Edge of Panic

by Henry, Kane,

  “Mm. I see what you mean.”

  The bartender brought the Martini, made change for the ten, took the bottle away. The girl said, “Good with a pearl, isn’t it? Better than with an olive. Ever try a dash of orange bitters?”

  “Affectation,” Harry said. “Gin’s gin. I don’t drink Martinis.”

  “Oh, excuse me.”

  She bored him. She always bored him. A small girl with wispy hair and no-colored anxious eyes. Eyes like a mouse. What the hell are a mouse’s eyes like? Who ever saw the eyes of mice? Scientists, maybe.

  “Scientists,” Harry said.

  “Pardon?”

  Somebody pushed against him, crushing his hat. He drank the highball quickly and put it down, rubbed a hand against the hand holding the hat and briefcase, feeling sweat on his palm. Give me a blonde. Give me a tall, studied, cool, vicious, exciting blonde. Cool, huh? Lord, how I hate these wispy ones, always pitching, squeezing their skinny legs together with a steno book on their knees, anxious eyes down or lifting them suddenly and rolling them, frantic, demented, no-colored, anxious eyes.

  “Got to go,” Harry said.

  “But, Mr. Martin—”

  “Got a date.”

  “But, Mr. Martin, you just—”

  “’By, Miss Lilling.”

  “But, Mr. Martin—”

  “What happened to your boy friend?” the bartender said.

  “That’s no boy friend. I wish he was. That’s Mr. Martin, from upstairs, the insurance man.”

  Rain drummed on the crushed hat. He ran, his wrapped coat interfering with his thighs, the hat low on his forehead, running, blinking at the wet on his eyelids. Rain streamed, straight down, making a murk of the street, making unreal the huddles under canopies, the splash of automobiles, other quick-running feet. He ran through the silence of stopped traffic, hearing the surge as it started again, seeing the shine lines of rain under headlights, ducking beneath scurrying umbrellas, bent people gnome-like in the dead light of ended day. He ran, running away, passing the sad circles of too-early street lights, running, tugging at his hat brim, fright, old remembered, sagging inside of him.

  He came to the parking-lot, stamped his feet under the shed, opened and flapped his coat, slapped his dripping hat against his side. “Whew,” he said.

  “Gosh awful, ain’t it?”

  “Where’s my boat?”

  “Up here, Mr. Martin. Front of the convertible. You’re early. Dry off over here by the heater, huh? I’ll pull out that convertible job.”

  “Thanks, Al.”

  “Gosh awful, ain’t it? Come on all of a sudden, too.”

  Harry moved around in the shed, put his hat and briefcase on a fender of a car, spread his hands in front of the round hot glow of the heater, watched his fingers tremble, tried to control them, curled them into fists. I don’t want to go. I want to go home. He watched the convertible back out, jerk forward, turn and jump under Al’s sharp maneuvers. Al ran out, the door slamming after him, shouted, “Stay just where you are, Mr. Martin.” He eased Harry’s car through a narrow space and brought it to him. “Service, sir, Mr. Martin. Bang on the barrel head.”

  “Thanks, boy.”

  He drove carefully, slowly, up, up along Madison Avenue, up, in slow procession with the heavy home-going traffic. The Everett. He didn’t need a book for the Everett. The Everett was at Ninety-Second and Central Park West. He turned left on Fifty-Seventh, stopped for the light at Fifth, looked out on the wet black streets sprawling reflections of splattered lights. He ran his tongue along the inside of his lips, rolled the window down, spat dryly. The drinks were sullen in him now, heavy. No lift. Early—early it had been fine. He thought about how he had zigzagged to the office after leaving Quigley. Early, it had been fine. He rolled up the window. Pain, small, like the beginning of a toothache, grew in back of his eyes. He needed one, now. Right now he needed one.

  He crossed Fifth, made the light on Sixth, turned right on Broadway, skirted the Circle, and went north along the park. The wipers swished in upside down V’s, thin lines of dust-mud along the edges, smearing now, no rain to wash the glass. He shut the wipers off, wondering when it had stopped raining. The streets were skid-wet; sky clung to the dark trees of the park. He rolled past Eighty-Sixth, splashing through a puddle, pebbles bouncing against the fenders, eyes glimpsing left, to the road and left, road and left, searching through the long gaps of downtown traffic for the neons of a tavern. He needed one. He really needed one. He bit down on a corner of his lip, letting it hurt. He couldn’t go up there unless he had one. He couldn’t go up there, he couldn’t talk to her, he couldn’t do business, he couldn’t make money, unless he had one. Now. Now!

