“Hanging around?”
“Yeah. He brings groceries and stuff. He’s always hanging around, looking at her legs. I’ve seen the little sneak.
“I don’t blame him. Her legs are beautiful.”
I shouldn’t have said that. He bit his lower lip and stared at me, his hands opening and shutting. Then he pulled himself together and spoke with a great deal of dignity. “Jim, you’re my friend. But please remember that this is my house, and we’re discussing the woman I married.”
I apologized, slapped him on the shoulder. The gesture brought tears to his eyes. He dried them with a knuckle. I had never seen him so upset.
“This grocery kid,” I said. “I’m sure he means no harm. I wouldn’t worry about him just because he stares at Linda’s legs.”
“But what’s going on in that dirty little mind of his? That’s what I’d like to know! And how do I know what happens when I’m downtown, slaving my life away?”
I crossed to the bathroom and knocked. “Come out, Linda,” I said. “Let’s get this straightened out.”
She opened the door and stood there, impishly lovely, her lips pouted. Valenti walked past her to the medicine cabinet. She lowered her face and studied his cheek from under her brows.
Tilting his head, he poured iodine over the cuts. The brown disinfectant floated down his cheek and splashed his shirt front. He winced and murmured with pain. Then he turned to her.
“Help me!” he said. “Don’t just stand there acting cute.”
She found a wash towel, dipped it under cold water, and patted his face gently. She was the same height as Valenti. She was one of those women who could wear anything and look good in it, and she knew it. Her body had a way of exhibiting its easy acceptance of perfection.
“Poor darling,” she said.
He gritted his teeth, and you could see him make a strong effort to control his eyes, but the tears came anyway, big, pellucid tears that got mixed up with the iodine.
“And I pulled your hair,” he sniffed. “Your beautiful, wonderful, golden hair.”
That made Linda cry too, and I stood there sleepy and annoyed, but happy that Valenti had come out of it so sensibly. They were holding hands on the divan when I left. It was almost three o’clock. As I closed the door I could hear Valenti begging for forgiveness for being such a fool, and Linda was saying that perhaps, after all, there was some justification for his behavior.
A week later Leon telephoned to say somebody was in the lobby and wanted to come up, but he didn’t think she was any friend of mine. “She looks terrible,” he said.
“Send her up,” I said.
It was Linda. She stood in the doorway, her right eye puffed, her nose and cheek purpled. She limped painfully, and I helped her to the couch. Then I went into my kitchen and poured her a drink. She drank it up, with a lot of her tears.
“That bum!” she said. “That fiend!”
I tried to console her. She threw herself face down on the couch and shook with misery. After a while I got the story. That morning the milkman had stopped to collect. Valenti was still in bed at the time. Linda had stood in the kitchen, talking to the milkman. She liked the milkman. He was a nice fellow, she said. He had three little girls, and he was very proud of them. He told her all about them, and she was delighted. But she couldn’t let the poor man stand in the doorway all morning. And besides, he wanted to tell her his wife’s recipe for banana-upside-down cake. So she had asked him to sit down and have a cup of coffee And all the time, Valenti had been listening. With a leer, and a “Hah! So that’s how it is!” he had burst into the kitchen in his pajamas, thrown the milkman down the stairs, punched Linda half a dozen times, and then dressed and gone to work.
“I’m through,” she said. “I’m going to get a divorce.”
I thought that was a good idea, and I told her so. Then I remembered my old friend Alfredo Valenti, and school days together, and I remembered the lean days of ’32 and ’33, slim days for a writer, when Valenti had stuck by me both morally and financially, and when I thought of all those things, and the way he loved her, I knew I would be loyal to him even though I liked Linda very much.
“Let’s have another drink and talk it over,” I said.
“It’s no use,” she said. “I’m through.”
We had several drinks. We pushed the dispute back and forth, and we always came to the same equation: she thought Valenti was a bum, but she loved him. That was something. I had got that much out of her. As for going back to him, it was impossible. She should have followed her mother’s advice. Her mother had once known an Italian, too. The Italian her mother knew had carried a stiletto. She should have listened to her mother in the first place.
