Pushover

by Orrie Hitt

There were still crowds of people at the store but many had left. I pushed through, going on inside. She saw me about the same time I saw her.

  “Sandy!” I said. “I — ”

  She hit me with a handful of books. She hit me squarely on top of the head. I thought I’d been clubbed.

  “You rotten cheat!” she screamed. “Cheat! Cheat!”

  She dove into an open carton and came up with a lot more books. The men and women in the building shoved toward the door as it began to rain books. The corner of one caught me under one eye and I back away from her, blinking.

  “Baby,” I said, “you keep this up and you’re going to get hurt.”

  She didn’t pay any attention to me. She just kept grabbing books and throwing them. Outside, people were shouting and I heard a police whistle blow.

  “You’ll have the cops in here,” I said, moving toward her. “You don’t want that, do you?”

  “Get out! Get out!”

  She didn’t have any more books handy to throw so I moved in on her.

  “I can explain this,” I said. “It wasn’t my fault. That girl, the one who was working for me, she — ”

  Sandy made a lunge toward the pile of cartons. I saw what she was after. A knife, a long, sharp knife.

  “You’ve ruined me in Port Jessup,” she sobbed, clutching it. Her face was twisted, her breasts heaving. “Ruined me! I’ll kill you for it, Danny Fulton!”

  I didn’t wait for her to try. I didn’t want to do it but I had no choice. I stepped forward, just as she brought up the knife, and slammed her on the chin with my fist.

  She fell at my feet.

  I bent over her.

  “Sandy,” I said. “Sandy.”

  Her eyes were closed.

  “Christ!” I said to no one. “Jesus Christ!”

  A hand tugged at my shoulder.

  “Get up!”

  I got up and turned around. It was Gloria’s father. He was in uniform.

  “I had to hit her,” I said. “She had a knife.”

  He reached down, picked up the knife and threw it toward the back of the store. His eyes were cold.

  “I didn’t see any knife,” he said.

  She began to move, moaning. I started to get down on my knees beside her. Maddison got hold of my coat and wouldn’t let me.

  “You’ve done enough,” he said. “You’re under arrest.”

  I sneered at him.

  “You’ve changed your song,” I said. “A couple of days ago you thought I was quite a guy.”

  He nodded at the girl on the floor. She was beginning to move.

  “She did, too,” he said.

  He helped Sandy to her feet. There was a bump on one side of her jaw. Aside from that, and a little dirt on her dress, she seemed to be all right.

  “You’d better see a doctor,” Maddison said. “Just to make sure nothing’s broken.”

  She worked her jaw and she winced once or twice.

  “I’m all right,” she said.

  “I’m arresting this man,” Maddison told her. Then, as she began looking around the floor, “Somebody left a knife lying there. I threw it away. You won’t find it.”

  She walked to the door.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  She went out, not looking back.

  “Let’s go,” Maddison said.

  He made me walk the three blocks to the city jail.

  Maddison took me before the desk sergeant and made a long spiel about how I had attacked, and struck, Port Jessup’s leading citizen.

  “And what do you have to say to that?” the sergeant wanted to know.

  “The bitch came at me with a knife,” I said.

  Maddison swatted me alongside the face.

  “Button your lip,” he told me. “You wouldn’t have called her that yesterday.”

  The sergeant, a dark-haired man with pale blue eyes, scratched his head.

  “This the same guy Miss Adams was supposed to marry?”

  Maddison said I was.

  “This little ruckus will cost you a fortune,” the sergeant said to me.

  He didn’t have to tell me that. I knew it already. And it would cost me Sandy. Somehow, that was even worse.

  We hung around for a while, waiting for the assistant district attorney, but when he didn’t show, after maybe an hour, they took me in back and locked me up with another man.

  “What are you in for?” my companion inquired after Maddison had gone away.

  “For being a jerk.”

  I sat down. I didn’t pay any attention to the man sitting on the other cot. I knew why they were holding him. He had blood on his face, a black eye, his clothes were torn and he smelled like a gin mill at three in the morning.

  “My wife’s going to be worried,” he mumbled. He got up, grabbed at the bars and stamped his feet on the floor. “Hey, you bastards! Let me outta here!”

  Nobody responded to his pleas and finally he went back to his cot. He lay down, covered his face with his hands and began to cry.

  I could have done some crying myself.

  In a way, I had told the drunk the truth. I was sitting in jail because I was a jerk.

  I started to curse.

  That Madeline, that dirty bitch, I should have thrown her out on her can. But not me, not smart Danny Fulton; I’d been stupid enough to think that she’d come back because she didn’t want to let me down. No wonder she hadn’t taken that last hundred. The way things stood now she owed me plenty.

  It had been deliberate. I knew that. She’d been aware of the fact that I never checked the copy in a book, that I always left it up to her. It wouldn’t have been any more work for her to have set the stroke on the typewriter heavier. And those right-hand margins. With that new executive machine she could have done a slick job on the margins. I started to laugh. Who cared about the margins when you couldn’t read the copy?

  The noon whistle blew and a kid from the diner down the street brought in lunch. Neither the drunk nor myself ate any.

