There wasn’t any use to hang round longer. I got up, rescued my old Panama off the carved walnut table, where the Bible and stereoscope were, walked across to Lucy, put out my hand to her, and said, “It’ll be all right.”
She looked at my hand as though she didn’t know why it was there. Then she looked at me. “It’s just a baby,” she almost whispered. “It’s just a little baby. It’s a little baby in the dark. It’s not even born yet, and it doesn’t know about what’s happened. About money and politics and somebody wanting to be a senator. It doesn’t know about anything–about how it came to be–about what that girl did–or why–or why the father–why he–” She stopped, and the large brown eyes kept looking at me with appeal and what might have been accusation. Then she said, “Oh, Jack, it’s a little baby, and nothing’s its fault.”
I almost burst out that it wasn’t my fault, either, but I didn’t.
Then she added, “It may be my grandbaby. It may be my boy’s baby.”
Then, after a moment, “I would love it.”
Her hands, which had been clenched into fists and pressed together at the level of her breast, opened slowly at the words, and reached out, supine and slightly cupped, but with the wrists still against her own body as though expectation were humble or hopeless.
She noticed me looking down at the hands, then quickly let them drop.
“Good-bye,” I said, and moved toward the door.
“Thank you, Jack,” she said, but didn’t follow me. Which suited me down to the ground, for I was really on my way out.
I walked out into the dazzling world and down the prideful patch of concrete and got into my car and headed back to town, where, no doubt, I belonged.
The Boss did think up something.
First, he thought that it might be a good idea to get in touch with Marvin Frey, directly and not through MacMurfee, to feel out the situation there. But MacMurfee was too smart for that. He didn’t trust Frey or the Boss, either, and Marvin had been whisked off, nobody knew where exactly. But, as it developed later, Marvin and Sibyl had been carried off into Arkansas, which was probably the last place they wanted to be, on a farm up in Arkansas, where the only horses were mules and the brightest light came from a patented gasoline pressure lamp on the parlor table and there weren’t any fast cars and people went to bed to sleep at eight-thirty and got up at dawn. Of course, they had some company along, and could play three-handed poker and rummy, for MacMurfee had sent along one of his boys, who, I was to learn, kept the car keys in his pants pocket by day and under his pillow by night, and practically stood outside the door of the backhouse, leaning on the trellis of honeysuckle, with a derby on the side of his head, when one of them went there, just to be sure there weren’t any shenanigans like cutting across the back lot in the direction of the railroad ten miles off. He was also one who thumbed through the mail first, for Marvin and Sibyl weren’t supposed to be getting any mail. Nobody was supposed to know where they were. And we didn’t find out. Not until a long time after.
Second, the Boss thought about Judge Irwin. If MacMurfee would listen to sense at al, he would listen to sense from Judge Irwin. He owed Irwin a lot, and there weren’t so many legs left to MacMurfee’s stool he could afford to loose one. So, the Boss thought, there was Judge Irwin.
He called me in and said, “I told you to dig on Irwin. What did you get?”
“I got something,” I said.
“What?”
“Boss,” I said, “I’m going to give Irwin a break. If he can prove to me it isn’t true, I won’t spill it.”
“God damn it,” he began, “I told you–”
“I’m giving Irwin a break,” I said. “I promised two people I would do it.”
“Who?”
“Well, I promised myself, for one. The other doesn’t matter.”
“You promised yourself, huh?” He looked hard at me.
“Yeah, I did.”
“O. K.,” he said. “Do it your way. If it’ll stick, you know what I want.” He surveyed me glumly, then added, “And it better stick.”
“Boss,” I said, “I’m afraid it will.”
“Afraid?” he said “Yeah.”
“Who you working for? Him or me?”
“Well, I’m not framing Judge Irwin.”
He kept on studying me. “Boy,” he said then, “I’m not asking you to frame him. I never asked you to frame anybody. Did I?”
“No.”
“I never did ask you to frame anybody. And you know why?”
“No.”
