Mary stood up as the phone started to ring. Mike said, “No reason to do it alone when I’m here to help. And … you’ve got to tell Debbie Ann what’s happened, Mary. I think I should be with you.”
“I can tell her, Mike,” Mary said, and turned to go to the phone, but just as she turned away he saw a look of dread, and he knew he could not leave her.
“They say it’s a lovely, lovely beach at Marco,” Shirley McGuire said.
“And we’ll have a fine picnic, girl. Some other time. Okay?”
Finally, remembering that look of dread, Mike got Mary alone and told her he was perfectly willing to go and tell Debbie Ann by himself, that perhaps it would be better that way. Mary argued, but there was little force in her argument.
So it was agreed that he would go and tell Debbie Ann, provided Sam Scherman said it was all right to tell her, and provided some fool nurse hadn’t given her the morning paper—if she was well enough to read it.
Mike located Sam making his morning rounds. He said Debbie Ann was well enough to be told, that in fact he had debated telling her himself and had decided it would be easier for her coming from her mother. No, Debbie Ann did not know. The special had used her head and commandeered the free paper for the hospitalized before Debbie Ann had seen it.
So Rodenska squared his shoulders, pulled his stomach in and marched to Debbie Ann’s bedside. Her color was much better. The left side of her face was heavily bandaged. Her hair was combed. She had been cranked up into a half-sitting position. The special went out and closed the door behind her.
“What are you doing here?” The locked jaw put a hiss in her speech, an odd tonal quality. “Where’s Mommy? Why isn’t she here?”
“She sent me to visit the sick.”
“This goddamn neck brace is driving me out of my mind. They fixed it so I can’t breathe through the left side of my nose. And they took out a perfectly good tooth, a perfect tooth right in front, goddamn them, so I can suck the foul goop they give me through a straw. So the last thing I want to look at this morning out of this one eye is you, you dirty snitch bastard! Go away, for God’s sake!”
“Anybody could tell you’re vastly improved.”
“How the hell did you all of a sudden make her start hating me? You’re pretty damn smart, Rodenska. You sold her the whole story. Thanks so much. You destroyed her love for me. God, I hate you!”
“Not her love, kiddo. Just her liking for you, and respect for you, and pride in you. Love goes on. You don’t turn that kind off.”
“How comforting can you get?”
“I didn’t tell her anything until I had to. Then I had to do it the hard way, to keep her from charging Troy with rape.”
“Is that so bad?”
“It wouldn’t have stood up. There wouldn’t have been a conviction.”
“I don’t care about that. I wanted them to pick him up and take him to a little room and beat the living hell out of him. That’s what they do to rapists.”
“Only on television. Except when they’re the wrong color.”
“Oh. Anyway, somehow he’s going to pay. Even if I have to hire people to do it. I want his face smashed the way he smashed mine. And crack his neck and break a finger, just like what happened to me. He didn’t have to hit me!”
“What did you say to him?”
“He wouldn’t answer me. He just kept walking. It made me mad. So I stopped and got out. He told me to get out of his way. I asked him where he was going and he said just as far from me as he could get. So I just said he didn’t have to worry about it ever happening again. He didn’t have to run from temptation, I told him. Because just once was plenty for me. I said it was pretty dull merchandise, probably because he was so damn old. Then he hit me. When you see him, you tell him I’ll get even sooner or later. That’s all you’re good for—telling people every damn thing you know. It makes you feel important. You stick your nose in other people’s lives because it makes you feel like a big shot. Get the hell out of here! I get sick looking at you and they keep warning me I shouldn’t throw up.”
“I can’t tell him, princess. I can’t tell him a thing.”
“Why? Did he really go away? I thought it was just an act.”
“He did just what he said he was going to do. He got just as far away from you as he could get. And you’ll never get even.”
“You think.”
