I stood there holding her, not listening, aware only of a weight in my middle like a cold stone.
“–you’re so wonderful–and clean–everything is so wonderful and clean–”
I didn’t say anything.
“–you’re so damned wonderful–and clean and strong–oh, you’re a hero–”
“I’m sorry I acted like a son-of-a-bitch,” I said.
“I can imagine to what particular thing you are referring,” she whispered in mock sweetness, underscoring the particular_, setting it meticulously in my hide like a banderilla. Then she swung her face from me, and wouldn’t look at me, and the arm I clutched might as well have belonged to a dummy in a show window, and the cold stone in my stomach was a stone in a deep well covered with slime, and the pig’s eyes in the swollen, black-jowled face came back and hated me in the dull, mist-streaked night, and a horn moaned down the river, and in the cab Anne Stanton sat back in one corner, very straight and as far from me as possible, and the light from the street lamps we passed would flicker across her white face. She would not speak to me. Until we came to a street with a car track on it. Then she said, “Get out. You can catch some car here. I don’t want you to take me home.”
So I got out.
Five nights later I heard Anne Stanton’s voice on the telephone.
It said, “Those things–those papers you said you had–send them to me.”
I said, I’ll bring them.”
It said, “No. Send them.”
I said, “All right. I’ve got extra photostat of one thing. Tomorrow I’ll get photostat of the other paper and send them together.”
It said, “A photostat. So you don’t trust me.”
I said, “I’ll send them tomorrow.”
Then there was the click, in the little black tube. Then the tiny, windy, humming sound which is the sound of space falling away from you, and of infinity, and of absolute nothingness.
Every night when I came into my room, I would look at the telephone. I would say to myself: It is going to ring_. Once, even, I was sure that it had rung, for the tingle and stab of its ringing was in all my nerves. But it hadn’t rung. I had merely fallen asleep. Once I picked up the thing and held it to my ear, listening to the tiny, humming sound which is the sound of the various things I have already mentioned.
Every night, at the desk in the lobby, I asked if there have been any numbers left for me. Yes, sometimes there were numbers. But never the right number.
Then I would go up to my room, where the telephone was and the brief case with the photostat and the affidavit from Memphis. I hadn’t given that to the Boss yet. I hadn’t even told him about it yet. Not that I was thinking about not giving it to him. I would give it to him. That was in the cards. But not yet. Not quiet yet. After the telephone had rung.
But it didn’t ring.
Instead, after about a week, one night as I turned the corner of the corridor, I saw a woman sitting on the bench down beyond my door. I fumbled for my key, inserted it in the lock, and was about to enter when I was aware that the woman stood beside me. I swung toward her. It was Anne Stanton.
She had made no sound on the deep carpet. Not with her light foot.
“You gave me heart failure,” I said, and swung the door wide, and added, “Come in.”
“I thought you were so careful about my reputation,” she said. “At least you claimed to be. Once.”
“I remember,” I said, “but come in anyway.”
She walked into the room and stood in the middle of the floor with her back to me while I shut the door. I noticed that she had a brown manila envelope in her hand, with her bag.
No turning to me, she stepped to the desk by the wall and flung down the envelope. “There it is,” she said. “The photostats. I brought them back. But I would have brought back the originals if you had trusted me with them.”
“I know it,” I said.
“It was awful,” she said, still not turning to me.
I went across to her and touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“It was awful. You don’t know.”
I didn’t know how awful. So I stood there just behind her and didn’t dare to touch her again, even with the weight of my finger.
“You don’t know,” she said.
“No,” I said, “I don’t.”
“It was awful.” The she turned to put her wide eyes on me, and I had the impression of stumbling into a well. “It was awful,” she said. “I gave them to him–those things–and he read them and then he just stood there–he didn’t move–he didn’t make a sound–and his face was white as a sheet and I could hear him breathing. Then I touched him–and he looked at me–he looked at me a long time. Then he said–he looked at me and said, ‘You.” That was what he said, ‘You.” Looking at me.”
