“Hello, Arthur. Me again—bothering you,” his mother said.
“No, Mom. You’re not bothering me. Frank’s out tonight, which is nice. How’re things with you?”
“Oh-h—the same. Richard’s out this evening and so’s Robbie—again. Not enough poker last night, it seems.”
“Dad’s with a client?” Arthur had a vision of his father calling on Irene Langley, bringing a small bouquet, maybe a religious magazine, too.
“Yes. Two clients, he said.—I don’t suppose you’d like to come for Sunday dinner tomorrow.”
“Are you going to church?” Arthur thought he might visit his mother while his father and Robbie were at church.
“Not sure. Once in a while I duck out, you know, because I really do have work to do for the Home. Not sure about tomorrow. Anyway, we’re home by twelve-thirty, as you know.”
Arthur certainly did not want to come for Sunday dinner with his father staring into space and Robbie hostile. “Well, Mom, frankly—what fun is it?”
His mother’s silence was painful to him.
“I could invite you out for lunch Sunday, Mom.”
“Oh, not now with your exams coming up.”
“Sure, Mom! Please. Of course I can spare a couple of hours!”
But that didn’t work out. His mother was in the habit of preparing Sunday dinner, after church, Arthur didn’t have to be reminded of that, and it was like an ironbound duty.
“Next Friday’s my last exam, Mom . . . Yes, two on Tuesday. After Friday life’ll be better.”
Arthur drifted to the hot plate on the fridge to boil water for coffee. He felt uneasy, because his mother was uneasy and unhappy. His grandmother ought to visit again soon, because her visits always picked his mother up. His grandma could smile at Robbie and his father, though maybe behind their backs. Anyway, Joan didn’t let them get her down. The next time he wrote his grandma, he would ask how soon she could come for a visit. And why not write her tonight?
The words sped off his typewriter, and it was the happiest break of the day.
. . . Mom seems depressed, don’t know from what. Maybe she’s tired. But I know a visit from you would cheer her up and me too!
I wonder how many are in your school now? 80?
Exam time just now. I am anxious, but some people say anxiety is healthy. I think I’ll pass everything, even French.
Love from your diligent (just now)
grandson Arthur
Arthur felt better, though he hadn’t mentioned something that he might have mentioned to his grandmother: that he didn’t know what he was going to do with his summer or even where he would be living. He might visit his grandmother, because she had a spare room in her apartment. He might be able to find a summer job in Kansas City, or he might work for his grandmother, doing odd jobs for which she wouldn’t have to pay him, though she probably would. At any rate, he didn’t want to hang around a ghostly campus all summer, knowing that he would have to look at the same scene next September.
26
Arthur slept late on Sunday morning. Frank’s bed was empty and unmade. He hoped Frank stayed away all day.
Gus Warylsky phoned just before noon. Would Arthur like to come over at 12:30 for lunch? Then go swimming with him and Veronica in the Grove Park pool? “Do ya good! I’m taking the whole day off.” It was Gus’s birthday, Arthur remembered. Arthur was tempted, but he had the room alone now, and his swim shorts were at home. He declined, but promised to turn up that evening for dinner.
Then he felt guilty, as if he’d done the unfriendly thing to Gus.
By 4, Frank still hadn’t come in, and Arthur had done a good four hours’ work on three subjects. He took his biological terms book to his bed and lay browsing in it until he fell asleep.
The telephone awakened him, and he leapt up, staggering.
“Hello, Arthur,” said his mother. “What’re you doing?—Can you come over?” Her voice shook slightly.
“Well—yes, Mom. What’s the matter?” For an instant, he imagined that Irene had turned up, that his mother couldn’t handle her, or that his father wouldn’t throw her out of the house.
“I’m worried.”
“Irene’s not there, is she?”
“No! Oh, no. But can you come?” Her voice was soft, as if she didn’t want to be overheard.
“Now.”
“Yes, now.”
