I got out of there.
I ate and went to the pavilion, and went to work with Danny Lee.
After a while, Ralph Devore showed up.
Ralph’s the handyman-janitor here. Also the floorman—the guy who moves around among the dancers, and maintains order and so on. He’s a hell of a handsome guy, vaguely reminiscent of someone I seem to have seen in pictures. He has a convertible Mercedes, which, I understand, he got through some elaborate chiseling. And dressed up in those fancy duds he has (given to him by wealthy summer people) he looks like a matinee idol. But he wasn’t dressed up now. Now, when Danny Lee was seeing him for the first time, he looked like Bowery Bill from Trashcan Hill.
She was so burned up when he gave her a hand—and I kidded her about it—that she flounced her butt at him.
She stomped off to the dressing room. Ralph and I chewed the fat a little. And I began to get a very sweet idea, a plan for giving Miss Danny her comeuppance. I could see that Ralph had fallen for her. He wanted her so bad he could taste it. So with him looking as he did—or could—and Danny being what she was…
I put it up to Ralph, giving him slightly less than the facts about Danny. I said that she not only looked like a nice girl, but she was one. Very nice. The sole support of her family, in fact. So how did that cut any ice? He wasn’t going to rape her. He could just take her out, and leave the rest up to her. If she wanted to cut loose okay, and if not the same.
“Well…” He hesitated nervously. “It just don’t somehow seem right, Rags; I mean, fooling a nice little girl like that. I don’t like people foolin’ me, and—”
“So where’s the harm?” I said. “If she really wants to hang on to it, money won’t make any difference to her. If it does make a difference—all the dough you’re supposed to have—there’s still no harm done. What she loses can’t be worth much.”
“Well, yeah,” he said. “Yeah, but…”
I was afraid he was going to ask why my enthusiasm for the enterprise. But I needn’t have worried. He was too absorbed in Danny, so hard hit that he was in kind of a trance. And vaguely, with part of my mind, I wondered about that.
Ralph had seen sexy babes before. Seen them and had them. They were invariably kitchen maids or shop-girls on an outing, but still they had what it took. All that Ralph, being married, was interested in.
“She looks kind of tough,” he murmured absently. “Awful sweet, kind of, but tough. Like she could be plenty hard-boiled if she took the notion.”
“Oh, well,” I said. “Think what a hard time she’s had. Supporting an invalid mother and—”
“I bet she knows her way around, don’t she?”
“And you’d win,” I said. “She can take care of herself, Ralph. You won’t be taking advantage of her at all.”
“Well…” He squirmed indecisively. “I—I—What you want me to do?”
He had some good clothes in his car. I told him to get washed and change into them, while I fixed things up with Danny. “And hurry,” I said, as he hesitated. “Get back here as fast as you can. You can’t keep a high class girl like her waiting.”
He snapped out of it, and hurried away.
I went down to the dressing room.
She was waiting there, sullen and defiant and a little afraid. I hadn’t told her she could go to her cottage, so she waited. I looked at her sorrowfully, slowly shaking my head.
“Well, you really tore it that time, sister,” I said. “You know who that guy was? Just about the richest man in this county. Owns most of the beach property around here. Has a big piece of this pavilion, as a matter of fact.”
“I’ll bet!” she said—but a trifle uncertainly. “Oh, sure.”
“How did Pete Pavlov stack up to you?” I said. “Hardly a fashion-plate, huh? You just can’t figure these local people that way, baby. They keep right on working after they get it. They don’t go in for show while they’re working.”
She studied my face uncertainly, trying to read it. I took her by the elbow and led her to the window. “Who does that guy look like down there?” I said; for Ralph was just taking his clothes out of the Mercedes. “What do you think a buggy like that costs? You think an ordinary janitor would be driving it?”
She stiffened slightly; hell, that Mercedes even bowls me over. Then she shrugged with attempted indifference. So what, she asked. What did it mean to her if he was loaded.