  I rolled over on the cot, shutting my eyes. She’d told me, the last time that I’d seen her, that she loved me. How could she have done this? Did she think that it would solve anything?

  To hell with her. I couldn’t feel hatred for Madeline. Whose fault was it that I had been such a chump?

  The kid from the diner came and took lunch away. He said it was a crying shame, all that food wasted.

  “Who wants to eat?” the drunk demanded. “All I want is to get out of here.”

  His wife came for him about two. One look at her sharp face and I knew why he’d gone out and done it. She hardly said a word as they went out. I guess she was saving it for later.

  I moved around the cell, hunting through my pockets for cigarettes. I didn’t have any. All I found, other than my wallet, was a copy of the book. I held it in my hands, ripped it in two and let the pieces tumble on the floor.

  I’d ruined Sandy Adams. There was no question about that. Even half a million bucks wouldn’t buy back the respect of her neighbors, not for a long time. And that respect, plus being up there on top, was something that she had to have. It was like food to her. She ate it the way most people ate potatoes and meat.

  A half a million bucks, I thought. A half a million iron men that had gone down the drain. A half a million bucks that Danny Fulton would never count. A half a million bucks that weren’t important any longer.

  I sat down on the cot. I was alone. I made sure that I was alone. And then, because it was the only thing I could do, the only thing I had left, I cried.

  I didn’t give a damn about her money. That was the worst part. I’d tried for money before, though not as much, and quite often I hadn’t gotten it. No, it wasn’t the money. Sandy could have been on relief, living off the state, and it wouldn’t have made any difference. I’d have loved her just the same.

  Sure, she had bought me. People who have enough money can buy almost anything. Other people, sometimes. I hadn’t liked it. I’d h
ated it. But I still wanted her. I wanted her so badly that my legs ached. Without the money, she would have been my kind of a woman.

  I suppose that’s why I cried. Not for myself. For her. For what I had done to her, perhaps not intentionally but, nevertheless, thoroughly. And no one would ever know I had been the toy. She had been the master.

  They came and got me at four.

  A new sergeant was on the desk.

  “Bring that man forward,” he said when I came in.

  Sandy was standing off to one side with her lawyer. She looked very pale. Maddison said something to her and approached the desk. He was still dressed in uniform.

  The sergeant asked me my full name.

  “Daniel Fulton.”

  “Middle initial?”

  “None.”

  He asked me where I lived.

  “I have no permanent address.”

  “Where could you be reached?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t gotten out of this town yet.”

  He told me not to be wise. I didn’t know what he meant. It was the truth.

  “You’re accused,” he said, “of striking this young lady.” He leaned back in his chair. “Miss Adams, will you please step forward.”

  She came toward us slowly. One side of her face was swollen and I could see an ugly bruise. She didn’t look at me. Just down. And her lawyer didn’t look at me, either. I guess he’d made up his mind that he was a lousy advisor, that the movie and television kind were the best after all.

  “Is this the man who struck you?” the sergeant wanted to know.

  Her eyes lifted, burning against my face. I couldn’t meet her stare. I shifted nervously.

  “My client doesn’t wish to press any charges,” Boyd said. “My client feels that all interests will best be served if the incident is forgotten.”

  I looked at her then. Her eyes filled with pain and she glanced away.

  “And what does the assistant attorney think about this?” the sergeant inquired.

  A wiry little man in a dark suit shuffled some papers.

  “Well,” he said, “you must have a formal complaint, sergeant. Of course, the arresting officer — Officer Maddison — could sign it. I’m afraid, though, that you wouldn’t get very far unless you had Miss Adams’ cooperation.”

  “I want to forget it,” she whispered.

  “Well,” the sergeant said with disappointment. “I see.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Now, I don’t want you folks to misunderstand me but I do think there is another matter here that we haven’t considered. I’m talking, of course, about the books. A lot of people have bought those books and all of them are unhappy. My wife bought one and — if you don’t mind me saying so — I couldn’t even read it. It seems to me that this man Fulton, this so-called professional fund raiser — should be held for account.”

  There wasn’t a sound in the room except the ticking of the clock on the wall.

  “There was nothing deliberate about it,” I said slowly. “The copy came out weak because the typewriter hadn’t been set at the proper stroke. For the record, I didn’t do the typing but, naturally, I am responsible for it. I’m willing to accept the responsibility.”

  “In what way?” the sergeant inquired.

  I tried to remember how much money I had left in the bank. I couldn’t.

  “The book could be run again,” I said.

  This seemed to meet with the sergeant’s approval. He nodded and smiled at Sandy Adams.

  “What do you think of that, Miss Adams?”

  She started to say something, then let out a little gasp and turned and ran from the room. She left the outside door open and I could hear her heels pound down the wooden steps. I felt weak. I couldn’t even follow her.

  “My client has already arranged for that,” Boyd said. “She feels an obligation to the people of Port Jessup.” He regarded me with utter contempt. “And she’s willing to pay for any mistakes she may have made. Which, I might add, were several. An auto agency, a book — and a man.”

  I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  “Well,” the sergeant said, looking at me, “you might consider yourself lucky, Fulton. You could have been in a lot of trouble.”