“Absolutely, Mom. See you.” He hung up, and put on his sneakers.
Maybe Richard and Robbie were having a quarrel, but about what, since they always agreed with each other? Or were they both arguing with his mother? More likely. Or had his father spilled more beans? Or was he overanxious, Arthur thought, as he turned the last curve into West Maple.
Just as Arthur pulled his handbrake in the driveway, he heard two loud noises—blam-blam—and his first thought was that a couple of his tires had blown. But the sounds had come from the house. Arthur ran to the front door, which he found unlocked. He heard his mother—and it was a short scream that he heard.
“Arthur!” His mother ran toward him from the living room.
Arthur caught the scent of gun smoke. His mother grabbed his hand.
Robbie stalked across the living room with a shotgun upright in his hand, and he clumped its stock once on the floor. Robbie looked blank-eyed and grim. “S-s—f—” Whatever he was trying to say, he couldn’t get it out.
Arthur went past Robbie toward the study, dragging his mother with him, because she still clung to his hand. He saw his father on his back on the floor of the study. His jaw and neck were red with blood, as was the top part of his striped shirt.
“Dad!” Arthur bent over him, but drew his hand back before he touched him. The front of his father’s throat looked torn away, and also part of his jaw. Blood flowed into the green carpet. Spatters of blood on his father’s desk caught Arthur’s eye as he straightened.
“We’ve got to call a doctor!” said his mother.
“He’s dead, Mom.” Arthur turned away from his father’s fixed grey eyes. “Useless, Mom.”
His mother snatched her hand away from Arthur’s. “They were arguing here for half an hour!”
Arthur looked at his brother, who was still standing in the middle of the living room floor, his gun butt down on the carpet, his right hand gripping the double barrel. Robbie was breathing through his mouth, looking at Arthur, but with no expression at all on his face.
“Is he dead, Arthur? Shall we call the doctor?”
“Oh, Mom, he is dead. But I’ll call a doctor, sure!” Arthur led her past Robbie to the sofa, but his mother would not sit.
There were three quick raps at the front door.
Robbie snuffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
Someone came in. It was Norma Keer.
“Hello, Arthur! What happened? I thought I heard a gun go off!” She glanced at Robbie and frowned. “Say, what’s going on?”
“Telephone!” said his mother to Arthur. “Get somebody!”
Norma came into the living room, and Robbie walked past her toward the hall, as if he didn’t see her.
“My father was shot,” Arthur said.
Norma’s bulging eyes got rounder. “You don’t mean it! Where is he? You mean in the yard?”
“No. In there, yes,” Arthur said, because Norma was walking toward the study which had a door onto the backyard. “Mom, let me go! I’ll phone.”
“Oh, my goodness!—Oh, dear heavens!” Norma cried.
Arthur went to the study door where Norma stood, as if drawn by some need to see his father’s corpse once more, to be sure he was dead. Now Arthur noticed that his father’s blue trousers were damp between the legs. “I know he’s dead. I should call for an ambulance, shouldn’t I, Norma?”
“Oh, yes, Arthur, yes.—Two shots! I heard them!—Shall I phone for you, Arthur?”
“No. Thanks.” Arthur went to the telephone, too shaken to look for the nearest hospital’s number, but EMERGENCY was printed on the first page of the directory, and Arthur dialed the number beside it. “Hello, I need an ambulance. Now.”
“Name and address, please?”
Arthur gave this information.
Still trembling, his mother stood listening to him. Then, when he put the telephone down, she turned to the study door, walked past Norma and knelt by his father’s body. She put her hand on his shirtfront, over his heart. Her other hand pressed his father’s left hand, which lay on the carpet. “He’s even cool, I think,” his mother said. “They say—Maybe a blanket—”
“Oh, Mom!”
“The gun went off by accident?” Norma asked Arthur in a whisper. “What happened?”
“Robbie shot him,” Arthur said.