“I know. I can’t give you this between the eyes, because there is only one eye. And I’m just bastard enough to be able to get a little bit of enjoyment out of this. He’s stone cold dead, baby. It happened last night. Automobile accident. Head-on. He’s one of seven deceased. He didn’t precisely kill himself, and you didn’t precisely murder him. Let’s just say that if you had had the decency or the desire to keep your legs crossed, he’d be alive. And you wouldn’t be in here.”
The eye snapped shut. He saw her sudden pallor, the clenching of her good fist, the spasm of her throat—and he went running for the nurse. She came on the double, snatched up the wire cutters and hovered over Debbie Ann.
“Are you going to be sick, dear?”
“I … don’t know.”
“If you get absolutely sure you’re going to be, nod your head yes and then spread your lips back out of the way.”
They waited in tension and silence for thirty seconds. Just as Mike realized her color was coming back, Debbie Ann said, “I’m not going to be sick.”
“Good for you, dear. I think you better go, sir.”
“Stay here, Mike!”
“She’s upset, sir.”
“Upset, hell!” Debbie Ann snarled. “I’ll be more upset if I don’t hear more about this. Now get out of here, please, Parkins, and let us talk.”
The nurse hesitated. “I’ll be right outside the door. Don’t be too long, sir.”
When the door shut Debbie Ann said, “Mommy wasn’t involved in it, of course?”
“No.”
“Was he with that woman?”
“Yes.”
“And she was killed too?”
“Nobody could have gotten out of that one.”
“How is Mommy taking it?”
“Pretty well. She identified him. She’s pretty … subdued today, but she’s making the funeral arrangements herself.”
“Does … does she blame me, Mike?”
“She hasn’t said.”
“Do you think she will?”
“She knows the situation was bad. And she can’t help knowing you made a bad situation a hell of a lot worse. You slept with her man when he was sick, mixed-up and vulnerable. You gave him a guilt he couldn’t live with. I don’t see how she can ever think of you again as her sweet little lovable baby. You asked me. I told you. But you didn’t have to ask. You know all that.”
“Oh, God!”
“There’s an old-timey idea still in force. Whatever you take, they get stubborn and make you pay for it.”
“I should have been with him last night, Mike. That would have made it a hell of a lot neater. I wish I’d been with him.”
“Don’t tell me! Am I hearing right? Debbie Ann expressing remorse? Regret? Guilt, even?”
“Don’t pound on me, please.”
“Or maybe it’s just an act. You want to soften me up for some reason. So you make with the tragedy jazz. Remember? You’re the golden girl. You can do anything in the wide world you want to do and it’s right because it’s you that does it. Everybody in the world is a slob except the infinitely desirable Debbie Ann.”
“What are you trying to do to me? My God, I hate myself enough without you—”
“Not enough. Not yet. But you’re moving in the right direction. Remember I told you about looking in the mirror. You haven’t yet. But maybe it’s possible.”
“Who were … the other people killed?”
“Stop changing the subject. Ask the nurse for the morning paper after I leave, which is going to be just about now. You got a lot of time alone. Play this game. Be som
ebody else, looking at Debbie Ann, getting to know her. What would this somebody else think?”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I don’t!”
“Do me this,” he ordered. “Give it a try. You got all day.” He held his left hand out. The single eye had a baleful stare.
“Bastard!” she said.
“Coward!” he said, and did not take his hand away.
Finally she reached across her body with her uninjured left hand and took his. “Okay. But I have a feeling I’m not going to enjoy it.”
“Who said it would be a pleasure?” he said, and walked out.
He went back to the house. When he had a chance to speak to Mary alone he said, “She could grow up, that girl. A little delayed, but not impossible.”
“How did she take it?”
“It jolted her. It knocked her off balance. While she was on a tilt, I jolted her another couple of times. The modern style of handling Sleeping Beauty. No kiss. A boot in the tail. Maybe she sits up and looks around. Maybe she goes back to sleep. It’s anybody’s guess.”
“Maybe I kept her asleep so long, treating her like a little child.”
“Don’t treat her that way any more.”