She was with me two hours. When I finally got her to agree to go back and try once more, I was pretty happy about it. I had been loyal to my good friend Valenti. I had saved his marriage. I had returned him to his love. To a measure, at least, I had repaid him for his faith and friendship. But one thing she demanded. Valenti had to get down on his hands and knees and say he was sorry.
“And there’s something else,” she said. “I want a new car. A Chevrolet roadster. The kind with the two-tone body.”
“All right,” I said. “You go home. I’ll see Valenti.”
I drove her home. We stopped for some beefsteak for her eye. He’s emotional, I said. But he loves you.
“The rat,” she said. “And he called my mother an old toad.”
“That’s nothing.”
“But she isn’t. She’s fat, but she’s nice.”
I let her out in front of their apartment house. Then I drove downtown to the Bureau of Power and Light. Valenti was assistant to the chief engineer. It was a good job, and I knew he would go far. I found him in the blueprint room, studying some plans. A thick bandage covered his right ear.
“How’d that happen?”
He smiled innocently.
“She did it. The water pitcher.”
“She didn’t tell me about that.”
“Did she tell you she chased me out of the place with a butcher knife?”
“She told me you knocked her down.”
“I barely pushed her—easy like.”
“What about the black eye?”
“That wasn’t me,” he said. “Maybe it was the milkman. Maybe Walters downstairs. Maybe the grocery clerk. Maybe my brother Mike—he’s hot-tempered. Maybe they all got there at once and there was a fight. She’s got so many of us, there’s bound to be a little friction now and then.”
“You’ve got to apologize,” I told him.
“To that little tramp? Never.”
“You blacked her eye.”
“She had it coming.”
But Valenti apologized. When he got home and saw the spread of purple under her nose, he fell on his knees and begged her to have her revenge. “Call the police. Send me to prison. Divorce me, Linda. I don’t deserve you.”
She didn’t argue the point. He kissed her purple eye and she kissed his bandaged ear. They stood in the middle of the room and kissed each other’s lips. Then Valenti raised his head and sniffed the air. I could smell it too—the fragrance of spaghetti sauce. He turned from her and walked into the kitchen. She stood smiling awkwardly with the good side of her face. We heard him in the kitchen, fussing with a spoon and a pan. He came back to the living room, his face inscrutable.
“How come spaghetti?”
“I thought you’d like it.”
“You cooked it for me?”
“Of course, darling.”
“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
She looked at me, frightened a little, and I looked at Valenti. His black eyes sparkled mischief.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“I mean, we had a fight this morning. You assaulted me with a pitcher and a butcher knife. You threw me out. I said I wasn’t coming back.”
Linda sighed. “But darling, Jim said he’d bring you back. I wanted to
surprise you”
“So you cooked enough spaghetti for seven people.”
“Is it too much? I didn’t know, darling.”
Valenti folded his arms.
“Maybe you were going to celebrate the fact that you kicked me out. Maybe Mike and Walters and the milkman and the grocery boy were invited.”
I said, “Shut up, Valenti.”
Linda said, “I can’t stand it! I hate him! I could kill him!”
Valenti smiled.
“You see, Jim? You hear that? Kill me.”
I got tired of it. I told him so. I said, “Valenti, you’re disgusting. This girl loves you. She’s trying to make you happy. She’s doing all she can. But you reek with jealousy, Valenti. Your mind is diseased with it. You don’t deserve her. I think she ought to leave you. I think she’s had more than enough.”
Valenti threw himself into an upholstered rocker and stared at his shoes. My words had hit him hard. He would probably start crying. We watched him stare blankly. We watched his eyes. Their brightness began to dim. Two black pools took shape, overflowed, and spilled down his cheek.
“Jim’s right,” he said. “Linda, you ought to leave me.”
Then Linda broke. The sight of him, so wretched and conscience-bitten, was too much for her. “Oh, my poor darling! Dearest, darling Alfredo!” She fell on her knees before him, produced a tiny green handkerchief from some place, and dabbed away his tears. “Jim’s wrong, darling. It’s none of his damn business, anyway.”
