"Okay, okay. Don't make such a big deal out of it!" Prentice ran the cool metal over his face. Anger came and went, swiftly. Stupid to get mad. "Davey, what'd you do, ride your bike on their lawn or something? Break a window?"
"No."
"Then why don't you want to see them?"
"I just don't,"
"Mr. Ames likes you. He told me so yesterday. He thinks you're a fine boy, so does Mr. Chambers. They--"
"Please, Dad!" Davey's face was pale; he began to cry. "Please, please, please. Don't let them get me!"
"What are you talking about? Davey, cut it out. Now!"
"I saw what they were doing there in the garage. And they know I saw them, too. They know. And--"
"Davey!" Ann's voice was sharp and loud and resounding in the tile-lined bathroom. The boy stopped crying immediately. He looked up, hesitated, then ran out. His door slammed.
Prentice took a step.
"No, Hank. Leave him alone."
"He's upset."
"Let him be upset." She shot an angry glance toward the bedroom, "I suppose he told you that filthy story about the garage?"
"No," Prentice said, "he didn't. What's it all about?"
"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Honestly, I'd like to meet Davey's parents!"
"We're his parents," Prentice said, firmly.
"All right, all right. But he got that imagination of his from somebody, and it wasn't from us. You're going to have to speak to him, Hank. I mean it. Really."
"About what?"
"These wild stories. What if they got back to Mr. Ames? I'd--well, I'd die. After he's gone out of his way to be nice to Davey, too."
"I haven't heard the stories," Prentice said.
"Oh, you will," Ann undid her apron and folded it, furiously. "Honestly! Sometimes I think the two of you are trying to make things just as miserable as they can be for me."
The doorbell rang, stridently.
"Now make an effort to be pleasant, will you? This is a housewarming, after all. And do hurry."
She closed the door. He heard her call, "Hi!" and heard Ben Roth's baritone booming: "Hi!"
Ridiculous, he told himself, plugging the razor in again. Utterly goddam ridiculous. No one complained louder than I did when we were tripping over ourselves in that little upstairs coffin on Friar, I'm the one who kept moaning for a house, not Ann.
So now we've got one.
He glanced at the tiny brownish blood stain that wouldn't wash out of the wallpaper, and sighed. Now we've got one, "Hank!"
"Coming!" He straightened his tie and went into the living room.
The Roths, of course, were there. Ben and Rhoda. Get it right, he thought, because we're all going to be pals. "Hi, Ben."
"Thought you'd deserted us, boy," said the large, pink man, laughing.
"No. Wouldn't do that."
"Hank," Ann signaled. "You've met Beth Cummings, haven't you?"
The tall, smartly dressed woman giggled and extended her hand. "We've seen each other," she said, "Hello,"
Her husband, a pale man with white hair, crushed Prentice's fingers. "Fun and games," he said, tightening his grip and wheezing with amusement. "Yes, sir."
Trying not to wince, Prentice retrieved his hand. It was instantly snatched up by a square, bald man in a double-breasted brown suit. "Reiker," the man said. "Call me Bud. Everyone does. Don't know why; my name is Oscar."
"That's why," a woman said, stepping up. "Ann introduced us but you probably don't remember, if I know men. I'm Edna."
"Sure," Prentice said. "How are you?"
"Fine, But then, I'm a woman: I like parties!"
"How's that?"
"Hank!"
Prentice excused himself and walked quickly into the kitchen. Ann was holding up a package.
"Honey, look what Rhoda gave us!"
He dutifully handled the salt and pepper shakers and set them down again. "That's real nice."
"You turn the rooster's head," Mrs. Roth said, "and it grinds your pepper."
"Wonderful," Prentice said.
"And Beth gave us this lovely salad bowl, see? And we've needed this for centuries!" She held out a gray tablecloth with gold bordering. "Plastic!"
"Wonderful," Prentice said. Again, the doorbell rang. He glanced at Mrs. Roth, who had been staring thoughtfully at him, and returned to the living room.
"How you be, Hank?" Lucian Ames walked in, rubbing his hands together briskly. "Well! The gang's all here, I see. But where's that boy of yours?"
"Davey? Oh," Prentice said, "he's sick."
"Nonsense! Boys that age are never sick. Never!"