“Because it ain’t ever necessary. You don’t ever have to frame anybody, because the truth is always sufficient.”
“You sure take a high view of human nature,” I said.
“Boy,” he said, “I went to a Presbyterian Sunday school back in the days when they still had some theology, and that much of it stuck. And–” he grinned suddenly–”I have found it very valuable.”
So our conversation ended, and I got into my car and headed for Burden’s Landing.
The next morning, as soon as I had my breakfast, which I ate alone, for the Young Executive had left for town and my mother wouldn’t get up till pushing noon, I strolled down the beach. It was a fine morning, but not as hot as usual. The beach was deserted at that hour, except for some kids playing in the bright shallows a quarter of a mile off, thin-legged little kids like sandpipers. I wandered on down past them, and as I passed they paused an instant in their leaping and splashing and gyration to favor me with an indifferent stare from their brown, water-slick faces. But it was only for an instant, for I obviously belonged to that dull and purblind race which wears shoes and trousers. You do not even walk on the sand and get sand in your shoes if you can avoid it. But at least I was walking on the sand and getting it liberally into my shoes. I wasn’t too old for that. I reflected on that with satisfaction, and moved on toward the cluster of pines and the big oak and the mimosas and myrtles, just back from the beach, where the tennis courts were. There were some benches there in the shade, and I had the unread morning paper in my hand. After I had read the paper, I would begin to think about what would happen later on the day. But I wasn’t even thinking about it yet.
I found the bench near the vacant court and lighted my cigarette and began to read. I read the front page, every word, with the mechanical devotion of a padre working over the missal, and didn’t even think of all the news which I knew and which wasn’t on the front page. I was well into the third page, when I heard voices and looked up to see the pair of players, a boy and girl, approaching on the other side of the courts. After an idle glance at me, they took possession of the farther court, and began to beat the little white ball back and forth, just idly to loosen up their muscles.
You could tell by the first exchange that they knew what they were about. And you could tell that their muscles didn’t need much loosening up. He was of medium height, perhaps a shade under, with a deep chest and big arms and nothing extra around the waist. His red hair had a crew cut, crinkly red hair showed on his chest above the underwear vest he was wearing instead of a shirt, and his skink was an even baby-pink except for the big blotches of brown freckles on his face and shoulders. In the middle of the freckles his face was all white-toothed grin and the glint of blue eyes. She was a brown lively girl, short brown hair that snapped when she pirouetted, and brown arms and shoulders above the white halter tied over her breasts, and brown legs flashing above white shoes and socks, and a little brown flat tummy between the white shorts and the white halter. They were both pretty young.
They began the game right quick, and I watched them over my newspaper. Maybe the red-headed felloe wasn’t trying his hardest, but she was handing them back to him well enough and could make him move around the court. She was even taking a game from him now and then. She was a pretty thing to watch, so light and springy and serious-faced and flashy-legged. But not as pretty as Anne Stanton had been, I decided. I even meditated on the superior beauty of a
white skirt which could flow and whip with the player’s motion as compared to shorts. But shorts were good. They were good on the lively brown girl. I had to admit that.
And I had to admit, as I watched, that I had a knot in my stomach. Because I wasn’t out there on the court. With Anne Stanton. It was a terrific and fundamental injustice that I wasn’t out there. What was that red-faced, crop-headed fellow doing there? What was the girl doing there? I suddenly didn’t like them. I felt like going there and stopping the game and saying, “You think you’ll be here playing tennis forever, don’t you. Well, you wont.”
“Why, no,” the girl would say, “not forever.”
“Hell, no,” the fellow would say, “we’re going swimming this afternoon, then tonight we’re–”
“You don’t get it,” I would say. “Sure, I know you’re going swimming, and you’re going out somewhere tonight and you’ll stop the car on the way home. But you think you’ll be here this way forever.”
“Hell, no,” he would say, “I’m going back to college next week.”