Norma’s mouth fell open. “You don’t mean it!”
“Didn’t you hear them quarreling?” his mother asked. “They were quarreling half an hour. Yelling finally!”
“Didn’t hear them,” said Norma. “But then my TV was on.”
They were in the living room now, but near the study door. Arthur took a step farther from the study door and glanced toward the hall, anxious, even afraid of Robbie’s return. Robbie had a gun, and he was out of his mind. Was he reloading his gun back there in his room?
“Back in a minute, Mom.” Arthur went off quietly to the hall.
Robbie’s room door was closed. Arthur knocked, twice and slowly, acutely aware just now that Robbie detested him.
“Who’s there?”
“Arthur.”
Robbie didn’t answer.
Arthur did not want to retreat, to leave it to somebody else to open the door, so he turned the knob and took a step in.
Robbie was sitting on the edge of his bed with the gun lying across his skinny thighs, his right hand gripping the wooden stock.
“Did you load that thing again?”
“No.” Robbie looked at Arthur, frowning.
Arthur heard the distant whine of a siren. He lunged forward suddenly and seized the gun at the middle of its long barrels, and as Robbie held on to the stock, Arthur jerked it away from him. “You gone nuts?”
“Dad deserved it!” Robbie replied, looking straight at Arthur with his pale, metal-like eyes.
“Oh?” Arthur suddenly understood or thought he did. “Y-you talking about Irene?”
“Yep.”
Arthur was holding the gun in a position to fend off Robbie with it in case he jumped up and tried to take it from him. He went out with the gun and closed the door.
Through the kitchen window, Arthur saw an ambulance pulling up to the edge of the lawn, a long white car with a blue light on top. Arthur set the gun in a corner in the hall, left of the row of hooks that held jackets. “I’ll get it, Mom,” he said, and opened the front door.
“This right? Alderman?” said a man in white trousers and white short-sleeved shirt.
Arthur nodded, stepping aside.
Another young man, also in white, came briskly up the front walk, carrying a doctor’s bag.
Arthur made a gesture to indicate the direction of the study; the first intern went in and stooped beside his father’s body and felt for a few seconds for a pulse in the wrist.
“How did this happen?” The intern was addressing Arthur and Norma who stood in the doorway. “Accident? Suicide?”
“He was shot,” Arthur said.
“Family thing?”
“Yes,” Arthur said.
“Got to get the police, so we can’t move him for the moment,” said the black-haired young intern, and went past Arthur and Norma into the living room. “No stretcher yet!” he shouted toward the front door. “Got to get the police. May I use your phone?”
“Sure,” said Arthur.
Norma said to Arthur, “Maybe you want me out of the way, but I’ll stay just a minute.” She beckoned Arthur toward the kitchen. “Where’s your scotch, Arthur? Your mother could use a little. It’ll calm her.”
Arthur opened the lower left cabinet door, where there was always a bottle of something. He found some Cutty Sark and poured some into two glasses, then a third, for himself. He took one glass to his mother, who was still standing in the living room, looking glassy-eyed and helpless in a way that wrung Arthur’s heart. She was listening to the intern, or at least looking at him; then the intern put the phone down.
“Really drink this, Mom,” Arthur said. “And sit down.”
“What’s Robbie doing?” she asked.
“Just sitting on his bed.” Arthur looked at his mother’s pale and stricken face. “I got his gun away. Don’t worry, Mom.”
His mother winced at the sharpness of the straight scotch. Arthur drew her toward the kitchen, because the interns were going back and forth in the living room, and another was on the telephone now.
“Sit down, Lois.” Norma pulled out a straight chair from the table. She had to press Lois’s shoulders to make her sit. “What on earth got into Robbie?” Norma asked in a whisper.
Lois shut her eyes tightly and did not answer.
“Where is he? In his room?” Norma looked at Arthur.