Ann laughed nervously from the kitchen. "Just something he ate!"
"Not the candy we sent over, I hope."
"Oh, no."
"Well, tell him his Uncle Lucian said hello."
A tan elf of man, with sparkling eyes and an ill fitting mustache, Ames reminded Prentice somewhat of those clerks who used to sit silently on high wooden stools, posting infinitesimal figures in immense yellow ledgers. He was, however, the head of a nationally famous advertising agency.
His wife Charlotte provided a remarkable contrast. She seemed to belong to the era of the twenties, with her porcelain face, her thin, delicately angular body, her air of fragility.
Nice, Prentice told himself.
He removed coats and hung them in closets. He shook hands and smiled until his face began to ache. He looked at presents and thanked the women and told them they shouldn't have. He carried out sandwiches. He mixed drinks.
By eight-thirty, everyone in the block had arrived. The Johnsons, the Ameses, the Roths, the Reikers, the Klementaskis, the Chamberses; four or five others whose names Prentice could not remember, although Ann had taken care to introduce them.
What it is, he decided, looking at the people, at the gifts they had brought, remembering their many kindnesses and how, already, Ann had made more friends than she'd ever had before, is, I'm just an antisocial bastard.
After the third round of whiskeys and martinis, someone turned on the FM and someone else suggested dancing. Prentice had always supposed that one danced only at New Year's Eve parties, but he said the hell with it, finally, and tried to relax.
"Shall we?" Mrs. Ames said.
He wanted to say no, but Ann was watching. So he said, "Sure, if you've got strong toes," instead.
Almost at once he began to perspire. The smoke, the drinks, the heat of the crowded room, caused his head to ache; and, as usual, he was acutely embarrassed at having to hold a strange woman so closely.
But, he continued to smile.
Mrs. Ames danced well, she followed him with unerring instinct; and within moments she was babbling freely into his ear. She told him about old Mr. Thomas, the man who had lived here before, and how surprised everyone had been at what had happened; she told him how curious they'd all been about The New People and how relieved they were to find him and Ann so very nice; she told him he had strong arms. Ann was being twirled about by Herb Johnson. She was smiling.
An endless, slow three-step came on, then, and Mrs. Ames put her cheek next to Prentice's. In the midst of a rambling sentence, she said, suddenly, in a whisper: "You know, I think it was awfully brave of you to adopt little Davey. I mean considering."
"Considering what?"
She pulled away and looked at him. "Nothing," she said. "I'm awfully sorry."
Blushing with fury, Prentice turned and strode into the kitchen. He fought his anger, thinking, God, God, is she telling strangers about it now? Is it a topic for backfence gossip? "My husband is impotent, you know. Is yours?"
He poured whiskey into a glass and drank it, fast. It made his eyes water, and when he opened them, he saw a figure standing next to him.
It was--who? Dystal. Matthew Dystal; bachelor; movie writer or something; lives down the block, Call him Matt.
"Miserable, isn't it?" the man said, taking the bottle from Prentice's hand.
"What do you mean?"
"Nice people," Prentice forced himself to say.
"You think so?"
The man was drunk, Clearly, very drunk. And it was only nine-thirty.
"You think so?" he repeated.
"Sure. Don't you?"
"Of course. I'm one of them, aren't I?"
Prentice peered at his guest closely, then moved toward the living room.
Dystal took his arm. "Wait," he said. "Listen. You're a good guy. I don't know you very well, but I like you, Hank Prentice. So I'm going to give you some advice," His voice dropped to a whisper. "Get out of here," he said.
"What?"
"Just what I said. Move away, move away to another city."
Prentice felt a quick ripple of annoyance, checked it. "Why?" he asked, smiling.
"Never mind that," Dystal said. "Just do it. Tonight. Will you?" His face was livid, clammy with perspiration; his eyes were wide.
"Well, I mean, Matt, that's a heck of a thing to say. I thought you said you liked us. Now you want to get rid of us."
"Don't joke," Dystal said. He pointed at the window. "Can't you see the moon? You bloody idiot, can't you--"
"Hey, hey! Unfair!"
At the sound of the voice, Dystal froze. He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them, slowly. But he did not move.