“Just thought you’d like to know,” I said. “Just thought you might like to meet him. He could do a lot for a gal if he took the notion to.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “You just want to help me, I suppose! You’re doing me favors!”
“Suit yourself.” I picked up my shirt and began putting it on. “It’s entirely up to you, baby. You do a little thinking, though, and maybe you’ll remember me doing you a favor or two before. It maybe’ll occur to you that I can’t be any harder on you than I am on myself, and it ain’t making me a penny.”
“All right!” she snapped. “What do you want me to do about it? I’ve tried to thank you! I’ve—I’ve—”
“Never mind,” I said. “I’m satisfied just to see you get ahead. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
I finished buttoning my shirt. I tucked the tails in, studying her out of the corner of my eye.
She was wavering—teetering one way, then the other. Wavering and then convinced, like the stupid moronic tramp she was. There was nothing in her head. Only in her throat.
And you could dump a thousand gallons of vinegar down it, and she’d still expect the next cup to be lemonade.
“Well,” she said. “He did seem awfully nice. I mean, I couldn’t tell what he looked like much, but he acted nice and respectful. And—and he clapped for me.”
“He’s a wonderful guy,” I said. “One of the best.”
“Well…well, I guess I ought to apologize, anyway,” she said. “I ought to do that, even if he was only a janitor.”
She preceded me up the steps. She started to open the door that leads out to the bandstand, and suddenly I put out my hand.
“Danny. Wait…baby.”
It was the way I said it, the last word. A way I’d never thought I could say it. To her. She froze in her tracks, one foot up on a step, the shorts drawn high and tight upon her thighs. Then, her head moved and she looked slowly over her shoulder.
“W-what?” she stammered. “What did you cal—say?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I guess I…nothing.”
“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me what you want, Rags.”
“I want,” I said. “I want…”
The unobtainable, that was all. The nonexistent. The that which never-would-be. I wanted it and I did not want it, for once achieved there would be nothing left to live for.
“I want you to get your butt out of my face,” I said. “Fast. Before I kick it off of you.”
4
Bobbie Ashton
I finished at the Thorncastle estate about four-thirty in the afternoon, and Mr. Thorncastle—that fine, democratic fat-bottomed man—paid me off personally.
My bill came to twelve dollars. I looked at him from under my lashes as he paid it, and he added an extra five. Managing to stroke my hand in the process. He is a very juicy-looking character, this Thorncastle. I had some difficulty in getting away from him without kicking him in the groin.
Father was already at the table when I reached home. I washed hastily and joined him, begging his pardon for keeping him waiting. He snatched up his fork. Then he slammed it down, and asked me just how long I intended to keep up this nonsense.
“The yard work?” I said. “Why, permanently, perhaps. It would seem well suited to my station in life—you know, with so much racial discrimination—and—”
“Stop it!” His face whitened. “Don’t ever let me hear you—”
“—and there’s the money,” I said. “A chance to advance myself financially.”
“Like Ralph Devore, I suppose! Like the town odd
-jobs man!”
I shrugged. The facts of the matter were under his nose even if he, like the rest of the town, was too dullwitted to see them. Ralph had earned approximately twenty-eight hundred dollars a year for the past twenty-two years. He had spent practically nothing. Ergo, he now had a minimum of fifty thousand dollars, and probably a great deal more.
He had it. He would have to. And now that his income was cut off, he would be worried frantic. For fifty thousand would not represent enough security to Ralph. Not fifty thousand or a hundred thousand. He would visualize its disappearing, vanishing into nothingness before his life span had run. He would be terrified, and his terror must certainly react terrifyingly upon Luane.
I wondered where he had hidden the money, since, naturally, he had hidden it—how else could he keep its possession a secret?—as, in his insecurity, he would feel that he had to.
Well, no matter where it was now. There was still this first stage of the game to play. When it was played out, I would concentrate on the money—locate and appropriate it. And watch what happened to Luane, then.
