Corky reached for his wallet. He had gone to the bank just before leaving town, and he took out some bills. Now he glanced at the driver again. Corky hesitated. “What’ll make you happy?” he said finally.
“Let your conscience be your guide. I might get lost on the way back, have car trouble, all kinds of things, but don’t let that enter into your thinking.”
“Here’s a hundred,” Corky said, handing over one bill.
The driver took it, said a very quiet, “Thanks.”
“You don’t understand,” Corky told him. “That’s just for you. This”—and he brought out the second hundred—“this should cover the meter with enough for maybe a cup of coffee thrown in.”
“Hey you’re my man,” the driver said.
“You’re welcome,” Corky said; “I like the way you handle a car. Plus one more thing.”
“What’s’at?”
“You didn’t bring me here.”
The driver looked up at him.
“Am I still your man?”
The driver nodded.
“Keep it that way.” Corky picked up his luggage, smiled. “Take it easy.”
“Any way I can get it,” the driver said, starting the car, waving, gunning off, gone.
Corky turned and headed back down the hill toward the main house where the woman he had spoken to before was waiting. She wore a blue sweater over gray slacks, blue sneakers. “You said near the water, didn’t you?”
“That should be the quietest, don’t you think?”
“They’re none of them exactly noisy just now.”
“Well the prettiest anyway.”
She nodded, started leading him down away from the main house through the woods toward the water. The sun was almost gone now, and the remains of it rebounded off the lake into their eyes. Corky walked quietly behind her, carrying his cases. “I’ll give you the best we got,” she said, as they approached the farthest cabin, set very close to the water, a good hundred yards from the main house.
“I have the money ready,” Corky said.
“Don’t you want to see it first?”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
She got out a key, shook her head. “What a weird thing, keeping everything locked up—not a whole lot to steal.”
Corky nodded.
She opened the door, stepped inside. He followed. “Nothing all that special. Living room here, bedroom in there”—she pointed. “Bedroom’s small but the bed’s good.” Now she pointed again. “And the fireplace works. You got a view of the lake out this way, you can look up into the woods across there.”
“It’s fine,” Corky said. “Let me pay you now.” He put down his bags.
“Bathroom in there—kitchenette behind the curtain there. That’s it.”
“Like I said,” Corky told her. “Fine.” He held out two fifties. “One for tonight and one in advance. If I stay tomorrow, we’ll talk finances then, okay?”
“Whatever.” She folded the money, rolled it again, held it tight in her hand. “If you need—” and she stopped.
“Go on.”
“I was gonna say ‘if you need anything, call’ but there’s nothing up at the main place. When I said we were closed, I wasn’t whistling Dixie.” She started toward the door. “Probably I should have said, ‘if you need anything, don’t call.’ ” She gave a little wave. “ ’Bye.”
Corky nodded.
The second she closed the door Fats was saying, “Open up, open up,” in a muffled tone from the larger suitcase.
“Shhhh—”
“—don’t you ‘shhh’ me, schmucko, just open the goddam lid or there’s gonna be major league trouble.”
Corky got Fats out, then went to the window away from the lake and watched as the girl walked up toward the main house.
“I hate the country already,” Fats said. “It’s quiet and full of leaves. All you hear when you walk around is crunch crunch crunch.”
Corky said nothing.
The sunlight hit the girl’s long dark blonde hair.
“I thought we were going to Grossinger’s. At least Grossinger’s got action. This dump here, maybe it’d do for a coroners’ convention, but otherwise, forget it.”
Corky still was silent, still watched.
“Hey, why the silent act, what’s up?”
Corky shook his head. “She never once remembered me.”
“Who? The broad? How can you blame her, she’s verging on the gorgeous and you are a pretty forgettable fella. No. Take that back—actually, your pointy head is quite distinctive, I wouldn’t think anybody could forget that. Must have been your acne clearing up that made her not know you.”
“You’re not funny! Not even a goddam little.”