Arthur was glad Norma was with them. “In his room—just sitting.” Arthur looked at Robbie’s room door, which he could barely see, and had a sudden impulse to go in and beat Robbie to a pulp. But the cops would take care of that. Little Robbie was going to be whisked away, in just a few minutes.
The police had arrived. These were two men in short sleeves with guns on their hips. They spoke to the interns as if they knew them personally, before they crossed the living room to look into the study. A third policeman entered the house. They had left the front door wide open. One of the first two policemen came into the kitchen and pulled a notebook from a back pocket.
“Afternoon—ma’am,” he said, not knowing which woman to address.
“My mother,” Arthur said, indicating Lois.
“Family quarrel?” asked the policeman. “Who’s re—”
“My brother,” Arthur said. “He’s in his room. There.” Arthur pointed toward the hall.
The cop looked suddenly more alert. “Is he still armed?”
“No. Has he got another gun there, Mom?—Mom?”
“I don’t know,” said his mother.
“How old is he?” asked the cop.
“Fifteen.”
The policeman went to consult with his colleagues in the living room.
Arthur heard the clicks of a camera working in his father’s study. Now he saw a man in plain clothes rising to his feet after having measured something on the floor with a tape.
Then two policemen went into the hall. Arthur pointed out the door. The first policeman had drawn his gun; the second had his hand on his gun. The first policeman knocked with his free hand and at once tried the doorknob. The door was not locked. Arthur heard some of their words.
“. . . okay, do you want to come with us? . . . Yes, Louey, go ahead . . . What’s your name?”
“What’s this for?” Robbie murmured.
“. . . tell us your name?”
Click. Handcuffs, Arthur thought, and that was true, he saw, as the three came out of Robbie’s room, one cop in front of Robbie, the other behind him. Robbie’s wrists were locked together in front of him, and Robbie scowled. Then there was an awkward moment as the three of them had to back into the living room to let the interns pass into the front hall with his father’s body on a stretcher. One gasped with the weight or the heat, and they bumped the stretcher against the partition between hall and kitchen. The body was in a gray sack. The interns carried it
out into the sunlight and away.
The policeman with the notebook entered the kitchen and informed Arthur and his mother that Robert would be taken to juvenile detention center today, not a prison, because he was under sixteen.
“We’ll leave you the address and telephone number. Just now, I have to ask you a few questions.” He looked more hopefully at Arthur. “You were here when it happened?”
“No. I’d just got here—got to the driveway. Then I heard the shots.” Arthur saw, behind the policeman, another policeman bending toward the shotgun that leaned against the hall door.
“That’s right,” Norma said. “I live just next door. I heard the shots and I looked out my window. I saw Arthur just getting out of his car in the driveway.
The time? Arthur and Norma estimated twenty past 4. Witnesses? Lois confirmed that she had seen her son fire the gun.
“Tommy?” the policeman with Robbie interrupted. “Any idea how long you’ll be?”
“Oh, five minutes. Go ahead with him.”
The policeman with Robbie urged him toward the front door. Robbie squirmed, but looked hardly more annoyed than when their mother asked him to wash his hands before a meal.
Lois jumped up suddenly. “Robbie!” But she didn’t touch Robbie, as if the policeman’s presence somehow prevented her. “Robbie, I just can’t believe this has happened!”
“Well, it did.—My father told me the truth,” Robbie said. “He told me because I asked him.”
“You’ll be able to talk with him later, ma’am,” said the officer with Robbie.
Lois looked confused. “Doesn’t he need—”
Arthur took his mother’s hand and held on to it. “They’ll give him whatever he needs, Mom.” She had been going to pack a kit for him, Arthur supposed.
Then Robbie was out of the house, and the policeman in the kitchen sat down at the table where Robbie usually sat. The policeman asked what Robbie and his father had been quarreling about, but asked it in a way that sounded as if it didn’t matter too much. He got no answer from Arthur’s mother, at any rate, because she said she didn’t know.