“How could I?”
“Treat her with love. Love isn’t for reward and punishment. Respect is what you give and take away, not love.”
“Mike, Mike,” she said, the tears starting to come.
“If you can cry again, good. Go do so.”
She tried to smile, and fled. He roamed the house restlessly for a little while, and then went over and basked on the beach. He swam a little—with great fury and determination. He walked and found a shark’s tooth, black as the eyes of McGuire. He summoned up specific memories of Buttons, and braced himself for the big wave. It came, and it blinded him, but did not nudge him off his feet.
Mike Rodenska. A chunky brown man on a lot of beach, balding, thoughtful, and alone—relighting the hoarded half of a cigar.
He sat down. A pale gray crab came out of his sand-hole home and squatted, motionless, staring at Rodenska.
“What do you need?” Mike asked him. “You got a hole there. You got a hard shell, and all the beach you can use. You know your trouble, my friend? You’re over-privileged. You got it too good. Go back in the hole and count your money.”
He flapped his hand. The crab darted back into his hole. Mike lay back and went to sleep.
Epilogue
THE WIDE BEACH IS THERE, unchanging. A storm nibbles some of it away. Another storm replaces it. And the wild things are there, watchful, hungry—generation after generation, yet always the same. Man is but a guest on the beach. He changes nothing, and is soon gone.
A little over a week after Troy’s funeral, Mike Rodenska and Mary Jamison sat on Purdy Elmarr’s front porch, cautious, watchful.
Purdy was saying, “Like I told you, I kept thinking on how Corey Haas could just set quiet and make out real fine on his piece of that corporation, and you two ain’t rough enough to squeeze hard enough to squeeze him out, and him doing so good isn’t in the plans I got for him, and I pledged you I’d help out with that deal, and if a man’s going to help it’s only natural he gets a piece of it. So I just squoze Corey out.”
“You said you bought him out,” Mike said.
“That I did. But Corey’s never stayed as liquid as he should, and when all of a sudden he started needing fast money here and there for this and that, he sold cheap.”
“I guess that … makes us partners,” Mary said.
Purdy grinned at her. “You two don’t look like you’d heard any kinda good news. I’ll want some say in how we run it, sure. And you’re wondering now I got my foot in the door, maybe I’ll squeeze you a little. Keep right on a-wondering. It’ll keep you on your toes.”
“I guess we don’t have too much choice,” Mike said.
“You spoken a true word right there. I’m in to stay. I’m taking a real interest,” Purdy said.
“And my lawyer will check every piece of paper,” Mike said.
“You’d be a damn fool if he didn’t. Now you come along and look at a brand-new colt came into the world yesterday. Pretty thing. Wobbly on his laigs.”
“I’m telling you, Purdy Elmarr, if Mike should lose money on …”
“Now you hush up, Mary Kail. We’re through with money talk for the day.”
Ten months later, after all the lots were sold out in Area One of Horseshoe Pass Estates, Area Two was opened for sale, prior to completion of the final portion of the roads and sea walls. The public response was most encouraging to the officers and directors of the corporation.
• • •
A week after Area Two was opened, a letter arrived from Thomas Arthur Rodenska to his father.
Micky and I have been looking at those pictures you sent a thousand times I bet. And we can’t hardly wait to fly down Easter. Last summer was sure a keen deal, being in Florida, but like you said in your letter to Micky it’s one thing renting a place and another thing having your own. Are you sure the house will be done by the time we come down? Will it be ready to live in even? We have been having big fat arguments about what the surprise is. Finally I figure the way Micky does. In one picture you can see just left of the house a sort of thing that could maybe be the end of a dock. Could the surprise be a boat? Could it be a sailboat? I know you won’t tell because you never do, but I am asking anyway. If it is a boat, will it be there when we get there? There is one thing you should know about next summer anyhow, even if it is a boat. We have talked it over, what you said about good times and all that in my letter, and it is best for you to know we are going to get jobs next summer. That means we will not have so much time for the sailboat, so if it was there for Easter we wouldn’t have anything else to do and we would get a lot of good use out of it. You said you had everything sent down and that means all our junk from home and a lot of that is kid stuff. So it was too bad to spend the expense of sending it down but we can sort it down there for give away and throw away and keep. We can probably do that at night when it is too dark for anyone but foolish reckless people to be out in a sailboat.
