Hound

by Vincent McCaffrey

  Who was Lieutenant General David Wright? Certainly he was the same “General” who, with his wife, had befriended Helen Mawson.

  * * * *

  Henry ignored the buzz of the doorbell. He wanted to sleep. It felt as if he had only just closed his eyes, but it was the sun that burned now against his eyelids. He thought for a moment, with his eyes held shut against the light, that it was Saturday and he would have to be getting up for the auction in Concord, and then realized it could only be Friday. He had spent his Thursday at the library. The buzz of the doorbell broke the silence again.

  Whoever it was wanted to talk, and he was not in the mood for conversation. He rolled over and faced the relative darkness of the wall. His phone rang.

  He capitulated and picked up the receiver.

  "Good morning, Henry."

  It was Leona. The huskiness in her voice was smooth.

  He said, “I suppose. I was trying to sleep."

  She said, “It's gorgeous out here. You can smell the autumn, and there's just a hint of the ocean."

  Henry was afraid to ask, “Where are you?"

  She said, “Sitting on your front steps."

  He was trapped.

  "What did you want?"

  "You. I came to get you up and out of your little library. Come have breakfast with me."

  He had not eaten the night before. The confrontation with Arthur had come back to him in his dreams. He had awakened twice in the midst of a struggle with his blanket in the dark. Now he was, in fact, very hungry.

  He relented. “It'll take a minute. I have to get dressed."

  Leona said, “I'll wait. It's a little cold, though. Can I come in?"

  He climbed out of bed as he put the phone back in its cradle and took the few steps to the button which unlocked the front door, and then turned the latch on his own door as he went through his kitchenette to the bathroom. He turned on the faucet in the tub and heard his apartment door open as he waited for the hot water to rise to the shower head.

  He said, “I'll be out in a minute.... Read a book."

  He heard her say, “Which one?"

  He said, “Take a chance. Any one."

  Her question struck him as funny. For all his critical judgments about books, he would read almost anything given the spare time.

  He had just gotten the soap out of his eyes when the bathroom door opened.

  She said, “Can I come in? I'm really not in the mood to read right now."

  Through the break in the shower curtain he could see the red petals of the rose, not far below the dark chocolate bud of her right breast.

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  Chapter Twenty-One

  The street was quiet in the midday sun, dry leaves huddling at curbs and chatting in whispers when cars passed. The rooming house faced the street with its broad side, fronted by a long porch, and even at three floors, including the dormers, it seemed much smaller from the street than the place he was more familiar with from the rear. There the land fell away to the playing fields of Lawrence, Henry's old grammar school. From the back, the brown-shingled Victorian dropped a full four floors, broken by an endless number of windows above a gravel parking area. At one of those windows a very buxom and completely naked woman had screamed at her departing lover in the driveway below as Henry and his teammates stopped playing baseball to watch. It was a fond memory often brought up at reunions.

  Henry rang the buzzer. Within, through the door glass, he saw a dark common room, chairs and couches, spread toward an empty fireplace to the left. To the right an oak staircase rose to upper floors.

  He rang the bell again.

  Squinting through the glass, he could see mail spread on a small table. He tried the handle. The door opened.

  He said, “Hello,” his voice dying in the still air.

  The mail on the table was addressed to half a dozen different people, including Peter Johnson. One of those, from a doctor, also listed the room number as twenty-two.

  Henry climbed the stairs, the baritone grunt of the wood against wood echoing around him. Number twenty-two was the first room at the top. He knocked.

  A woman's voice responded, “Hello?"

  He answered against his own polished reflection on the door.

  "Hello. My name is Henry Sullivan. I was looking for Peter Johnson."

  The door opened to a burst of sunlight from the back windows. The woman standing before him was very thin; the gossamer fabric of her robe revealed the dark shadow of her frailty. Her face appeared almost joyous with surprise and delight, as if she had long been expecting him. She wore a handmade cotton knit cap which only served to accent the absence of hair on her head.