  Green and red. Lights. There by the corner. He pulled up and parked. He sat and waited for the wires to stop twanging, for the excitement in his stomach to subside. What started this? What the hell has happened here? Long ago, it had been like that, long ago, but it was over. Long ago, before the kid, before he was married, before Alice, long ago, when he’d push away the fear, the shyness, the what-am-I-doing-here?—hoisting a few and getting a tingle and growing up to size. He was a big guy and a big guy hates to be a mumble-jumble Joe, it doesn’t fit. Even as a kid, a mumble-jumble Joe, a shy guy, taking punishment from other kids and teachers and principals because he couldn’t talk up to them, cutting elocution classes because he couldn’t stand up and read out of a book, alone, a big guy, always the biggest in his class, standing over all of them, shaving in high school with a man’s beard when the rest of them were still changing voices. Football, yeah, basketball, yeah, action, fine, but when they’d want him to make a speech, he’d run like hell, and it was cute then, they thought it was cute, but he didn’t, he hated it; carrying a flask, even as a kid, gin in a flask, hoisting a few and getting a tingle and chewing wads of gum, and standing up to them, standing up to all of them, and going back for re-fills and more gum and growing up to size.… But it was over.

  College, it had been like that, worse, nipping before pep rallies, nipping furtively in the clubhouse, nips, rubbing his hands and fidgeting and listening to speeches before game time, lumps of gum in his mouth; football, wonderful, tired lying around after a game; leave me alone, wonderful; but the minute you’ve got to talk to them, shake hands, meet them, nibble, nibble, nibble… till his senior year, till Johnny Applegate, and then Alice. Johnny knew him, talked him out of it, and Alice carried the ball from there. Johnny knew him, big serious Johnny with the stutter, fighting a speech defect, talking to him with the stutter, bringing him up to size without the nibbles, reading out of books to him, stuttering like hell, but making him listen, and showing him without knowing he was showing him: Johnny who was going to be a lawyer despite the stutter, big serious red-faced Johnny, rising up out of all of them like a tree, like Harry, but standing up to all of them, and making them listen, making them wait while the words came. Between Johnny and Alice it was over, no flask, no wads of gum; benders, yeah, even Johnny joined, big benders, bust-outs, but benders, that’s all. A loud good time, and good-by, bender. Johnny and he had plugged it together in New York, good Johnny, a fine lawyer, still making them listen, making them sit up and want to listen, but then they’d got lost, these last years; Johnny was a bachelor and he was married; they got together once in a while, occasionally, it was a long time now. But he had Alice, and Alice kept him in line. Brawls, yeah, right up until the time he was married, and then no more: brawls, army, service, wounded, hero, discharge, marriage, business, money, a son… it was over. What now? Why?

  He turned down the rear-view and combed his hair and fixed his tie. He straightened his hat, kept it in his hand, his briefcase under his arm. He got out of the car, waited for a light, crossed the street, and opened the door. Beer dump. Smell of sour beer and waft of old cigarette smoke. A bartender with a hand-smeared apron. Sallow lights and three customers. Spittoons and a tarnished rail.

  “Double Scotch, water.”

  It went in and it s
pread, warm. Sure. Sure, it was over. Bender, that’s all. It’s been a long time. Six years. Six years, a hell of a long time. Been married six years. Long time, six years. Bound to happen, once in a while, it’s got to happen. Let it happen. Worried, and stuff. Worried about the Polgars, old man Polgar getting his guts bashed out by a truck. Nice guy, old man Polgar, used to bend that elbow, old man Polgar, all the time; got blind and barged into a truck. Worried about ten thousand bucks in the house, ten thousand bucks in a safe in the closet, all that’s left of old man Polgar. Worried about money; worried about making money; worried about being a big success in a great big city, living up there looking out on the river, seeing the boats; worried about a blonde, a slant-eyed polished blonde… Bender. Once in a while, it ought to be good for you; only this one, it sort of snuck up. I’m sorry, Alice. Married man. Responsibilities. I got a son. Imagine that kid blasting away on that siren at six o’clock in the morning. Got to be stern. Got to lay down the law. I love that kid. Stands right up to you, straight like a soldier, with that crazy belt around his bathrobe. Looks you right in the eye. Little face. Solemn like you can be, Alice. I love you, Alice.