Lucian Ames walked into the kitchen. "What's the story here," he said, putting his arm on Dystal's shoulder, "you trying to monopolize our host all night?"
Dystal did not answer.
"How about a refill, Hank?" Ames said, removing his hand.
Prentice said, "Sure," and prepared the drink. From the corner of his eye, he saw Dystal turn and walk stiffly out of the room. He heard the front door open and close,
Ames was chuckling. "Poor old Matt," he said. "He'll be hung over tomorrow. It seems kind of a shame, doesn't it? I mean, you know, of all people, you'd think a big Hollywood writer would be able to hold his liquor. But not Matt. He gets loaded just by staring at labels,
Prentice said, "Huh."
"Was he giving you one of his screwball nightmares?"
"What? No--we were just sort of talking. About things."
Ames dropped an ice cube into his drink. "Things?" he said.
"Yeah."
Ames took a sip of the whiskey and walked to the window, looking lithe, somehow, as well as small. After what seemed a long time, he said, "Well, it's a fine night, isn't it. Nice and clear, nice fine moon." He turned and tapped a cigarette out of a red package, lighted the cigarette. "Hank," he said, letting the gray smoke gush from the corners of his mouth, "tell me something. What do you do for excitement?"
Prentice shrugged. It was an odd question, but then, everything seemed odd to him tonight. "I don't know," he said. "Go to a movie once in a while. Watch TV. The usual."
Ames cocked his head. "But--don't you get bored?" he asked,
"Sure, I guess. Every so often. Being a C.P.A. you know, that isn't exactly the world's most fascinating job."
Ames laughed sympathetically. "It's awful, isn't it?"
"Being a C.P.A.?"
"No. Being bored. It's about the worst thing in the world, don't you agree? Someone once remarked they thought it was the only real sin a human could commit."
"I hope not," Prentice said.
"Why?"
"Well, I mean--everybody gets bored, don't they?"
"Not," Ames said, "if they're careful."
Prentice found himself becoming increasingly irritated at the conversation, "I suppose it helps," he said, "if you're the head of an advertising agency."
"No, not really. It's like any other job: interesting at first, but then you get used to it. It becomes routine, So you go fishing for other diversions,"
"Like what?"
"Oh . . . anything. Everything." Ames slapped Prentice's arm good naturedly. "You're all right, Hank," he said.
"Thanks ."
"I mean it. Can't tell you how happy we all are that you moved here."
"No more than we are!" Ann walked unsteadily to the sink with a number of empty glasses. "I want to apologize for Davey again, Lucian. I was telling Charlotte, he's been a perfect beast lately. He should have thanked you for fixing the seat on his bike."
"Forget it," Ames said, cheerfully. "The boy's just upset because he doesn't have any playmates." He looked at Prentice. "Some of us elders have kids, Hank, but they're all practically grown. You probably know that our daughter, Ginnie, is away at college. And Chris and Beth's boy lives in New York. But, you know, I wouldn't worry. As soon as school starts, Davey'll straighten out. You watch,"
Ann smiled. "I'm sure you're right, Lucian. But I apologize, anyway."
"Nuts." Ames returned to the living room and began to dance with Beth Cummings.
Prentice thought then of asking Ann what the devil she meant by blabbing about their personal life to strangers, but decided not to. This was not the time. He was too angry, too confused.
The party lasted another hour. Then Ben Roth said, "Better let these folks get some sleep!" and, slowly, the people left.
Ann closed the door. She seemed to glow with contentment, looking younger and prettier than she had for several years. "Home," she said, softly, and began picking up ash trays and glasses and plates. "Let's get all this out of the way so we won't have to look at it in the morning," she said.
Prentice said, "All right," in a neutral tone. He was about to move the coffee table back into place when the telephone rang.
"Yes?"
The voice that answered was a harsh whisper, like a rush of wind through leaves. "Prentice, are they gone?"
"Who is this?"
"Matt Dystal. Are they gone?"
"Yes ."
"All of them? Ames? Is he gone?"
"Yes. What do you want, Dystal? It's late."
"Later than you might think, Prentice. He told you I was drunk, but he lied. I'm not drunk. I'm--"
"Look, what is it you want?"
"I've got to talk with you," the voice said. "Now. Tonight. Can you come over?"
"At eleven o'clock?"