“And I slugged you!” he sobbed. “Kill me, Linda. Kill me dead.”
They started over again, Linda kissing his bandaged ear, Valenti kissing Linda’s swollen eye. I’d had enough. I couldn’t keep up with their moods. It was either murder and death, or life and love. I guess they both liked it that way. I didn’t. Without a word, I backed toward the door. Valenti saw me as I stepped into the hail. “Jim!”
He came after me, put his arm around my shoulder.
“We both love you, Jim. You got to stay. Linda’s spaghetti’s wonderful.”
I told him I had another engagement. To emphasize it, I looked at my wristwatch and whistled. He walked down the hail with me to the automatic elevator. He had his arm around my shoulder all the way.
“You’re my best friend, Jim. You’re the only one I can trust.”
I saw his wild black eyes and thought of something else. “So long, Valenti.”
He put both arms around me and hugged me. Then he kissed my cheek. I could smell the disinfectant from his bandaged ear. “The only man I can trust. Jim, you don’t know what that means to me.”
“I think I do,” I said.
When I got out of there and into the cool street, I felt my lungs expand and I realized I had been suffocating. I was glad for the setting sun and the freedom of the pink and gold of the twilight sky. I was glad to be alone. It seemed the most precious thing in my life. I got into my car and drove back to my hotel.
Leon was at the desk. He handed me some mail.
“Leon,” I said. “You remember that girl with the black eye? Next time she comes, I’ve moved. I’ve gone to China.”
“China,” Leon nodded.
China. When you’re down the home stretch on a novel, and the prose runs smooth, it’s like China, or Africa, or the moon. You’re far away from everything, the days tumble by and you lose track of them. I don’t remember exactly: it was seven or eight or nine days later. I finished the novel and got sick the same day. It was fever and a slight chill. I called Dr. Atwood. He looked at my chest and found what I hadn’t noticed. Spots. I had the measles. By evening I had a lot of them. The hotel management wanted me to go to the hospital, but Atwood talked them out of it. I was isolated in my room on the third floor.
It was the night Valenti came. He arrived unannounced. I don’t know how he got by Leon at the desk, but I know what he did when he read the Keep Out: Sickness sign on my door. He came in. I looked up when I saw the door opening. There stood Valenti. The last time I’d seen him only his ear was bandaged. Now the top of his head was swathed in a thick turban of cotton and white adhesive. The low desk lamp was on the other side of the room and he couldn’t see me very well.
“Jim!” His voice was worried. “What’s the matter?”
I was feverish and irritated. I didn’t feel like taking on other people’s troubles. I wanted to be alone in the semidarkness with my fever and my ugly little spots.
“Your head,” I said. “Linda?”
“Yeah. With a claw—hammer. Eight stitches.”
“Valenti,” I said. “Please go away.”
He sat down.
“I need your advice.”
“No you don’t. I’m sick, Valenti. It’s contagious.”
He stood up “What’s contagious?”
“Measles. I’ve got the measles.”
I remember very little of the next few minutes. I remember that I was too weak to defend myself, and I remember the heavy thud of Valenti’s fist against my jaw. I think he knocked me out of the bed, picked me up, and knocked me into bed. Never underestimate the measles. Some time during the barrage I caught a flash of his black eyes, and I felt that he had gone insane, something I had always suspected would happen, something I didn’t like to think about. Then I realized that Linda had probably caught the measles too, and Valenti had drawn his own conclusion. But I was too weak to explain, and it wouldn’t have done any good. I remember him standing in the open door, shaking his fist and sobbing: “To think that I trusted you—my friend. Nuts!”
The measles left me in two weeks. Valenti’s souvenirs hung like fresh figs from my eyes for two months. I insisted my nose was broken, but Atwood disagreed. As for the three missing upper teeth, my dentist had condemned them before Valenti’s visit. I said very little about it. I knew nobody would believe me, anyway. Even Atwood doubted it. Both Valenti and Linda phoned a couple of times, but Leon told them China.