  “Another double, huh? Water.”

  “Right.”

  “Wet out.”

  “Yeah. That’s two-forty.”

  “Sure-mike. Hey, I didn’t ask for a tab.”

  “We do it here as we go along. You know, bub.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, a trouble guy.”

  “Pleasure, if you’re looking for it.”

  “Look, guy, I only work here.”

  “So what?”

  “Customer pays as he goes along. Them’s instructions.”

  “Oh.” He slapped a hand on the bar. “Oh.”

  “You see what I mean, mister?”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  “I was trying.”

  “Sorry. I am very sorry.” Harry paid. “Very sorry. Have one on me. Knock one in.”

  “Thanks. I ain’t allowed.”

  “What kind of a dump is this? Nothing allowed? What’s the name of this dump?”

  “Cradle By the Park. But it’s allowed I should buy you one, that’s allowed. I am very happy to.” He poured, smiled, snaggle tooth. “Mind a little advice?”

  “Always take advice from bartenders. Best friends in the world, bartenders. And smart. Smartest people in the world, bartenders. Thank you, tenderly, for the drink.”

  “You got the look, mister.”

  “I have, haven’t I?”

  “Look of blood, you know what I mean?”

  “No.”

  “Blood in your eye, boy.”

  “How’s that again?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “About the advice.”

  “What about the advice?”

  “I mean, for instance, the briefcase. You a lawyer?”

  “No. Insurance. Harry A. Martin, insurance.”

  “That’s what I mean. You look like a nice boy, you know, regular, you know, a businessman, you know, not a flop-guy… I mean you look like you ought to start tapering off right here now. You look like you’re spanking for trouble, you know. Very touchy.”

  Harry smiled, downward, deprecating. “Not me.”

  “Very touchy.”

  “No. It was only I misunderstood—”

  “Very touchy. When a nice young feller moves up to that very touchy routine—Look, kid, I’m forty-eight, don’t look it, huh? Twenty years behind the stick, I ought to know. People is my business, humanity—humanity, it’s always up in front of a bar. Now, like I was saying—”

  “Mike!” It was a morose beer customer. “Mike!”

  “Like I was saying, humanity—”

  Harry laughed. “Your name really Mike?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Okay, Mike. For you and humanity, one more drink and I’m off. And I pay right as you pour it.” Mike poured. Harry drank and paid.

  “Mike!”

  “Coming up.” He corked the bottle. “Okay, son. See you around.”

  “Night, Mike.” He went out, chuckling. Humanity. Humanity and Mike. People is my business.

  The low roof of the sky put weight on the air, dead, no wind. Smell of earth came up from the park, soggy. Rain hung, unfailing, misting the air, blanketing wet. He stood, breathless, in front of the red and green of the neons, a black silhouette, fingering a hat, keeping it off his head, remembering he had combed his hair. He laughed, suddenly, out loud, heard it, stopped it, grimaced, moved out of the doorway, waited stiffly at the curb for the light to change. He went across to the car, ground the starter, shifted the gear, slid out easily. He drove to Ninety-Second, sought an opening, parked. He rubbed his palms against his head over his ears, flattening hair, shrugged once, picked up his hat and briefcase, got out. Beginnings of anxiety squeezed again, deep down in his stomach, like a spasm before retching, but holding, like a tightened internal hand. He moved his mouth, seeking saliva. He breathed deeply, hard, lifting his chest, walking tall.

  The Everett was old-fashioned, rich and spacious; a long rubber mat under a canopy, one step up. Right and left were marble stairways with flat broad marble bannisters; then a huge lobby with flecked marble pillars and carved ceilings and soft rugs and squat, brocaded, massive, sober furniture, frugal in the vastness. The desk was a distance in the rear, beyond it were the elevators.

