“Sure is,” he said. “Has it been like this long?”
“Well, you know Fort Worth in March,” said Clark. “When the devil gets cold in hell, he comes—”
“—to Texas to warm up,” Wilton finished. His face held a smile. He could hold it for hours without ever being aware of doing it. He could parrot every inane saying about weather from here to Florida, Oregon to Massachusetts. They were all alike.
“You taking me to dinner, Mr. Poppin?” he asked, letting his voice take on a very slight Texan drawl. It was a small form of mockery.
“Well, that depends, Mr. Hedley.” The mock formality was an established game between them. It made Clark feel chummy. He stubbed out his smoke and lit another one. “Are you placin’ that order we talked about?”
“Funny you should mention that, Mr. Poppin.” Wilton picked up his attaché case, a beautifully shining black Samsonite, and clicked the latches. “I have the order right here.” He handed it across the desk and set his case back on the floor.
Clark grabbed the papers like they were a life preserver, which, Wilton knew, they were. Clark Poppin worked on commission and was always short of money, living on the edge of a permanent advance against sales. He was so eager looking over the order that Wilton was almost sorry it wouldn’t help him.
“Whooo!” said Clark, his eyes wide. “This is nearly double what you talked about on the phone.”
“Job grew a bit.”
“What job is it exactly?” asked Clark. His eyes became slits as he tried to pry.
Wilton smiled. “Now Clark, we’ve been through this before. You know I’m not gonna say.”
“Can’t blame a man for tryin’ though.” Clark grinned a sickly salesman grin that made him look porcine. “Same terms?” he asked.
“Ten percent earnest money.” Wilton agreed. “Cash on delivery.”
“Right as rain, Mr. Hedley. But don’t you want to start an account?”
They’d been through this before, as well. “Nope. The boss likes to keep things easy. He’s a child of the depression, you know; tough old bastard. Doesn’t believe in credit.”
Clark Poppins, who wouldn’t last, a week without credit, shook his head, and fanned the papers. “Should be about three weeks for delivery.”
“That’s fine. I’ll give you the deposit check now.”
“That’d be fine.”
Wilton took up his attaché case and removed an oversized checkbook from a local bank. The embossed legend said “Honeywell Industries.” The address was a post office box. He took a gold pen from his suit coat pocket and wrote the amount. “Twenty-Three Thousand Eight Hundred...” he said aloud as he wrote.
“And fifty-two dollars even,” said Clark Poppins, who could calculate a commission in his head just as easily. He took the check, placed it with the order form and patted them happily.
“Got this new place in mind,” he said. “For after dinner, out by the airport. It’s called the Landing Strip.”
Clark’s eye went up in a comical leer—we’re all just good ol’ boys here. “A titty bar.”
Wilton grinned back at him “I know that,” he thought through the fake smile. You fat pig.
14 – Maggie Powers Called
The telephone company allowed Adrian to order new service by phone but they required a deposit in person at one of their convenient service centers. And no; they couldn’t deliver; he had to come by in person.
The utility company had the same rule, except that their convenient service centers weren’t anywhere near those of the phone company.
A lunch time trip to the bank one day, the phone company the next. A third day to the utility company—their offices might have been convenient to Kansas, but not to anywhere else. Adrian thought he’d lose weight quickly if this continued. Or get fired again. Back at the office he was informed that they could activate his gas line in two weeks. “Would you prefer a morning or afternoon appointment?”
“I would prefer no appointment at all.” Standing at his desk, unable to pace without falling or dropping the phone, Adrian made a sudden realization—he felt no fear during phone conversations, only when people got too close in person. “Maybe if Jesus had attacked me with a telephone,” he thought, while holding again, “I’d do better in person.”
“You have to be there to have your service verified,” said a very patient voice, no doubt having covered this ground before.
“I don’t want to be there,” Adrian told her. “I just want the gas turned on.”
