The boy said, “What misery is Cousin Rafe in?”
“The misery of knowing that she is very unhappy and not knowing whether she is safe.”
“How do you know,” said Ladd, “that it was a lie?”
David stared. The boy had jumped eight steps. David said softly, “It’s unbelievable.”
“Why is it?”
“Do you believe it?”
Ladd shrugged. “A lot of stuff goes on.”
And there it was. Something jumped reason, and any rules of evidence, to a conclusion. And David thought, He did it, all right. This damned brat, sitting to this fine table, in his clean clothes—and that poor heartsick girl, God knows where or how! Reason caught up and posed the question. How does he know what the lie was? Who would tell him?
“What did Rafe do to you on Monday morning?” he said sharply.
“Pardon?”
“And what did Felicia ever do to you?”
“Oh, not a thing,” the boy said, with a writhe of his mouth.
David wanted to slap it. But he reached for his wallet, took out a card and put it on the tablecloth. “I forgot to leave this for you,” he said coldly. It was Aaron Silver’s card.
The boy’s glance flicked at it. He did not touch it. They continued their meal without conversation. The card was on the table.
Cleona came in to take their plates. “You all want this, Mr. Ladd?”
“No, no,” he said, carelessly. So Cleona took the card away.
“You don’t think you need the doctor?” David said, with excellent control. “You chose to cause such pain, such damage, and now you choose to pretend you don’t even know that the story you told is untrue. Still, you’re not sick, you say?”
“I feel okay,” the boy said sulkily.
“Why then,” said David, “the only thing for me to do is treat you as if you were perfectly well.”
“Why don’t you? For a change.” The eyes were lit with something like relish.
Cleona brought their dessert. When she had gone, David said, “All right I’ll tell you what I am planning to do. I am going to talk to Mr. Harper tomorrow, and I’ll take your picture with me. So I will find out. When I have the proof that it was you who did this to the Lorimers, there will be the consequences I told you about, and one more that I haven’t mentioned. Until you are cured of the viciousness that made you do a thing like that, you will not come into Cunningham Company. Not on November twenty-sixth or ever.”
The boy said, startled but sullen, “That’s what you think.”
“That is what I’ll see to.”
“And who are you?” said Ladd angrily.
“A man—”
“Oh, you bet! Cunningham Company is Hob Cunningham’s Company.”
“Hob Cunningham is dead,” said David, “but Cunningham Company is a living organism. Too many people are involved to let you go in there and kill it, as you would, because you are not only ignorant but also either vicious or unstable. I promised your father—”
“I’ll bet you did!”
“He asked me—”
“I’ll bet he did! I’ll bet he asked you to take over everything, everything! Including my mother.”
“Yes, he did,” said David flatly.
“You’re crazy!” The boy was sobbing. “How stupid do you think I am?” he shouted. “You think I don’t know …?”
“I think you are just about as stupid as you can be,” said David, “unless you are sick. Will you answer some questions?”
“No.”
“Are you going to cry?”
“Don’t be so damned …”
“Most people cry, when they need to cry,” said David. “You’ve got tear ducts, like anybody else.”
“You’ve got such crust!” The boy gasped.
“Well? First question. Do you think I killed your father?”
“I know it,” the boy said stonily, dry-eyed.
“Then you are wrong. Ask the doctors.”
“They’d cover.” His face was taut and haughty.
“I see. A conspiracy, eh? So you won’t come with me to the hospital where your father died and talk to the nurses and the doctors?”
“No, I won’t.”
“That’s stupid,” said David cheerfully. “Answer this question? Did you, in a fit of rage or whatever fit it was, tell that dirty scandal about the Lorimers?”
“Let the Lorimers mind their own business,” the boy said in a furious voice. “What does it matter? Listen, shall I tell you how I know?”
“I wish you would.”