“Sounds like I stepped on a corn—how come I’m not funny?”
Corky’s voice got soft. “ ’Cause that was Peggy Ann Snow.”
2
She walked into the house and locked the door, which she always did when she was alone around the place. Then she went to the tv, flicked it on, which she also always did whenever it got dark, whether she was alone around the place or not.
News.
She looked at it vacantly for a moment; the local news guy was as intelligent as ever but she had difficulty focusing her attention on what he was saying. Financial stuff. Cities going bust.
Maybe some music.
Off with the tv, on with the radio. She listened. Elton John? It was hard for her now to tell them from each other. She had a bunch of cousins who were like twelve, and they always hooted when she said it was all the same, every one of them, boom, boom, boom with the rhythm section, that’s all there was. No words anymore, why shouldn’t they sound the same. But then her folks had been like that, unable to distinguish Anka from Rydell from Fabian when she’d been a kid and they were old.
Only I’m not old.
Elvis!
Off went the radio and now, for the first time since she’d entered the house, she picked up the pace a little. She knelt quickly by the record shelf underneath the hi-fi, took out the first Presley she happened to hit. It was his “Golden Records” and Peg looked at his face on the front for a while, then turned the record over and studied the listings:
Hound Dog
Teddy Bear
Love Me Tender
Don’t Be Cruel
Those were songs. Peg turned on the machine, took out the record, reached for her special cloth and went over the disc carefully before she put it on the spindle. All her Elvis recordings were in perfect shape and that was not about to change. Now she pushed the start lever, waited …
‘Since my baby left me’—WHAP—
‘Found a new place to dwell’—WHAP—
’Down at the end of lonely street
At Heartbreak Hotel …’*
She knew exactly who she was and where she was when that first Presley hit home. Sneaking a cigarette in Viola Schenker’s car. Closing in on thirteen. Body already formed. She’d listened then and could not believe—there was no way she could hear what she was hearing. Never mind what the sentences said, what the singer was saying was “Let’s screw—you I’m talking to, don’t look away. Now!”
Not in the mood for Elvis either. She lifted the tone arm off, and in the ensuing silence, put the record back in the sleeve, then into the envelope, then back to the shelf.
Eat something?
Not hungry.
She got out her high school graduation yearbook. Turned to the full-page picture. It was the front of the sports section, and there she was, caught at the peak of her jump, arms out, legs spread, smiling. The caption said simply: “Peggy Snow scores one for our side.”
She looked at the picture awhile. Of course the cheerleader’s costume was ridiculous, but otherwise …
She carried the book to a mirror, lifted up the photo, put it beside her face. Studied them. She looked fine. Fine.
But her depression only deepened.
She walked to the kit
chen, opened some cat food, put it in Sherlock’s bowl. Then she opened the back door, knocked the dish against the knob, called his name. He was waiting and inside in no time. She put the dish down. Sherlock ate. He was a large, powerful and totally individualistic beast and he never allowed her to hold him except when he was done eating.
She picked Sherlock up then, walked to the window, stared down toward the lake and the one lit cabin.
“He didn’t remember me,” Peg said …
* “Heartbreak Hotel” © 1956 by Tree Publishing Co., Inc.
3
Corky scuffed his way along the shore of Lake Melody. In Chicago it might get dignified with the word “pond.” Not more than a mile around probably. But up here, anything you could get your body into was Lake something. This one wasn’t even all that pretty—the land surrounding, yes, lovely, but the water itself had a mud bottom and even on the nicest days, you always were on the lookout for snapping turtles. No one had even seen one around, but you just knew that if you were a snapper, Lake Melody was the kind of place you’d like to call home.
He glanced up toward the main house. The lights glowed out, a bright barrier against the surrounding darkness. Corky stopped and turned, taking in the whole place. A little light from his cabin; the others, nothing but shapes. Dead beasts.