She had behaved very badly, Luane. She had made the serious mistake of telling the truth.
That was unfair; it was theft. The truth was mine—I had earned it painfully and it belonged to me. And now, after years of waiting and planning, it was worthless. A heap of rust, instead of the stout, sharp-pronged lever I was entitled to.
What good was the truth, now? How could I use it on him, now?
Not much. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
He was talking again, bumbling on with his nonsense about my returning to school whether I thought I was or not.
“You’re going, understand? You’re going to complete your education. You can finish up your high school here, or you can go away. And then you’re going on to—”
“Am I?” I said.
“You certainly are! Why—what kind of a boy are you? Letting some gossips, some fool woman spoil your life! No one believes anything she says.”
“Oh, yes, they do,” I said. “Yes, they do, father. I could name at least three who do, right here in our own household.”
He stared at me, his mouth trembling, the mist of fear and frustration in his eyes. I winked at him, hoping he would start blubbering. But of course he didn’t. He has too much pride for that—too much dignity. Ah, what a proud, upright man my father is!
“You have to leave,” he said slowly. “You must see that you have to leave this town. With your mind—with no outlet for your intelligence…”
“I’ll think about it,” I said. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”
“I said you’d leave! You’ll do what I say!”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” I said. “Exactly, dear father, as I damned please. And if what pleases me doesn’t please you, you know what you can do about it.”
He stood up, abruptly, flinging his napkin to the table. He said, yes, he confounded well did know what he could do; and he’d just about reached the point where he was ready to do it.
“You mean you’d call in the authorities?” I said. “I’d hate to see you do that, father. I’d feel forced to go into the background of my supposed incorrigibility, and the result might be embarrassing for you.”
I gave him a sunny smile. He whirled, and stamped away to his office.
He was back a moment later, his hat on, his medicine kit in one hand.
“Do one thing, at least,” he said. “For your own good. Stay away from that Pavlov girl.”
“Myra? Why should I stay away from her?” I said.
“Stay away from her,” he repeated. “You know what Pete Pavlov’s like. If—if you—he—”
“Yes?” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. What possible objection could Pavlov have to his daughter’s going about with Doctor Ashton’s well-bred, brilliant and, I might add, handsome son?”
“Please, Bob—” His voice sagged tiredly. “Please do it. Leave her alone.”
I hesitated thoughtfully. After a long moment, I shrugged.
“Well, all right,” I said. “If it means that much to you.”
“Thank you. I—”
“I’ll leave her alone,” I said, “whenever I get ready to. Not before.”
He didn’t flinch or explode, much to my disappointment. Apparently he’d been partially prepared for the trick. He simply stared at me, hard-eyed, and when he spoke his voice was very, very quiet.
“I have one more thing to say,” he said. “A considerable quantity of narcotics is missing from my stock. If I discover any further shortages, I’ll see to it that you’re punished—imprisoned or institutionalized. I’ll do it regardless of what it does to me.”
He turned and left.
I scraped up the dishes and carried them out into the kitchen.
Hattie was at the stove, her back turned to me. She stiffened as I went in, then turned part way around, trying to keep an eye on me while appearing occupied with her work.
Hattie is probably thirty-nine or forty now. She isn’t as pretty as I remember her as a child—I thought she was the loveliest woman in the world then—but she is still something to take a second look at.
I put the dishes in the sink. I moved along the edge of the baseboard, smiling to myself, watching her neck muscles tighten as I moved out of her range of vision.
I was right behind her before fear forced her to whirl around. She pressed back against the stove, putting her hands out in a pushing-away gesture.
“Why, mother,” I said. “What’s the matter? You’re not afraid of your own darling son, are you?”
“Go ’way!” Her eyes rolled whitely. “Lea’ me alone, you hear?”