“God damn it,” I said, “God damn it, what’s he blaming you for, why doesn’t he blame Governor Stanton?”
“He does,” she said. “Oh, he blames him. That is what is so awful. The way he blames him. His father. You remember–you remember, Jack–” she reached out and laid her hand on my forearm–”you remember–our father–how he was–how he used to read to us–how he loved us–how he taught Adam and how proud he was on him–how he took all that time to teach Adam himself–oh, Jack, he sat there in front of the fire and I was a little girl and he would read to us and I put my head against his knee–oh, Jack–you remember?”
“I remember,” I said “Yes,” she said, “yes–and mother was dead and father did all he could–he was so proud of Adam–and now Adam–and now–” She released my arm, and stepped back and lifted her hands, putting her fingers to her forehead in a distracted gesture. “Oh, Jack, what Have I done?” she whispered.
“You did what you thought you ought to do,” I said firmly.
“Yes,” she whispered, “yes, that was it.”
“It’s done now,” I said.
“Yes, it is done,” she said, out loud, and her jaw closed with an expression which suddenly made her look like Adam, the mouth firm and sealed, the skin drawn and tight on the flesh, and she lifted her head to stare the world down, and I felt like bursting into tears. If that had been my habit.
“Yes,” I said, “it’s done.”
“He’ll do it,” she said.
And I almost demanded, What, do what? For, for the moment, I had forgotten the reason that I had told Anne the facts, the reason that I had given her the photostats, the reason that she had shown them to her brother. I had forgotten that there was a reason. But I remembered now, and questioned, “You persuaded him?”
“No,” she shook her head slowly, “no, I didn’t say anything. I gave those things to him. He knew.”
“What happened?”
“What I told you. He looked at me hard, and said ‘You.’ Just like that. Then I said, ‘Adam, don’t say it that way, you mustn’t, Adam, you mustn’t!’ And he said, ‘Why?’ And I said, ‘Because I love you, because I love him, love Father.’ And he kept on looking at me, then said, ‘Love him!’ Then, ‘Damn his soul to hell!’ I called out, ‘Adam, Adam,’ but he turned his back on me, and walked across the room to his bedroom door and went in and shut the door. Then I went out and walked by myself, in the dark, for a long time. So I could sleep. For three days I didn’t hear from him. Then he asked me to come to see him. I went, and he gave me back those things.” She pointed to the manila envelope. “He told me to tell you that he would do it. To arrange it. That was all.”
“That was a good deal,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, and moved past me toward the door. She put her hand to the knob, turned it, and drew the door ajar. She looked back at me, and said, “Yes, it was a good deal.”
And went out.
But she stood with her hand on the doorjamb. “One thing,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
“A favor,” she said, “to me. Before you ever use those things, those papers, show them to Judge Irwin. Give
him a chance. At least, a chance.”
I agreed to that.
The big black Cadillac, the hood glistening dully under the street lamps–as I could see even from the back seat–eased down the street, making its expensive whisper under the boughs which had new leaves on them, for it was early April now. Then we got to a street where there were not any nice trees arching over.
“Here,” I said, “that place on the right, just beyond that grocery.”
Sugar-Boy put the Cadillac up to the curb, like a mother laying Little Precious down with a last kiss. The he ran around to open the door for the Boss, but he boss already on the curb. I uncoiled myself and stood beside him. “This is the joint,” I remarked, and started in.
For we were going to see Adam Stanton.
When I told the Boss that Adam Stanton would take the job and that he had sent me a message to arrange things, the Boss had said, “Well.” Then he had looked at me from toe to crown, and said, “You must be Svengali.”
“Yeah,” I had said, “I am Svengali.”
“I want to see him,” the Boss had said.
“I’ll try to get him up here.”
“Get him up here?” the Boss had said. “I’ll go there. Hell, he’s doing me a favor.”
“Well, you’re the Governor, aren’t you?”