  "Hello. I'm Vivienne, Peter's wife. I know you! Peter has told me all about you. Please come in."

  She swung her arm in a lanky gesture of welcome toward the bright interior. The paleness of her skin was barely colored by a blush of rouge on her cheeks. Her eyes were large and dark and touched by every glint of color in the room.

  He said, “Thanks. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

  She shook her head with a girlish laugh. “God, no. I sit here and pray for someone to come that I can talk to. I even spoke to the minister from St. Paul's church yesterday. I usually hate ministers. He was lovely, though."

  Henry's eyes scanned the room. It was in perfect order, newspapers stacked square, a short row of books arranged on almost every flat surface. This was a sitting room. A bedroom led off to the side.

  He asked, “Will Peter be back soon?"

  She shrugged, and the bones of her shoulders poked at the fabric of her dressing gown.

  "I don't think so. He's out job hunting. Jobs for middle-aged booksellers are not easy to find, as you probably know too well."

  Dressed in the pearl white fabric, he thought she had the appearance of someone in the theatre.

  Lacking a more positive response, he mumbled, “I guess so."

  She held up a hand. “But can you stay a moment? I'd love the company."

  Vivienne tugged at the back of one chair, which did little more than tilt with her hand. Henry moved it and waited for her to sit on the couch which faced the rear windows and the sun.

  She said brightly, “It's a very pleasant room, don't you think? I used to sit here and watch the children play in the field, but they've blocked it off now for the construction at the school."

  Henry peeked out at his old haunts before he sat down. The playing field was gouged by the tracks of large equipment and divided by temporary fences.

  He asked, “How long have you been here?"

  She said, “Only a month ... this time. But we found this room some years ago when I was here first, and it was so nice, we have arranged to get it each time since.

  "It must be difficult on your life at home to be away."

  She did not quite shake her head, but angled it back and forth oddly, as if she might be avoiding some pain by the movement. “Only on the pets. But I give them to my mother. They know her house as well as any. Sadly, we've lost the little house we had in Hay-on-Wye. That went with the shop.... But it was a rickety little place with hardly any yard, so I think the pets are better off with Mum."

  Henry had not asked Peter more about the business.

  "When did you lose the shop?"

  She sighed. “The last time. Last year, when we came over. The little ass Peter had found to run things ran off instead with the best books and what little money had come in. Business was terrible, in any case. Half the stores have closed since the internet came along."

  Henry nodded at the reiteration of a sad fact. “I'm sorry."

  Vivienne smiled instead. “No. We are very fortunate, really. We lost a little, but we got out with something. And Peter will find another job soon enough. He's very good. He's really quite a scholar in his own right. Medieval studies ... Do you like medieval history?"

  Henry relaxed. Her question seemed genuine and interested. “Yes. I guess Peter and I ha
ve that in common. I like the early part, mostly. The ‘Dark Ages.’”

  She smiled. “King Arthur! Yes? Americans love King Arthur."

  Henry grabbed at the subject as something to talk about that might avoid things more obvious.

  "I suppose so. In spite of all the books, all the silly fantasies, I still think it's underappreciated. It's part of the mythology that shapes us now, in our own age. And like most mythology, I think it's most often based on fact."

  She almost hopped in her seat as she straightened.

  "Exactly! Just what Peter thinks. You two should talk about that. I'm trying to get him to write a book about it. He has so many ideas. He was telling me just last night about the monasteries. About all those rules and restrictions. No property, no meat, no company, no sex, and all the rest. Did you realize that those things had little to do with any principles of faith? The rules were simply trials, made to keep out those whose faith was not strong enough. In that time, the monastery was a perfect refuge from the boil of trouble in the real world. Anyone with half a brain would want to be a monk. Did you ever read the Umberto Eco book, The Name of the Rose?"

  He had ambivalent feelings about Mr. Eco's scholarship, but her enthusiasm was clear.