“But I just wanted a kiss,” I said. “Just a kiss from my dear, sweet mother. After all, I haven’t had one now, since—well, I was about three, wasn’t I? A very long time for a child to go without a kiss from his own mother. I remember being rather heartbroken when—”
“D-don’t!” she moaned. “You don’t know nothin’ about—Get outta here! I tell doctor on you, an’ he—”
“You mean you’re not my mother?” I said. “You’re truly not?”
“N-no! I tol’ you, ain’t I? Ain’t nothin’, nobody! I—I—”
“Well, all right.” I shrugged. “In that case…”
I grabbed her suddenly, clamped her against me, pinning her arms to her sides. She gasped, moaned, struggled futilely. She didn’t, of course, cry out for help.
“How about it,” I said, “as long as you’re not my mother. Keep it all in the family, huh? What do you say we—”
I let go of her, laughing.
I stepped back, wiping her spittle from my face.
“Why, Hattie,” I said. “Why on earth did you do a thing like that? All I wanted was—What?” My heart did a painful skip-jump, and there was a choking lump in my throat. “What? I don’t believe I understood you, Hattie.”
She looked at me, lips curled back from her teeth. Eyes narrowed, steady, with contempt. With something beyond contempt, beyond disgust and hatred.
“You hear’ me right,” she said. “You couldn’ do nothin’. Couldn’ an’ never will.”
“Yes?” I said. “Are you very sure of that, my dearest mother?”
“Huh! Me, I tell you.” She grinned a skull’s grin. “Yeah, I ver’ sure, aw right, my deares’ son.”
“And it amuses you,” I said. “Well, I’ll tell you, mother. Doubtless it is very funny, but I don’t believe we’d better have any further displays of amusement. Not that I’d mind killing you, you understand. In fact, I’ll probably get around to that eventually. But I have other projects afoot at the moment—more important projects, if I may say so without hurting your feelings—”
She moved suddenly, made a dash for her room. I followed her—it adjoins the kitchen—and leaned absently against the door. The locked door to my mother’s room.
The door that had been locked for…
Yes, my recollection was r
ight; it is always right. I had been about three the last time she had kissed me, the last time she had cuddled, babied, mother-and-babied me. I would have remembered it, even if I did not have almost total recall. For how could one forget such a fierce outpouring of love, the balm-like, soul-satisfying warmth of it?
Or forget its abrupt, never-to-be-again withdrawal?
Or the stupid, selfish, cruel, bewildering insistence that it had never been?
I was a very silly little boy. I was a very foolish, bad little boy, and I had better pray God to forgive me. I was not sweets or hon or darlin’ or even Bobbie. I was Mister Bobbie—Master Robert. Mistah—Mastah Bobbie, a reborn stranger among strangers.
My continuing illnesses? Psychosomatic. The manifold masques of frustration.
My intelligence? Compensatory. For certainly I inherited none from either of them.
I listened at night, when they thought I was asleep. I asked a few questions, strategically spacing them months apart.
She’d had a child; she’d had to wet-nurse me. Where was that child? Dead? Well, where and when had he died? When and where had my mother died?
It was ridiculously simple. Only a matter of putting a few questions to a fatuous imbecile—my father—and an oversexed docile moron, my mother. And listening to them at night. Listening and wanting to shriek with laughter.
He’d be ruined if anyone found out. It would ruin my life, wreck all my chances.
It would be that way if. And what way did the blind, stupid, silly son-of-a-bitch think it was now? What worse way could it be than as it was now?
And, no, it did not need to be that way. Needn’t and wouldn’t have been for a man with courage and honesty and decency.
I had deduced the truth by the time I was five. Several years later, when I was able to be up and around—to post and receive letters secretly—I proved my deductions.
He, my father, had practiced in only one other state before coming to this one. It had no record of a birth to Mrs. James Ashton, or of the death of said Mrs. Ashton. There was, however, a record of the birth of a son to one Hattie Marie Smith (colored; unmarried; initial birth). And the attending physician was Dr. James Ashton.