  “Yes, sir,” I agreed.

  “But I’m not letting you off without something to remember us by.” He smiled, making me wait. “I’m going to fine you twenty-five dollars for disturbing the peace. Of course, if you want a jury trial, you can — ”

  I got up the twenty-five bucks in a hurry. He had a point. I’d disturbed the peace of a lot of people.

  “And get out of town,” he advised, handing me a receipt.

  “Before sundown.”

  I went outside and down the steps. The sky was cloudy and it looked like a thunder shower was coming up over the mountains. I felt miserable.

  “Fulton!”

  I turned around. It was Boyd. I waited for him.

  “I don’t use this kind of language in court,” he said, coming up. “But I can out here. You’re a louse, Fulton.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Not at all.” He lit a cigarette. He didn’t offer me one. “You might be interested to know that I had you thoroughly investigated before you ever got to Port Jessup. Miss Adams had been appointed the chairman of the committee and I wanted to be sure who we were dealing with. I found out only that you were a hard worker. Nothing else was to your credit. But she wanted to talk to you, anyway. That was an error. She fell in love with you.”

  I could have told him again that the mess on the book had been a mistake, but it seemed useless.

  “That’s why she wanted to make it as easy for you as possible to bring out the book. She was looking for your good qualities. And she found one. Whatever your motive, you were able to embarrass a whole city and a fine woman. I trust you have accomplished your aims.”

  “So long,” I told him.

  “You’re fortunate she’s not suing you over that foreword,” he told me. “Though God only knows what she could collect.”

  I walked down the street.

  The store on the corner was vacant, the door unlocked. No one paid any attention to me as I went inside. Books littered the floor. I couldn’t blame them for leaving the place that way. The books weren’t worth sweeping up.

  I took three copies and returned to the street. The clouds were heavier now and thunder rolled in the distance. There was a ticket on the Caddy. I tore it up and threw it away. Then I put the top down, got in and drove over to the motel.

  I packed my things. It was quite a job. I’d bought a lot of new clothes in Port Jessup and I had to get a couple of paper shopping bags from the woman on the desk before I had everything set to roll.

  There were three or four drinks in the bottle on the dresser and I finished it off. While I was doing this I sat down in the chair and looked through one of the books. The foreword had come out sharp and clear. I read it. The bottle crashed as I hurled it into a corner.

  It wasn’t a very good-looking book, the foreword admitted. But, it went on to explain, this was due to the fact that it was being published with charge. It pointed out that a history book of this type was a community project, that quality could only be the result of a united effort. In conclusion, it stated, it was hoped that, “our people will regard this printing misfortune as definite proof that the ‘rich’ can no longer assume the burden of city progress.” While Sandy’s name was not mentioned in the foreword, it was clearly evident that it could mean no one else.

  I paid the woman for my room, tipped her a ten for the busted bottle, and carried my stuff through the rain to my car. One of the bags got wet, ripped apart and a pair of pants fell into the mud. I didn’t even bother picking them up.

  I stopped once going out of town, to get gas. After that I just stayed behind the wheel, driving through the storm.

  I knew where I was going all right.

  Carbondale.

  And in a hurry.
>
  16

  THIS IS being written in a hotel room located in a medium-size city in upper New York State. The name of the city isn’t important but the fact that it has twenty-two thousand inhabitants is of more than passing interest to a fund raiser.

  It is spring. Outside, the trees are coming into bud, the grass is green and the air is clear and fresh. The weather forecast is for rain, about three days of it. Which is fine. We’ll be getting books tomorrow, Tuesday, and then we’ll have to jump into the sales campaign. We’ve trained four phone girls, a room has been set aside in the hotel for them and they’re all ready to start dialing numbers. Rain means that people will be home, indoors. Most calls will be answered. The kids will be in school and mom will be home to make the decision. Business should be good, especially since our project is for the benefit of the churches and a lot of good advance publicity has pulled everybody and his cousin into the act.

  Spring in upper New York, money in the bank and a couple of drinks in the bottle on the windowsill. You get the feeling that sometimes life can be almost worth living.

  The late afternoon sun comes in through the window, casting the shadows of tree branches on the carpet. The sun feels great, warm, but the breeze is cool and I get up and close the window. It isn’t like Nevada, not at all. I fix a drink, a small one, and remember Nevada. It’s a nice state. I’ll have to go back there again sometime.

  But Al say he won’t. He says that he missed his family those nine weeks and that neither he nor his wife are any good at writing letters.

  “Madeline did most of mine for me,” he’d said. “But you can’t tell another person what to put down, not the way you’d say it yourself if you were there.”

  We’d gone out there, taken the job for a fire department, because Johnny hadn’t gone through with the divorce and Madeline had been determined to get one.

  “No use either one of us being tied down,” she’d said. “Not when the strings are so loose.”

  We’d gone out to Nevada in October, right after we’d finished the job in Carbondale. It had been one promise I’d had to make, that we’d do it, before she’d come back with us.

  “You slapped me around enough,” she’d told me on the phone, when I’d called her in Amsterdam. “We’re square, Danny, for that foolish thing I did.”