“I’m going off to school,” she would shay, “but Thanksgiving I’ll see Al, won’t I, Al–and you’ll take me to the big game–won’t you, Al?”
They wouldn’t get it worth a damn. There was no use in giving them the benefit of my wisdom. Not even of the great big piece of wisdom which I had learned on my trip to California. They didn’t know the wisdom of the Great twitch, but they would have to find it out for themselves, for there was no use to tell them. They might listen politely, but they wouldn’t believe a word of it. And watching the brown girl dance and flash over there against the myrtles and the brilliant sea, I wasn’t so sure for the moment that I believed it myself.
But I did believe it, of course, for I had had my trip to California.
I didn’t see out the first set. The score was five to two when I left, but it seemed that she might make it five-three, for the crop-headed fellow was feeding them to her, not too obviously, and grinning out of the freckles when she’d whang them back.
I went to the house, changed, and took a swim. I idled out a long way, and floated around in the bay, which is a corner of the Gulf of Mexico, which is a corner of the great, salt, unplumbed waters of the world, and got back in time for lunch.
My mother had lunch with me. She kept giving me a chance to tell her why I had come down, but I just skirted round the subject till we got to the desert. Then I asked her if Judge Irwin was at the Landing. I hadn’t asked that yet. I could have found out the night before. But I hadn’t asked. I had postponed finding out.
He was at the Landing, all right.
My mother and I went out on the side gallery and had coffee and cigarettes. After a while I went upstairs to lie down for a spell and digest. I lay up there in my old room for an hour or so. Then I figured I had better get on with my work. I eased downstairs and started out the front door.
But my mother was in the living room and called to me. It was a strange place for her to be at that time of the day, but there she was. She had waited to waylay me, I decided. I stepped inside and leaned against the wall, waiting for her to speak.
“You’re going down to the Judge’s” she asked.
I said, yes, I was.
She was holding up her right hand, the back to her, the fingers spread, to inspect the polish on her red nails. Then with her brow ruffled as though the inspection were not satisfactory, she asked, “Oh, politics, I suppose?”
“Sort of,” I said.
“Why don’t you go later on?” she asked. “He hates to be bothered this time of day.”
“There isn’t any time, day or night, when he wouldn’t hate to hear what I’m going to tell him.”
She looked sharply at me, her hand with the spread fingers forgotten in the air.
Then she said, “He is not very well. Why do you have to bother him? He isn’t at all well now.”
“I can’t help that,” I said, feeling the stubbornness grow inside me.
“He’s not well.”
“I cant’ help it.”
“You at least might wait till alter.”
“No, I’m not waiting,” I said. I felt that I couldn’t wait. I had to go on and get it done. The obstacle, the resistance, had confirmed me in that. I had to know. Quick.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said, and lowered the hand which she had held up, forgotten, in the air the time we had been talking.
“I can’t help it.”
“I wish you wouldn’t get mixed up in–in things,” she complained “I’m not the one mixed up in this something.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll know when I’ve put it up to Irwin,” I told her, and went out of the room, and the house, and walked up the Row toward the Irwin place. At least, I would walk, hot as it was, and that would give the old bugger a little extra time before I popped the question to him. He deserved the extra few minutes, I reckoned.
The old bugger was upstairs lying down when I got there.
That was what the black boy in the white coat said. “The Jedge, he upstairs layen on the baid, he resten,” he said, and seemed to think that that settled something.
“All right,” I said, “I’ll wait till he comes down.” An without invitation I drew open the screen door, and entered into the shadowy gracious coolness of the hall, like the perfect depth of time, where the mirrors and the great hurricane glasses glittered like ice, and my image was caught as noiselessly as velvet or recollection in all the reflecting surfaces.
“The Jedge, he–” the black boy began again to protest.
I walked right past him saying. “I’ll sit in the library. Till he comes down.”