  "I did. The descriptions of the making of the books and the burning of the fire was incredible."

  She somehow straightened further. “Peter knows all about that kind of thing. He got it from his father. Heber was a medieval scholar, too, you know."

  Henry said simply, “Yes."

  Vivienne angled her head once more. “And his mother, Ismay. She was a bit of a nut—pagan spiritualism and all of that, but she loved historical detail. It was probably what attracted Heber to her in the first place. But she was so very kind to Peter. He was her little prince. She spoiled him, really. I think it was because she bought him any book he wanted at a very young age that he became so devoted to books."

  Henry found it difficult to imagine—now the man was forced to sell his father's books to save what mattered even more.

  Henry wondered, “What kind of jobs has he looked into?"

  She answered immediately, the thought already on her lips. “The libraries, mostly. He has a green card because of his father. Library work would be good for him. But nothing's open just now, and he's trying anything. He's had some part-time work, but they want to send him to the worst places. I worry about him. He's so foolish about some things. Naive. He'll be taken advantage of.... He was even mugged once. Last spring. He was an awful mess. Just some drunken bullies."

  Henry imagined Peter was too thin to be a match for more than one. He asked, “What was your interest before you became entangled with Peter's book business?"

  Vivienne smiled. Her teeth were white and perfectly formed within the curve of her pale lips. Her tongue caught at her teeth in a bit of a tease.

  "You'll never guess."

  Her eyebrows rose in expectation. He knew she wanted to tell him.

  He said, “An actress?” He guessed only because it was his unlikely first thought.

  Her face fell to a pout. “He told you."

  Henry shook his head defensively. “No. It was just a guess."

  Her dark eyes danced with reflected color again. “Nobody ever guesses it ... but it's true. I finished the run of a show in Piccadilly one day and decided to take a drive in the country and just kept going. Something made me keep right on. I ended up in Hay-on-Wye. And there was Peter. Looking like the bookworm that he is, all folded up behind his desk. He practically killed himself trying to get up when I came in. I was in love with him before he managed to straighten his tie. What a boy! I gave up the lead in a very promising production of a Terence Rattigan play and asked for a job. And he, without a penny in his pocket, hired me. Just like that. And I would have thought such things never happened."

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  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Who's to blame?” Jack said. “There's people that go around putting blame to anybody but themselves. And then there's your dad. He takes the blame for all that's happened. It's his way. Always was. Did I ever tell you about how I got into the Marines?"

  Jack pulled a cigarette from the pack in his jacket in preparation for a story and offered one to Henry. Henry was not sure he was in the mood for either one, but he said, “Yes."

  His uncle ignored him and flicked his lighter, developing a thick circle of smoke in the still air of the room.

  "Yes ... Well, remember it! Now, there's your dad. When he joined the navy, he looked pretty fine in his whites. The true figure of a man. Poster-worthy. Then they trained him as an electrician, and he thought he was the sharpest knife in the drawer. I couldn't stand to be near him. The same room was unbearable. The same house was too much. When he was stationed at Portsmouth, he used to come around looking for your mother, dressed sharp right down to the shoes. I joined the Marines to get away from him. Not what you heard."

  Henry said, “What I heard is what you told me."

  Jack hesitated only briefly.

  "I lied then. I'm a liar at heart. It's why your dad never wanted me around. He thinks it might be some kind of viral infection and you kids would catch it."

  Henry sat down in the chair by the kitchen table, knowing Jack would not sit even if asked. His uncle had awakened him, and Henry was not prepared to offer him even a cup of coffee. Jack's eyes catalogued the room around them.

  He finally said, “Too many books."

  Henry's answer was automatic. “You can't have too many books."

  His uncle's arm waved the cigarette through the air, leaving a trail of smoke.

  "You could put a sofa there and a TV over on that side, if you didn't have so many books. You can't have girls over without a sofa. If you just have chairs, you end up talking too much."