“Yes sir. (“of course sir.”) I understand. Would you prefer morning or afternoon?” Morning, in appointment terminology, was any time between 7:30 and 1:00, and afternoon anything after that. He accepted afternoon, hoping to miss less work that way.
On Tuesday Ruth called on the inter-office phone. “Wally wants to see you. And he sounds pissed.” She sounded as if she’d happily become a fly on the Clooner wall.
“When?”
“Now.”
Now. A faint cloud of concern covered the sun and Adrian shivered. What had he done? It was a normal everyday fear, not the all-consuming panic that consumed him lately. Still, he hobbled down the long corridor more quickly than he liked.
“You wanted to see me?”
Wally looked up from his desk, scowled and nodded once. He deliberately kept Adrian waiting, scanning papers and making occasional redlines in the margins.
Adrian studied him patiently. Red shirt today, tan slacks, white belt, he looked like he’d just come in from the back nine. Adrian half expected grass stains on the carpet.
“You’ve been taking a lot of time off.”
“What?” Adrian was surprised. He had easily put in more hours of overtime to makeup. “I had to get utilities, a car, a phone—”
“Save it. I don’t hire people for excuses. If you have a personal life,” he made it sound optional, “I expect you to have it during your own time, not mine. You understand?”
“Yes, but—”
“On your own time,” Wally said, not listening. He seemed almost petulant, far too disappointed over far too small an offense. His lips pursed and he stared up from his desk. “I expected better of you, Adrian.”
In a week? He had completed his project, did what he was hired to do. What more could be expected? However, mixed with the feeling of in justice was an equal measure of guilt. He’d been coming in late and leaving for long lunches. Maybe he should work harder.
“I’m sorry. I’ll try to do better.”
“Try? You’ll have to do better, That’s all.”
Adrian confused ‘that’s all’ for ‘the meeting’s over’ and turned toward the door. But Wally hadn’t finished. More to himself than to Adrian he said, “you sure wouldn’t be so quick to take advantage of me if Corley was here.”
It was the third time Adrian had heard that name, each spoken in a tone of awe...or fear. “Who’s Corley?”
Wally didn’t answer the question. “Just be glad he’s not here. Corley’s not near as nice as I am.”
Adrian realized that Wally Clooner believed himself to be, at heart, a nice guy. This belief made him overreact when he had to give reprimands. Not wanting to be a bad guy, he’d made himself a worse one.
“One more thing.” Wally held out a folded piece of paper. “A call came in while Ruth was gone somewhere,” he said with disapproval. Everyone, he implied, should always be where they were supposed to be.
“Don’t take personal calls on work days.”
“All right. Who was it?”
“Some woman named Maggie Powers called.”
A furniture van pulled up at 9:30 Saturday morning and two large men wearing brown leather back braces jumped out athletically and banged on the door. They wore red T-shirts with blue name tags that said “I’m Darryl and I’m Deloye, your rental professional.” Darryl chewed something and handled the paperwork. Deloye looked bored. Both resembled mastodons once again walking the earth.
They blocked
the door, filling the empty living room with their bulk. Adrian backed up nervously, almost tripping over his own foot. His back to the kitchen wall, retreat blocked, he stammered, “In here. The furniture goes in here.”
Darryl handed over the paperwork with a mixed look of dislike and disinterest and they lumbered to the truck. The rear door lifted with a sliding screech and they lugged in the couch, the chairs, a television, the bed, a dresser.
“Wait,” Adrian pointed from the safety of the kitchen doorway, “That’s the wrong chair.”
The color was green rather than tan that matched the couch.
Deloye approached and pulled the papers from Adrian’s hands, paying no attention to his trembling fingers. He looked over the invoice. His lips moved in time with his eyes until he got to the line he wanted and he grunted.
“Nope.”
Nope? What did that mean?
“The numbers match,” Deloye said, holding out the invoice. “See?”
“But that’s not the chair I wanted.”