“You’re damned right I am,” the Boss had said, “but he is Doc Stanton. When do we go?”
I had told him it would have to be at night, that you never could catch him except at night.
So here we were, at night, entering the door of the crummy apartment house, climbing the dark stairs, stumbling over the kiddie car, inhaling the odor of cabbage and diapers. “He sure picked himself a place to live,” the Boss said.
“Yeah,” I agreed, “and lots of folks can’t figure out why.”
“I reckon I can,” the Boss said.
And as I wondered whether he could or not, we reached the door, and I knocked, entered, and confronted the level eyes of Adam Stanton.
For a half moment, while Sugar-Boy was easing in, and I was shutting the door, Adam and the Boss simply took each other in, without a word. Then I turned and said, “Governor Stark, this is Dr. Stanton.”
The Boss took a step forward and put out his right hand. Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought I noticed a shade of hesitation before Adam took it. And the Boss must have noticed it, too, for when Adam did put out his hand, the Boss, in the middle of the shake, before any other word had been spoken, grinned suddenly, and said, “See, boy, it’s not as bad as you thought, it won’t kill you.”
Then, by God, Adam grinned, too.
Then I said, “And this is Mr. O’Shean,” and Sugar-Boy lurched forward and put out one of his stubby arms with a hand hanging on the end of it like a stuffed glove, and twisted his face and began, “I’m pl-pl-pl-pl–”
“I’m glad to know you,” Adam said. Then I saw his glance pick up the bulge under Sugar-Boy’s left armpit. He turned to the Boss. “So this is one of your gunmen I’ve heard about?” he said, definitely not grinning now.
“Hell,” the Boss said, “Sugar-Boy just carries that for fun. Sugar-Boy is just a pal. Ain’t anybody can drive a car like Sugar-Boy.”
Sugar-Boy was looking at him like a dog you’ve just scratched on the head.
Adam stood there, and didn’t reply. For a second I thought the deal was about to blow up. The Adam said, very formally, “Won’t you gentlemen have seats?”
We did.
Sugar-Boy sneaked one of his lumps of sugar out of the side pocket of his coat, put it into his mouth, and began to suck it, with his fey Irish cheeks drawn in and his eyes blurred with bliss.
Adam waited, sitting straight up in his chair.
The Boss, leaning back in one of the overstuffed wrecks, didn’t seem to be in ant hurry. But he finally said, “Well, Doc, what do you think of it?”
“Of what?” Adam demanded.
“Of my hospital?”
“I think it will do the people of the state some good,” he said. Then added, “And get you some votes.”
“You can forget about the vote side of it,” the Boss said. “There are lots of ways to get votes, son.”
“So I understand,” Adam said. Then he handed the Boss another big chunk of silence to admire.
The Boss admired it awhile, then said, “Yeah, it’ll do some good. But not too much unless you take over.”
“I won’t stand any interference,” Adam said, and bit the sentence off.
“Don’t worry,” the Boss laughed. “I might fire you, boy, but I wouldn’t interfere.”
“If that is a threat,” Adam said, and the pale-blue blaze flickered up in his eyes, “you have wasted your time by coming here. You know my opinions of this administration. They have been no secret. And they will be no secret in the future. You understand that?”
“Doc,” the Boss said, “Doc, you just don’t understand politics. I’ll be frank with you. I could run this state and ten more like it with you howling on every street corner like a hound with a sore tail. No offense. But you just don’t understand.”
“I understand some things,” Adam said grimly, and the jaw set.
“And some you don’t, just like I don’t, but one thing I understand and you don’t is what makes the mare go. I can make the mare go. And one more thing, now we are taking down our hair–” The Boss suddenly stopped, cocked his head, leered at Adam, then demanded, “Or are we?”
“You said there was one more thing,” Adam replied, ignoring the question, sitting straight in his chair.
“Yeah, one more thing. But look here, Doc–you know Hugh Miller?”