  He had no footfalls on the carpets of the empty silent lobby and he was startled, halfway through, by an old man in a high-backed wooden armchair dozing behind slow-rising cigar smoke. There was no one at the desk. He saw the desk clerk, as he passed, seated in a cubicle of office, reading a newspaper. There were three elevators and three trim elevator-girls in flat-heeled shoes and olive green uniforms. One of them smiled. Harry went in, said, “Eight.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  When she snapped the door open, he jumped. He walked along a wide corridor to 810 and knocked.

  “Who?”

  “Harry Martin.”

  “Oh. Please come in.” She opened the door, and tightness uncoiled. He was smiling now, smiling in greeting, smiling in relief, smiling all the way down to his throat where it burned, down to the stomach, where the hand unclenched, smooth now, easy, peaceful, gentle, relaxed. Lady on the make, with a half million bucks for annuities. It was as good as in right now. Signed, sealed, stamped, and delivered.

  “Do come in.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lady on the make with a new hairdo, up from the neck and over the ears, golden mass over little ears, golden mass over a strong white neck, smiling, crinkling, long white fingers moving jerkily, the pale smooth face a white canvas for the imprint of her lips, for the red, live, shining, curving, obscene, wonderful mouth. She wore nothing.

  It was a metallic silver housecoat, naked to her figure, more naked than nakedness, shirred on top, wide and open by the wide white shoulders, then simple straight, sheathed to figure, line of thigh and curve of back and bulk of breasts tight in a sheen of silver nudity; mince-walked, tall; the red pointed nails of her feet protruding from high-heeled matching silver sandals.

  “Nice,” Harry said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nice. The new hair-fluff.”

  “Oh, that.” She laughed, her hands fluttering. “I’ve had quite an afternoon.” She laughed again, high shrill laughter, ending abruptly. “I’ll tell you about it. Give me your things, won’t you?”

  She came near him, took the briefcase and his hat and coat, a part of her touching him, casually. He watched her passing the coffee table, saw the bottle of bourbon and the bottle of Scotch and the quarter-filled pitcher of water with cubes and the narrow tall initialed glasses. He watched her go to the far end of the room and throw the case and hat and coat across one of the divans. All in order. Good. Good. Lady on the make. Whisky on the coffee table. Orange light from wall brackets. Glistening housecoat. Soft white shoulde
rs. Spacious sitting-room. Three divans and a pink ceiling.

  In spite he said, “That too.”

  “What?” she said, coming back.

  “The housecoat.”

  She stopped, an eyebrow moving. “I thought that was what you meant before.”

  “I did.”

  “Bold, aren’t you?”

  “That too.”

  “That—too?”

  “I mean the housecoat.”

  “It’s called a hostess gown.” She came again. “Too bold. Tell you the truth, I’ve never worn it, sort of never worn it. I liked it when I bought it—when I saw it on the mannequin. But, afterward, well—I’ve never had the courage. Want to know a secret?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why I have the courage now?”

  “Yes.”

  She was near him. “I’m a little tight.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  Musk of perfume and golden hair. Blue eyes, shining, narrow. Corn, he thought, oh, corn. Lady on the make with all the props: silver nakedness, white throat, orange light on tumbled hair, smell of perfume, business with the eyes, business with the eyebrows, business with the body, tall, full, yielding body, silver nakedness and orange lights—corn, oh, corn—you want to know something—I like it. I love it.

  “No,” he said. “If it’s the first time you wore it, you ought to bring it back. There’s a spot, there on the sleeve.”

  She touched it. “Well, I’ll be—probably my own fault. Oh, I’ve worn it. Sort of for myself. Never for company. You’re so very tall.”

  “Yeah, tall.”

  “Look, please have a drink. Please have a large drink. Somebody’s dropped a chasm between us, a real wide awful chasm. Here.” She bent and patted a pillow on the sofa. The sofa was royal blue. This was the sofa. This was not one of the divans with the silk pillows strewn over them. This was a formal sofa, with the mirror-topped coffee table in front of it. “Here. Make yourself a large drink and make me a small one, and sit here beside me, and I’ll tell you about my afternoon.”

  She turned and sat, pulling the housecoat around the flick of a long white calf.