottles of champagne they uncorked a bottle of Glendronach from the case she kept stashed in the linen closet. An hour or two later, Reg, seeing that Cora was getting into pretty bad shape, suggested she go lie down for a while. Cora, who thought she knew what he was hinting at, got unsteadily to her feet, went into the bedroom, put on her filmy fuchsia negligee, freshened up her lipstick, and lay down on the bed to wait for her new husband to come to her.
Reg sat in the living room with a glass in his hand, a man of property. He looked around him. That bottle of whisky was his whisky. That chair was his chair. That stereo was his stereo. Once these things had been Len’s but by the simple act of obtaining a marriage licence they had become his. Which only went to show you that in the end he had a step up on old Len, was miles ahead of that supposed financial wizard. To keep these nice things, all he had to do was be kind to an old lady, carry her grocery bags for her, help her into taxis, put her to bed when she was too drunk to do it herself.
Finding this very funny he laughed, poured himself another drink, stretched out on the sofa. He didn’t know where he was going to sleep tonight but pas de problem. In the course of such an eventful day there had been no time for a discussion of domestic arrangements and for one night he had no objection to roughing it on a soft sofa. He’d slept worse places in his day. Tomorrow he’d have her buy a water bed for him; he’d always wanted one of those, but his former life had made one impractical. You couldn’t skip about the country the way he had with a water bed.
Things As They Are? Page 15