“Yes,” Adam said, “yes, I know him.”
“Well, he was in with me–yeah, Attorney General–and he resigned. And you know why?” But he went on without waiting for the answer. “He resigned because he wanted to keep his little hands clean. He wanted the bricks but he just didn’t know somebody has to paddle in the mud to make ‘em. He was like somebody that just loves beefsteak but just can’t bear to go to a slaughter pen because there are some bad, rough men down there who aren’t animal lovers and who ought to be reported to the S. P. C. A. Well, he resigned.”
I watched Adam’s face. It was white and stony, as though carved out of some slick stone. He was like a man braced to hear what the jury foreman was going to say. Or what the doctor was going to say. Adam must have seen a lot of faces like that in his time. He must have had to look into them and tell them what he had to tell.
“Yeah,” the Boss said, “he resigned. He was one of those guys wants everything and wants everything two ways at once. You know the kind, Doc?”
He flicked a look over at Adam, like a man flicking a fly over by the willows in the trout stream. But there wasn’t any strike.
“Yeah, old Hugh–he never learned that you can’t have everything. That you can have mighty little. And you never have anything you don’t make. Just because he inherited a little money and the name Miller he thought you could have everything. Yeah, and he wanted the one last damned thing you can’t inherit. And you know what it is?” He stared at Adam’s face.
“What?” Adam said, after a long pause.
“Goodness. Yeah, just plain, simple goodness. Well you can’t inherit that from anybody. You got to make it, Doc. If you want it. And you got to make it out of badness. Badness. And you know why, Doc?” He raised his bulk up in the broken-down wreck of an overstuffed chair he was in, and leaned forward, his hands on his knees, his elbows cocked out, his head outthrust and the hair coming down to his eyes, and stared into Adam’s face. “Out of badness,” he repeated. “And you know why? Because there isn’t anything else to make it out of.” Then, sinking back into the wreck, he asked, softly, “Did you know that, Doc?”
Adam didn’t say a word.
Then the Boss asked, softer still, almost whispering, “Did you know that, Doc?”
Adam wet his lips and said, “There is one question I should like to ask yo
u. It is this. If, as you say, there is only the bad to start with, and the good must be made from the bad, then how do you ever know what the good is? How do you ever recognize the good? Assuming you have made it from the bad. Answer me that.”
“Easy, Doc, easy,” the Boss said.
“Well, answer it.”
“You just make it up as you go along.”
“Make up what?”
“The good,” the Boss said, “What the hell else are we talking about. Good with a capital G.”
“So you make it up as you go along?” Adam repeated gently.
“What the hell else you think folks been doing for a million years, Doc? When your great-great-grandpappy climbed down out of the tree, he didn’t have any more notion of good or bad, or right and wrong, than the hoot owl that stayed up in the tree. Well, he climbed down and he began to make Good as he went along. He made up what he needed to do business, Doc. And what he made up and got everybody to mirate on as good and right was always just a couple of jumps behind what he needed to do business on. That’s why thing change, Doc. Because what folks claim is right is always just a couple of jumps short of what they need to do business. Now an individual, one fellow, he will stop doing business because he’s got a notion of what is right, and he is a hero. But folks in general, which is society, Doc, is never going to stop doing business. Society is just going to cook up a new notion of what is right. Society is sure not ever going to commit suicide. At least, not that way and of a purpose. And that is a fact. Now ain’t it?”
“Is it?” Adam said.
“You’re damned right it is, Doc. And right is a lid you put on something and some of the things under the lid look just like some of the things not under the lid, and there never was any notion of what was right if you put it down on folks in general that a lot of them didn’t start squalling because they just couldn’t do any human business under that kind of right. Hell, look at when folks couldn’t get a divorce. Look at all the good women got beat and the good men got nagged and couldn’t do any human damned thing about it. Then, all of a sudden, a divorce got to be right. What next, you don’t know. Nor me. But I do know this.” He stopped, leaned forward again, the elbows again cocked out.