It wasn’t China, but it had to be New York, because my new book was coming out. I decided to drive there. It took longer, and it would give my face a chance to heal. I was sitting in my car, watching Julio, the Filipino boy, stacking luggage in the back seat.
Across the street a fancy klaxon sounded, and I heard my name called. A new Chevrolet roadster, a two-tone job, slid into the curb. It was Linda. She waved proudly. I thought of driving away; instead, I waved.
She got out and slammed the roadster door. She seemed pleased with the process. But there was some—thing odd about her carriage: it was stiff and robot-like. Then I saw what it was as she crossed the Street toward me. She wore some kind of steel and leather brace around her neck, with a leather cushion under her chin. Valenti was getting rougher every day. I looked up and down the street. You never could tell when Valenti would show up.
“Jim!” she said. “Where on earth have you been?”
“China,” I said. I nodded at her neck-brace. “How did he do that?”
“I’m sick of China, China all the time. You haven’t been to China at all. You don’t like us anymore. He pushed me down the stairs.”
She was standing in the street, her head inside the car. She looked lovelier than ever. The brace was surprisingly becoming. It held her face like a pedestal.
“How were the measles?” I said.
“Poor Jim,” she said. “You poor darling. Valenti told me.”
“What did Valenti tell you?”
“That you had the measles. That’s why I kept calling, but it was always China,” she replied.
“Didn’t you have the measles, too?”
“We thought it was the measles. It was something I ate. Strawberries or something.”
“So he broke your neck.”
“It isn’t broken, Jim. It’s only fractured. He’s changed, Jim. He’s different now. Look what he bought me.
We both looked at the new car.
“Nice,” I said.
Then I heard my name called. I knew the voice. It was Valenti’s. He was d
ouble-parked next to Linda’s car, across the street. He was leaning on his horn and waving wildly.
“Jim! My old paesano, Jim!”
“Linda,” I said. “Step back.”
“But Jim.”
“Paesano!”
I let the clutch out and pulled into the light traffic. They were both yelling and waving for me to stop.
“Jim!” Valenti said. “Where are you going?”
“China!” I yelled.
The Case of the Haunted Writer
THREE YEARS AGO we left Los Angeles and bought a home in Roseville, the railroad town near Sacramento. At first, and for reasons which I shall explain, my wife disliked this particular house. But we were weary of house-hunting, the price was within our reach, and I even liked the place.
The question rises: what in Sam Hill were we doing in Roseville in the first place, for Roseville is a jarring town. Eighteen miles from the state capital, it is the principal division point of the Southern Pacific Railroad. There are more boxcars than people in Roseville, and the population is around twelve thousand. The railroad yard is the largest on the Pacific Coast, even larger than the Los Angeles yard. Day and night the town is pounded by the big noise—chugging engines, screeching whistles, and the ceaseless crashing of boxcars being bullied by yard engines.
There were two reasons why we moved to Roseville, and the first is so contradictory that I hesitate to mention it; to wit, we wanted to live in a quiet country town. Roseville was neither quiet nor was it a country town. The second reason was our people. My wife’s mother lived there, as did my Old Man and Mama.
Now, here was this house: it was the kind of place a roofing company uses to symbolize the American Way, a snug white bungalow set upon a carpet of green lawn and surrounded by eucalyptus trees. It was a two-story structure with an expansive front porch that exuded Pride of Ownership. Situated in a tract known as Sunshine Heights, the address was 1515 Harmony Lane. It had everything.
Before buying the house, I asked the Old Man to inspect it. Though his trade is bricklaying, this was a mistake. Puffing a cigar, the Old Man made a hasty inspection of the barren rooms. He was not impressed. Then he went down into the big concrete basement. He spent a long time down there, finally emerging draped in cobwebs and enthusiasm. This was only natural, since his own house had no basement at all, and he had need for a deep cool place to age a couple of hundred gallons of Sacramento Valley claret.