A little over a year after Troy’s funeral, Mary Jamison received the first letter in three months from Debbie Ann. It was mailed from Los Angeles. The address was the same, but the tone of the letter was new. It was a very long letter, and Mary Jamison went over it many times.
Part of it read:
I don’t know if this is of crashing importance to anybody but me, but somehow I have let myself get all worked up and earnest about a Project. I am sorry not to have written in so very long, but now that things have sort of simmered down for me, I might do better. After I bored the Scotts to death in Carmel, and bored Nancy Ann to distraction in La Jolla, I looked up June Treadway in L.A. I don’t think you ever met her. I am a real pro at moving in with people and staying practically forever. I located her through her parents. She had a marriage that went blah, and she rooms with a girl in an apartment so roomy they could fit me in. But they both work, so it was very empty daytimes, and you can really get bloody bored just shopping and beaching and seeing movies and having daytime dates with the tiresome men they seem to have a lot of out here. June does social work for the City and County of Los Angeles. Case investigation. I always thought social workers were a joke, a very tired sad joke. But June told me such weird things I got interested. I can see that if I try to give you the whole history this letter is going to take forever. Here is the current picture. I am employed. How about that? I got sneaked onto the payroll as a trainee, and I can’t do any casework all by myself, and the pay is pitiful. I am taking night courses at U.S.C. and putting billions of frightening miles on the Jag I bought just before I left Florida. I can barely find time to eat and sleep, and I haven’t had my hair done in a century, but I love it, and I keep wondering when it will suddenly wear off and I will be my usual aimless self.
I am dating on
e guy only, name of George Pickner, who is exactly one day older than I am, a fact he brings up whenever possible. He is a graduate student, hacking away at his doctorate in Sociology and teaching on a fellowship. My instructor. That’s how we met. Anyway, he is such a nice guy that I finally tried to drive him to cover by giving him the whole dreary emotional history and tawdry escapades in the life of Deborah Ann. It gave the poor dear a rocky evening, but he has bounced back by convincing himself I am a New Woman. This he cannot sell me. I have told him to stay braced because all of this is only one of my temporary enthusiasms and it will no doubt wear off suddenly when least expected. Enough of that.
The clipping about Rob Raines being disbarred was unexpectedly depressing. Very hard on him and Dee too, I would imagine. Say hello to Mike for me.…
A year and a half after Troy Jamison’s death, Mr. Michael Rodenska, president of the Horseshoe Pass Estates Corporation, before leaving on his honeymoon, made a public announcement that he was retiring from the land-development business, had bought into the Ravenna Journal-Record and, after his return, would take an active hand in the operation of the paper.
Two weeks later Mike Rodenska and his bride were baking themselves into a happy, lazy stupor under a Mediterranean sun, on a private hotel beach on the Costa Brava—protected from a chilly wind by a canvas windbreak.
“Florida beaches are much, much nicer,” the bride said drowsily.
“Shaddap! This one is cheaper. So Marco is better, but this one is cheaper. I love you, but you complain too much.”
“He makes more money than he ever saw before, so he goes looking for a cheap beach! How about that!”
“Listen. It’s romantic here. You know. Spain. Castinets. Bull fights. Shut up and enjoy it, please.”
She sighed. “That’s what’s so nice about honeymoons. All the sweet talk!”
“You take my first honeymoon,” Mike said. “I was highly nervous. Now I’m an elderly sophisticate. I take it in stride. Nonchalant.”
“I guess I’ve never had a better time,” the bride said.
Slam the Big Door Page 23