But the wailing woman’s voice turned both their heads. “Oh, don’t! Please don’t!” Abby was standing in the archway to the hall, her hands clasped, her eyes filled with suffering, “I could hear. And you mustn’t! Oh please, don’t fight! You tear me to pieces. When I love you both … Please … don’t do this!”
David pushed at his chair to rise and go to her. Then all his senses bristled. He heard the boy say mechanically, in a dead voice, “I’m very sorry, Mother.”
Cleona burst in from the kitchen way, bearing a pot of coffee. Her eyes were rolling. She quite obviously expected him to go to Abby. Abby expected it. The boy expected it. And David knew that this scene had been played many times before.
But David Crown was not Hob Cunningham.
He settled down. “Cleona,” he said calmly, “will you see if you can help Miss Abby, please? Just put the coffee down.”
“David?” Abby whimpered. She looked ready to fall.
“If you could help her upstairs? The doctor did leave some, pills, I think? I’ll be up—as soon as we have finished our dinner.”
“Yes sir.” Cleona scuttled to catch Abby’s swaying form. But Abby did not fall. “You are wrong, David,” she said strongly.
“Just try to rest,” he said kindly. “I’lll be there.”
Abby turned her back. Cleona began rich murmurings, as they went away.
David turned to Ladd Cunningham and inclined his ear. “Yes? You were saying?”
The boy stared at the table. He put both hands to his middle. “Oh, no. You can say.” His eyes were not focused on anything.
“You were going to tell me …?” David took up the coffeepot and poured. His hand was steady.
“Nothing. Never. Stand on your feet. Oh, you bet. Speak up. Sure. And sit down and shut up. Think you’re the only, only man and you say ‘Go Ahead, go ahead,’ but you won’t get out of the way …” The voice broke. “But I didn’t …”
David was out of his depth and he knew it. He poured cream. He took the sugar spoon, scooped sugar from the bowl.
“Well, I’ll kill him, then,” Ladd said dully. “That’s okay. I know I have to.” He was holding his middle, as if it hurt him. But the dark eyes were focused, now, on the spoonful of sugar. “It’s easy enough,” Ladd said, “if that’s what you have to do.”
David’s hand carried the sugar to his cup. The sugar fell into the coffee. The spoon clattered back into the bowl. He said, “Ladd …”
The dark eyes came up. No way to guess what they were seeing or waiting to see. David took the cup but his fingers were damp. The handle slipped, the cup fell, the hot coffee flooded the table.
He shoved backward quickly and rolled the cloth to make a rim and keep the damage where it was. He looked at the boy. The boy seemed dazed.
“Wow, you scared me!” said David honestly.
A most peculiar expression crept on the boy’s face. David had no clue at all. The doorbell rang. Neither of them moved.
David said earnestly, “I can’t help you, Ladd. I don’t know enough. Will you please go where someone can help you? You need not feel that you ‘have’ to kill anyone. It isn’t necessary.” (The bell grew impatient. Cleona was upstairs.)
The boy bent, holding his middle.
“Are you in pain?” said David.
“I don’t have feelings,” the boy said. “Or anything to say.”
David dared not touc
h him. He sighed and rose to stop the noise of the doorbell that kept ringing.
Gary Fenwick was at the door. “Hi, Mr. Crown. Could I please speak to Ladd?”
“Well, I don’t …”
“Hey, Ladd,” sang out Gary. “Listen, Ron and Charlie are outside. Charlie’s driving. We’re going on down to the Alley Cat, have a few beers, listen to the combo. So come on, buddy.” Big Gary, dumb and innocent, young and exuberant—normal.
David looked behind. Ladd Cunningham was in the hall, standing up straight enough. He still looked dazed.
“You finished dinner? Then come on.” Gary was full of energy.
At this moment Cleona called, from partway down the stairs, “Mr. Crown? The telephone for you.”
David had not heard it ring. “Thank you. I’ll take it in the library.” He started to walk.