When he was a kid, the Catskills had millions of these places: bungalow colonies. Mom and Pop operations. Often they made the cabins themselves or hired the local carpenter, usually drunk. And they survived by their summer rentals. All the people who couldn’t afford the big places would come, and book a cabin for the summer, and let the kids run while the mothers sat in chairs, rocking and gossiping till the weekends when the breadwinners arrived. You did your own cooking, cleaned for yourselves. What you rented was the roof mainly. Usually a game room in the main house where the Mom and Pop ruled.
Only now, at least from the way things looked on the drive up, it was hard times in the Catskills. Sure, Grossinger’s was probably minting money and The Concord was still trying to convince the masses that they’d stumbled into Vegas, but the smaller places, the colonies, good-bye and amen.
Sad.
Corky started walking faster, heading for his cabin. When he got there, he unlocked the door, went inside, started to undress. He had his pants half off when he glanced into the bathroom, saw there wasn’t any soap or towels. He slipped his trousers back on, rebuttoned his shirt, reached for his blazer. After that he grabbed Fats and took off. There wasn’t much moon, but enough to make out a kind of worn route that led toward the main house. Corky hurried, stumbling once or twice over tree roots, but never enough to make him come close to falling. There was no sound coming from the main house and his knock echoed. “I’m sorry,” Corky said loudly.
From above, on the second floor. “What do you want?”
“No soap.”
“I told you you wouldn’t like it; you leaving already?”
Corky started laughing. “I didn’t mean ‘no soap’ that way—I meant there wasn’t any. Or towels either.”
“We never really supplied that stuff.”
“Oh.”
“Hold on a sec’. I’ll get you something.”
He waited on the steps listening to her footsteps inside. She was coming down the stairs. Then, the door was opening. “C’mon in—no sense waiting outside—”
“Thank you,” Corky began, and as he took a few steps inside, he was prepared to say a good deal more, to apologize for being a bother, to—
“—omigod, you brought Fats along,” Peg cried with excitement.
Corky just stood there.
“And you thought Peg didn’t remember,” Fats said.
She looked at Corky. “You knew who I was too?”
Corky made a nod.
“Why didn’t you two at least grunt at each other or something?” Fats wanted to know.
“I don’t—I’m not really sure,” Corky stammered—“See, she was upstairs and I couldn’t really tell at first—there was the screen and the sun reflected off the glass—by the time I thought I knew, I figured she didn’t know who I was or she would have said something.”
“What’s your story?” Fats asked.
“It’s been so long,” Peg said; “and I watch every chance I get—I see a lot of television so I don’t think I’ve missed you once—I didn’t want to embarrass anybody in case …”
Fats shook his head. “We’re all so goddam sensitive I could whoopse.”
Peg started laughing. “He’s just as cute as on the tube.”
“Cute!” Fats said loudly. “Virile, yes; sexy, absolutely. ‘Cute’ is for Disney, if you don’t mind.”
“I’m really excited,” Peg said. “C’mon, c’mon,” and she closed the door. Then she looked at Corky for a moment. Neither of them said anything.
“The little old matchmaker—me,” Fats cut through.
Laughter.
Then: “Oh, can I hold him? Would that be all right?”
Corky hesitated.
“The answer is ‘lemme at her,’ ” Fats said.
“Be kind of careful,” Corky said.
“Promise.” Peggy took Fats with both hands. “He’s heavy,” she said, surprised.
“Husky, you thoughtless creature,” Fats said.
Peg looked at Corky. “His lips didn’t move.”
“That’s because you didn’t work my levers, baby.”
“What levers?” Peg asked.
Corky took Fats, laid him face down on a tabletop. “All a ventriloquist’s doll really is, is a large wooden head, heavy like you said, with a wooden pipe leading down where the neck should be. There are levers on the pipe and when you work them, the dummy seems to come to life. At least, that’s the theory.” He pointed to Fats’ overalls, slit up the back. “All dolls are slit like that—so you can get your hand in to the levers. The rest of the body is mainly strong canvas bindings and stuffing.” He lifted Fats back into her arms. “Now try. Sit in a chair; might be better. Fats has extra levers, ’cause I’ve fixed him so he can smoke and cry, but don’t bother with those.”