“That’s the chair you got. Hey, Darryl, stop a minute.” Darryl, chewing, obliged and ambled over. He held a huge wad of plastic that crackled with static electricity as it rubbed against his tan slacks.
“Yeah?”
“Guy says this isn’t his chair,” said Deloye. Darryl did a repeat of reading, more slowly and with less interest. He shrugged.
“Says here it is. Let me call the store.”
“I don’t have a phone.” Adrian’s voice was as raw as if he hadn’t used it in a year.
“Well, then I gotta think this is yours.”
Adrian’s heart was beating too fast. The air seemed to be already taken by these two huge men. He pushed at them with one good hand, a waving gesture that meant, “get back!” but they hardly noticed. They both took a step forward.
“I’ll take the chair,” Adrian said frantically. “Just go.” Not again, he thought. His intestines were moving by themselves, churning with chemicals. A faint sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He felt awful. “Just go, all right?”
“Yeah? Just leave?” They milled in place like confused cattle. “But you’ve got to sign this.”
He held out a meaty hand containing the paperwork. Adrian breathed deeply, nodded and took it. He hopped to the farthest counter and scribbled his name. He thrust it at them. “Go. Now. Please.”
Darryl ripped off a pink copy, shook his head and they tramped away. The screen door closed with a soft whoosh. Adrian heard the side doors slam. He waited for what seemed a lifetime and finally heard the engine start, heard the truck start off in a grinding of gears, heard silence settle over the house.
After a while he left the kitchen and timidly approached the big front window. Sun glistened and reflected off the plastic covered furniture. He looked at the empty driveway and felt relief, turned and stared at the chaos.
“Shit.”
He’d intended to get the movers to unwrap everything and put them where they belonged. Instead, panic had left him a mountain he couldn’t begin to move.
“Shit.”
He sat down on the arm of the contested green chair, which crinkled beneath him with a sigh.
“Shit.”
Adrian worked for a while, awkwardly sawing at the plastic with an old serrated knife from the kitchen, dragging it in great gobs out to the garage. He gave up in exhaustion on the third trip.
The living room brought an unwelcome discovery: moving a mattress was a one-handed impossibility, an invitation to further injuries. Frustrated, Adrian picked up his crutch and turned toward the kitchen, intending to get a beer, but his foot caught the edge of the chair and he fell. He twisted to avoid hitting his arm, and felt a sharp pain when the chair struck a bruised rib. He collided with the floor, breath spent in one whoosh.
He lay where he fell, gasping for air, sinking deep into self-pity. This was impossible. He should’ve stayed in Cleveland. The gang could have been avoided somehow. He should have never stood up to them in the first place.
That wasn’t true. He couldn’t have let the gang hurt that girl, he simply couldn’t. Whatever it was inside that made him Adrian Beck wouldn’t have allowed him to do anything else.
In his mind it had become an equation: stand up/get beaten down. With his back against the dirty tan carpet, his head on the dirty kitchen vinyl, he vowed he’d never stand up for anything again.
He stood up, sat back down on the floor of the living room to watch the sun go down through the streaked picture window. The room shifted slowly from bright...to dim...to dark.
He stared unseeing at the roof across the street and a head appeared above the roof, hovered for a moment, and dropped a way. A few seconds later it reappeared. It appeared and disappeared. Despite himself, Adrian’s attention wondered about this phenomenon. The light was too dim to make out features. The head appeared again, hovered, and vanished.
Adrian paused to consider this. What could make a head behave this way?
Lights came on in the house directly across the street, distracting him. Adrian could see shadowy figures bustling around. He looked at the wide street that separated him from that house. It was like a symbol of his isolation, a chasm, wide and uncrossable.
The idea depressed him. He couldn’t live completely alone, a hermit injured and adrift.
He leaned against the window frame in the dim light watching the activity across the street. He saw the boy who had visited earlier appear in the window and felt the beginnings of resolve.