Gary said, rather bewildered, “It’s okay if he goes, isn’t it, Mr. Crown?”
God knows, thought David, I don’t. He said, “Let him speak for himself. Excuse me.” He went into the library, toward the telephone.
He heard Ladd say crossly, “I’m coming, I’m coming. What’s the big rush, buddy?”
“Well, listen, the guys are out there …”
David thought, Well, his peers. Maybe they can help him. And at least, Charlie is driving.
Aaron’s voice said on the phone, “David, what in hell do you think you are doing?”
“Aaron?” David heard the extension click. “Abby called you, did she?”
“She did. She says you and the boy are shouting and fighting. What are you trying to do? Send him up the wall?”
“And if I could,” said David, “you just might come with the butterfly net?”
“Listen, old friend,” said Aaron chidingly, “you are meddling with something you don’t understand.”
“Agreed, that I don’t understand. Denied, that I am meddling. I live here, old friend. Furthermore, everyone, including you and Abby, has dumped the job on me, to deal with the boy.”
“Dave, you cannot get into shouting arguments with these poor people. Surely you know better than that?”
“Surely I have the currently fashionable ring in my nose, you mean?”
“What’s your point?” said Aaron shortly.
David sat down in the desk chair, there in the library, and leaned back. “I would like to make a point,” he said, “I would enjoy it very much. Are you listening?”
“That’s my business.”
“All right. I would like to know what goes on here? What kind of civilization are we getting into? Sure, I know the pitch—be gentle, kind, and understanding with these poor people. Do not for one moment allow them to feel that they are unworthy or unloved. Although they may be both. No matter.”
David was winding up and letting go. He was connected with a mind he knew and respected. Aaron Silver was his friend. “Just roll with all the unpleasantness they cause, pity their hatred, forgive their cruelty, tolerate their total selfishness? Never mind what they do? Just don’t call it wicked? Although it may be. No matter. Now, what is all this? A system of grinding the faces of the rich?”
“Come on, Dave—”
“No, you keep listening. I mean the rich in spirit. Those who don’t pity themselves too much or too often, who survive the shocks to which all flesh is heir, who meet what they have to meet and are not made ill by life. They must stand still for whatever the weak, in their weakness, take a notion to do?”
“What’s your solution?” said Aaron. “The whip?”
“I don’t have a solution. I’m not trying to cure this boy. That’s for you to do. But I want a couple of answers from you, Doctor. First, do you expect every member of every family to be a trained psychiatrist?”
“No indeed,” said Aaron sweetly.
“Then answer this. The ones who cannot take this brawling world, the way it is, are the ones you’ll cure, if you can catch them, by changing their attitudes, bolstering up their qualities and so on—until they can take this world? Isn’t that your objective?”
“You could put it that way.”
“Ah, but us lay persons, in all our human ignorance and stress and struggle, are the brawling world. Wait, I’m developing something here. Some day this poor Ladd is going to have to learn to get along with so-called reality?”
“Yes.”
“Well. I,” said David, “happen to be real. So I do not ‘meddle’ when I simply refuse to be less than what I am.”
“Less?” said Aaron sharply. “The lay public is going to have to learn some fundamentals, Dave.”
“What fundamentals?”
“As you say, understanding, not anger or fear.”
“And to me, it’s pretty horrible to contemplate the day.” David was feeling giddy and gay with relief from pressure, now that the boy was not in the house, and he went racing on. “Okay. Say I, and everyone else … we understand. Fear is gone from this world and so is anger. Here I’ll be, busily understanding your poor sick psyche and taking great care not to damage your self-esteem. Meantime, you, of course, are doing the same for me. Now, will you tell me how we can possibly meet? When everybody pulls his punches, I’ll tell you what is gone from this world. Honesty. And trust with it. And any chance of a friendship between two human beings. Damn it,” said David, “to a friend you better be able to say what you really think or he is no friend. Just a maneuverable object. Furthermore, you got to watch out, because he is maneuvering you. He has to, because everybody is mad—including me and thee. Although me may be madder than thee, old friend, and a much more interesting case.”