Peg sat, took Fats, reached into the slit.
Fats began groaning sexually.
“Don’t mind him,” Corky said.
“Let me look at you,” Fats said.
“How do I do that?” Peg asked.
“That same pipe where the levers are—just turn it. See?”
Peg turned Fats’ head till their eyes met. “This is kind of fun.”
“Come wiz mee to zee Kazz-bah,” Fats said.
“I still can’t get his lips going.”
“Up a little,” Corky said.
She touched the right lever and Fats’ lips went up and down.
“You don’t know what life’s like till you’ve had your levers fondled by a beautiful girl. Hit the lever just up from your hand,” Fats told her.
She followed his instructions. His right eye winked at her.
Peg hugged Fats, both arms around him tight. Then she carefully took him, handed him back to Corky. “I really did enjoy that,” she said.
Corky took Fats, said, “Anytime.”
“Whisper,” Fats said. Corky brought him up close to his ear. “She’s very nice.”
“Thank you, Fats,” Peg said. She stood. “How do you do that? It’s really like he’s talking.”
“Illusion mostly. I just turn my head and look at him when he shoots off his mouth, he does the same for me. You follow our eyes. Just illusion and practice is all.”
“But your lips don’t move.”
“Neither do yours. Seriously. Open your mouth about a quarter inch and keep your lips still and try saying ‘Hi Corky.’ ”
“Hi Corky.”
“See how easy? Now try ‘Bye Corky.’ ”
“ ‘Bye Corky,’ ” Peg said. Then: “My lips moved that time.”
“I know. On the ‘B.’ ‘B’ and ‘P’ and ‘M’ and ‘W’—they are the toughies. Give six months or
so to each letter and you’ll be able to say ‘beep’ without moving your lips, big deal.”
“ ‘Wham’ is also very hard,” Fats said. “I went crazy till he got those right. ‘Wham-beep-wham-beep.’ If you’re an intellectual sex pervert like me, that can get kind of monotonous. ‘Pervert’ is also hard. Usually Corky chickens out and says ‘deviate.’ ”
“You should record all this,” Peg told him, starting upstairs. “I really mean it.”
“That’s an interesting idea, thanks.”
“Make a fortune, selling it to insomniacs,” Fats said. He starting intoning like a speech teacher. “The pebbles were moping because—”
“—enough outta you,” Corky said.
Peg gestured for them to follow. “Come get what you need.” They were all moving up when the scream came. Corky stopped. Peg continued on.
Again, from outside, the high pitched scream.
Peg looked down, smiled. “That’s just my big old cat,” she said. “Probably found a dead bird.”
“Probably made a dead bird,” Fats said.
“Sherlock isn’t any too friendly. I call him Sherlock because he’s always nosing into things. Loves poking around.” She led them along the second floor corridor, opened the large closet at the end. “Help yourself.”
Corky handed her Fats, moved into the large closet. Most of its contents were in closed cardboard boxes. Corky pointed to them. “Shutting up for the winter?”
“Permanent. Trying to get it ready to sell. Not that there’s any mad rush on to buy the place. But the hope is that someone’ll think the property’s valuable, what with the lake and all.”
“Folks still around?”
“Till a couple of seasons ago—now they’ve got kind of a one bedroom condo near Lauderdale in Florida—I tried keeping the place going, gave it my best shot, but the winters are too hard to cut anymore.”
Corky took down some towels, several cakes of soap, an extra blanket. “You used to have students during the winter.”
“Sure. Married ones from that little college over the way. They closed it up this fall. That’s closed, we’re closed, most places like us are closed. Pretty soon I think they’ll paint a big sign in the sky: ‘Hey, everybody, the Catskills are closed.’ ”