  Henry said, “I like to talk."

  "Talk just gets people married and divorced. A sofa and a TV will keep things just right."

  It was still too early to be listening to his uncle's philosophizing. Henry wiped the sleep from his eyes. “What will you be doing for Thanksgiving?"

  His uncle took a breath worthy of Albert. “Sally's taking me to her mother's. Punishment to fit the crime. Her mother is as old as I am. Unbearable. But she's a swell cook."

  Henry said, “Good enough. But I've been invited out to Albert's. I was just a little concerned about Dad being alone."

  Jack shook his head with a total lack of pity. “Buy him a turkey sandwich at Michael's and go your way. He's not helpless yet."

  His uncle pulled a silver money clip from a pocket and counted out brand-new hundred-dollar bills in a neat stack on the kitchen table.

  "Thanks.” Henry spoke reflexively.

  Jack stood back from his task. “Thanks? I borrowed the money from you. Don't be thanking me for returning it. Just be remembering I returned it when I said I would, so you won't be telling wicked stories about me in the years to come."

  "I've told a few already.” Henry pulled a bill off the top. “You made a mistake. You counted out eleven."

  "That's the interest.” Jack waved a hand dismissively.

  Henry shook his head. “I didn't ask for interest."

  Jack frowned with mock disgust. “You're too old to be handing out money with no interest. I got mine. You get yours—told what? What lies have you told about me?"

  Henry accepted the responsibility for being too glib. “Like how you used a phony driver's license to get your job driving trucks for the Marines in Korea."

  Jack looked away at the window. “It was cold on the ground. My feets don't always like the cold. I only did it to get my feets off the ground."

  "So you admit you used the phony license?” Henry raised an eyebrow.

  Jack glared in return. “Makes it sound like I never learned to drive. I passed the test. I passed a test in the Marines, as well. They don't take anybody's word in the corps till you earn it. It's what you do that counts. Anyway, if the cops had returned my r
eal one to me, it wouldn't have been necessary."

  Henry had to ask, “What did you do to make the cops angry?"

  "Drove a truck carrying the wrong goods."

  "Stolen goods?"

  "Mistaken goods."

  "What was that?"

  "Bananas."

  "Whose mistake?"

  "Mine. I had pneumonia at the time. I couldn't smell a thing."

  "What were you supposed to drive?"

  "Strawberries."

  "Were you arrested?"

  "No. The union beef tried to beat the crap out of me is all."

  "What happened?"

  "I had some crap left, so I laid it on the guy's face."

  Jack did not exactly smile with the memory, but his eyes looked satisfied.

  Henry said, “They must have been unhappy with you about that."

  Now Jack smiled just a bit. “They were still looking for me when I joined the Marines."

  Henry pursued, “You said you joined because Dad bet you a hundred dollars you wouldn't."

  Jack wagged his head back and forth. “Well, I couldn't join the Marines without some folding money in my pocket. I got your dad to make that bet. What would I play poker with? So I set it up. And I got him to pay up."

  Henry asked, “How did you do that? Did you have to beat him up, too?"

  Jack's face pinched up at the absurdity. “Jesus. Anybody ever beat your dad up? Not to my knowledge. No. I got him to make the bet in front of your mother."

  Jack turned and left with a “Toodle."

  Henry sat awhile with the thought of those times before checking the weather at the window, which was gray and probably cold. He showered and half dressed enough to sit at his desk with the computer and catalogue rather than go out.

  It was afternoon before hunger took the lead. He was tired of staring at a computer screen. He needed to stretch his legs. When he started to walk, his legs took him to Inman Square.

  Albert had already arrived at the Blue Thorn. Henry related his most recent thoughts and discoveries as well as his encounter with Vivienne. Peter Johnson's sad tale prompted Albert to caution Henry about involving himself in other people's problems. Then Albert launched into a lecture concerning the best approach to fighting windmills.