Aaron began to laugh, rather helplessly. “In the meanwhile,” he sobered, “you had better take it easy.”
“You don’t quite know, yet, what it is that I have to take easy. Abby?”
“She hung up, long ago.”
“I hope so, because Abby doesn’t know this. The boy tried to buy a gun yesterday. He not only thinks I killed Hob; he intends to kill me.”
“Do you know why?” said Aaron in a moment, cautiously.
“Not I,” said David, “and is there a ‘why’ that a meddling layman can ever discover?”
“Don’t be bitter,” said Aaron absently. “How do you know what you just told me?”
“Oh, I can’t prove it. He says he ‘has to’.”
“Says!”
“Well, now,” said David, “in among the shouting there was a little meat of communication. There’s another fashionable idea. You can’t possibly mean anything if you don’t keep your voice down. What’s become of the old human impulse to get up on your hind legs and yell? Why—”
“How did he come to say that?” Aaron brushed David’s nervous nonsense aside.
“I don’t know. Then, there is the Lorimer thing. You heard about it?”
“No.”
So David told him. “Is that enough?” said David seriously, at the end of his account. “Once I’ve got the identification, can we then do whatever one does that will force him into treatment?”
“You’ve got a … bad situation there.” (Aaron evaded?)
“I thought so myself,” said David dryly.
“The lie he chose …”
“Aaron?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know,” said David. A glimmer in his mind fled as he pursued it. “I wouldn’t be so certain.”
“We don’t go in for certainties,” said Aaron, a little tartly. “Your ideas of what we do go in for may be—as you put it—merely ‘fashionable.’”
“Correct me where I’m wrong,” said David cheerfully. “What now?”
“How did he come to say he ‘had to’ kill you? Is that what he said?”
David searched his memory. “He said, ‘Well, I’ll kill him, then.’”
“Kill him?”
“Yes.”
“You were there?”
“Just the two of us, at the dinner table.”
“What had he been saying before that?�
�
“Hard to remember,” said David and realized he was echoing Cleona, “when I couldn’t follow. Let’s see … Something about ‘You think you’re the only, only man …’ There was more.”
“Old friend,” said Aaron.
“Yes?”
“I don’t know.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Will he be around the house tomorrow?” Aaron became brisk.
“As far as I know. Of course, I don’t know.”
“I’m coming out and bringing a colleague. A young man. May be the right man among the lot of us. You and Abby both stand by. I’ll try to get there around noon, at the latest. I’d make it first thing in the morning but I want to be sure to have Joe with me.”
“All right,” said David, “I’ll try to keep my mouth more or less shut until then. Thanks, Aaron.”
“Well … try to keep more or less alive, will you, Dave?”
In spite of this remark, David hung up feeling very much better. Now he must go up to Abby.
But he could hear Cleona bewailing the disaster on the dining table. He went to explain whereupon Cleona’s cries of dismay became croons of reassurance. David saw the sugar a brown ruin in the bowl. He put his finger into the mess and then to his lips. It tasted like coffee and sugar. Jumpy? he asked himself. He grinned at Cleona. For some reason, she grinned back.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Abby was sitting in her rose-colored chair, with her head back, her face sad. “Where is he?” she asked in a sad voice.
“He’s gone off with Gary Fenwick and the gang. I should think that’s all right. Aaron is coming tomorrow, at noon, or sooner, and bringing another man with him. They will know, I suppose, what to make of it all.”
“I am sorry,” she said woefully, distantly, “but I had to.”
“I know that. I think you did the best thing.”
Her head came up. “Do you?” Her brow puckered, her mouth trembled as if she would either laugh or weep.
“And I don’t break easily.”
She smiled, with tears starting. “I’m glad we are not going to fight.”
Little Less Than Kind Page 15