"Yes. Prentice, listen to me. I'm not drunk and I'm not kidding. This is a matter of life and death. Yours. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Prentice hesitated, confused.
"You know where my place is--fourth house from the corner, right-hand side. Come over now. But listen, carefully: go out the back door. The back door. Prentice, are you listening?"
"Yes," Prentice said.
"My light will be off, Go around to the rear. Don't bother to knock, just walk in-- but be quiet about it. They mustn't see you."
Prentice heard a click, then silence. He stared at the receiver for a while before replacing it.
"Well?" Ann said. "Man talk?"
"Not exactly." Prentice wiped his palms on his trousers. "That fellow Matt Dystal, he's apparently sick. Wants me to come over."
"Now?"
"Yeah. I think I better; he sounded pretty bad. You go on to sleep, I'll be back in a little while."
"Okay, honey. I hope it isn't anything serious. But, it is nice to be doing something for them for a change, isn't it?"
Prentice kissed his wife, waited until the bathroom door had closed; then he went outside, into the cold night.
He walked along the grass verge of the alleyway, across the small lawns, up the steps to Dystal's rear door.
He diliberated with himself for a moment, then walked in.
"Prentice?" a voice hissed.
"Yes. Where are you?"
A hand touched his arm in the darkness and he jumped, nervously. "Come into the bedroom."
A dim lamp went on. Prentice saw that the windows were covered by heavy tan drapes. It was chilly in the room, chilly and moist.
"Well?" Prentice said, irritably.
Matthew Dystal ran a hand through his rope-colored hair. "I know what
you're thinking," he said. "And I don't blame you. But it was necessary, Prentice. It was necessary. Ames has told you about my 'wild nightmares' and that's going to stick with you, I realize; but get this straight." His hand became a fist. "Everything I'm about to say is true. No matter how outlandish it may sound, it's true--and I have proof. All you'll need. So keep still, Prentice, and listen to me, It may mean your life: yours and your wife's and your boy's. And, maybe, mine . . ." His voice trailed off; then, suddenly, he said, "You want a drink?"
"No."
"You ought to have one. You're only on the outskirts of confusion, my friend. But, there are worse things than confusion, Believe me," Dystal walked to a bookcase and stood there for almost a full minute. When he turned, his features were slightly more composed. "What do you know," he asked, "about the house you're living in?"
Prentice shifted uncomfortably. "I know that a man killed himself in it, if that's what you mean."
"But do you know why?"
"No."
"Because he lost," Dystal said, giggling. "He drew the short one. How's that for motivation?"
"I think I'd better go," Prentice said.
"Wait." Dystal took a handkerchief from his pocket and tapped his forehead. "I didn't mean to begin that way. It's just that I've never told this to anyone, and it's difficult. You'll see why. Please, Prentice, promise you won't leave until I've finished!"
Prentice looked at the wiry, nervous little man and cursed the weakness that had allowed him to get himself into this miserably uncomfortable situation. He wanted to go home. But he knew he could not leave now.
"All right," he said. "Go on."
Dystal sighed. Then, staring at the window, he began to talk. "I built this house," he said, "because I thought I was going to get married. By the time I found out I was wrong, the work was all done. I should have sold it, I know, I see that, but I was feeling too lousy to go through the paper work. Besides, I'd already given up my apartment. So I moved in." He coughed. "Be patient with me, Prentice: this is the only way to tell it, from the beginning. Where was I?"
"You moved in."
"Yes! Everyone was very nice. They invited me to their homes for dinner, they dropped by, they did little favors for me; and it helped, it really did. I thought, you know, what a hell of a great bunch of neighbors. Regular. Real. That was it: they were real. Ames, an advertising man; Thomas, a lawyer; Johnson, paint company; Chambers, insurance; Reiker and Cummings, engineers--I mean, how average can you get?" Dystal paused; an ugly grin appeared on his face, disappeared. "I liked them," he said. "And I was really delighted with things. But, of course, you know how it is when a woman gives you the business. I was still licking my wounds. And I guess it showed, because Ames came over one evening. Just dropped by, in a neighborly way. We had some drinks. We talked about the ways of the female. Then, bang, out of nowhere, he asked me the question. Was I bored?"
The Howling Man Page 31