So I walked past the eyes of which the whites were like peeled hard-boiled eggs and past the sad big mouth which didn’t know what to say now and just hung open to show the pink, and walked on back to the library, and entered into the deep, shuttered shadow which depended from the high ceiling and the walls of books laid close like stone and which lay on the deep-red Turkey carpet like a great dog asleep and scarcely breathing. I sat down in one of the big leather chairs, dropped by the chair the big manila envelope I had brought, and lay back. I got the notion that all the books were staring meaninglessly down at me like sculptured stone closed eyes, in a gallery. I noticed, as before, that all the old calf-bound law books there gave the room the faint odor of cheese.
After a while, there was some movement upstairs, then the tinkle of a bell in the back of the house. I guessed that the Judge had rung for the boy. A moment later I heard the boy’s soft feet padding in the hall, and guessed that he was headed upstairs.
In about ten minutes the Judge came down. His firm tread came toward the library door. He paused an instant at the threshold, a tall head above a black bowtie and white coat, as though to adjust his eyes to the shadow, then moved toward me with his hand out. “Hello, Jack,” he was saying, in the voice I had always known, “damned glad you came by. I didn’t know you were at the Landing. Just get in?”
“Last night,” I said briefly, and rose to take the hand.
He gave me a firm grasp, then waved me back into the chair. “Damned glad you came by,” he repeated, and smiled out of the high, tired, rust-colored old hawk’s head up there in the shadow. “How long you been in the house? Why didn’t you make that rascal rout me out instead of letting me sleep all afternoon? It’s a long time since I’ve seen you, Jack.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “it is.”
It had been a long time. The last time had been in the middle of the night. With the Boss. And in the silence after my remark I knew that he was remembering, too. He was remembering, but after he had said it. Then I knew that he had put the memory away. He was denying the memory. “Well, it is a long time,” he said as he settled himself, as though he had remembered nothing, “but don’t let it be as long next time. Aren’t you ever coming to see the old fellow? We old ones like a little attention.”
He smiled, and there wasn?
??t anything I could say into the face of that smile.
“Damn it,” he said, popping out of his chair without any audible creaking of joints, “look at me forgetting hospitality. I bet you are dry as Andy Jackson’s powder. Little early in the day perhaps for the real thing, but a touch of gin and tonic never hurt anybody. Not you and me, anyway. We’re indestructible, aren’t we, you and me?”
He was halfway across to the bellpull before I managed to say anything.
“No, thanks,” I said.
He looked down at me, the faintest shade of disappointment on his face. Then the smile came back, a good, honest, dog-toothed, manly smile, and he said, “Aw, come on, and have a little one. This is a celebration. I want to celebrate your coming to se me!”
He got in another step toward the bellpull before I said, “No, thanks.”
For a moment he stood there looking down at me again, with his arm lifted for the pull. Then he let his arm drop and turned again toward his own chair, with the slightest slackening visible–or I imagined it–in his frame. “Well,” he said offering something which wasn’t quite the smile, “I’m not going to drink by myself. I’ll get my stimulation out of your conversation. What’s on your mind?
“Nothing much,” I said.
I looked at him over there in the shadow and saw that something was keeping the old shoulders straight and the old head up. I wondered what it was. I wondered if what I had dug up were true. I looked across at him, and didn’t want it to be true. With all my heart, I discovered, I didn’t want it to be true. And I had the sudden thought that I might have his drink of gin and tonic, and talk with him and never tell him, and go back to town and tell the Boss that I was convinced it was not true. The Boss would have to take that. He would pitch and roar, but he would know it was my show. Besides by that time I would have destroyed the stuff from Miss Littlepaugh. I could do that.
But I had to know. Even as the thought of going away without knowing came through my head, I knew that I had to know the truth. For the truth is a terrible thing. You dabble your foot in it and it is nothing. But you walk a little farther and you feel it pull you like an undertow or a whirlpool. First there is the slow pull so steady and gradual you scarcely notice it, then the acceleration, then the dizzy whirl and plunge to blackness. For there is a blackness of truth, too. They say it is a terrible thing to fall into the Grace of God. I am prepared to believe that.