He couldn’t face adults. His several attempts at interaction had proven that. Maybe, thought, he could stand being around a kid.
But the kid looked like Jesus, he thought.
But he isn’t Jesus.
But he looks like him.
“This is stupid,” Adrian said aloud. “I’ve got to have some help.”
He remained at the window for a long time, summoning energy, if not resolve. His eyes refocused and he saw the reflection of the litter in his own living room. The couch, the bed, the unwanted chair, all seemed to be waiting for him: what are we gonna do?
“Hell.” He was going to cross the street. He remembered a slogan he’d seen once, “Success is failing down six times—and getting up seven. True, he decided, but it hardly let on how hard it was.
Eventually he stood in front of the red painted door behind the silver screen of number 4357. He pushed the doorbell and waited until he heard footsteps and whispered to himself, “Please don’t open the screen. Please don’t open—”
“May I help you?” a female voice asked and the porch light snapped on, making the night glow a muted orange. “Heavens!”
Heavens indeed, thought Adrian. “I just moved in across the street. My name’s Adrian Beck and I need to ask about your son.”
The woman, a shadow behind the light, vibrated with suspicion. “What did Toby do now?”
“He didn’t do anything,” Adrian said. “He came to my house a couple of days ago to offer help with stuff and I...I was rude to him...and wanted to apologize.”
“What happened to you?” she asked.
“A car accident.”
“Oh.” Was that sympathy?
“Just recently,” Adrian lied. “A drunk driver lost control of the car.”
“Really.” The suspicion abated slightly and general courtesy took over. “Would you care to come in?”
“No. I...uh; I can’t.” Adrian felt secure behind the barrier of the screen door. “It’s too hard to walk. That’s what I wanted to see your son about. Could he come to my house and help me? I just had furniture delivered and can’t put it away.”
The resistance melted, the gatekeeper relented. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll send him over right away.”
“Thanks,” Adrian said. He marveled at the trust. Clearly the monsters from bus 29 hadn’t been here. He returned across the wide street and waited for help to arrive.
<
br /> He was still waiting at eight when Toby rapped tentatively at the door.
“Hello?”
“Toby.”
The light was nearly gone and Adrian sat in shadows. Toby jumped at the voice from the dark. Adrian saw him squinting, peering to see in. He rolled carefully to his feet, swaying, and maneuvered to the door. He clicked on the outside light and Toby squinted again, this time from the sudden glare.
“Come in,” Adrian said.
“Momma said you wanted to see me.” Toby pushed into the living room, disapproval apparent in the stiffness of his thin body. He glanced up at Adrian and gasped. “Whoa! The hell happened to you?”
Adrian imagined how he looked. Face bandaged, casts, the crutch, dirty clothes; he probably appeared to the boy as the ogre he’d met a few days earlier.
“I was in accident.” For a moment they stared at each other.
“What do you want me for?”
“I need some help.” Adrian gestured with the crutch. “I can’t walk too well. I can’t lift anything and I have a room full of furniture. Help me put it away. I’ll pay you.”
Toby watched him warily, showing none of the trust of his mother. Adults, his attitude said, weren’t to be trusted. “Why’d you yell at me?”
“I’m sorry. I was asleep and you startled me. Since the...accident...I’ve been a little afraid of people.”
Toby considered this, “How much will you pay?”
Adrian sighed in relief. “Five dollars an hour.”
The contempt was obvious. “No way. Ten.”
“An hour?” Adrian remembered when he’d worked as a teenager. Ten dollars an hour was what his father made. But he looked at the ruins of his living room and agreed. “Ten dollars. You start now.”
“Sure.”
Toby removed his jacket and worked with energy and ambition. He shoved the couch against a wall and toted the heavy plastic that had conquered Adrian. After an hours work he shed his suspicion like a second skin and let his natural enthusiasm take over. Adrian found that he enjoyed the boy’s company, feeling none of the paralyzing fear.
Lone Rock Page 9
