“What about all the screwing I gave you? I suppose you’ll give that back, too!”
“No,” I said. “I’m afraid I can’t do anything about that.”
“Oh, sure you can,” she said. “You can give me a good one right now.”
And I whirled around, and she collapsed in my arms, laughing.
“Ahhh, Britt, darling! If you could have seen your face! You were really frightened, weren’t you? You really thought I was angry with you, didn’t you?”
“Of course, I thought it!” I said, and, hugging her, kissing her, I swatted her bottom. “My God! The way you were talking, and waving that gun around—!”
“Gun? Look, no gun!” She held her purse open for examination. “I couldn’t be angry with you, Britt. What reason would I have? You were married, and you couldn’t get unmarried. But you just about had to have the job, and you wanted me. So you did the only thing you could. I understand perfectly, and don’t you give it another thought, because nothing is changed. We’ll go on just like we were; and everything’s all right.”
It was hard to believe that things would be all right. Knowing her as well as I did, I didn’t see how they could be. As the weeks passed, however, my suspicions were lulled—almost, almost leaving me—for there was nothing whatsoever to justify them. I even found the courage to criticize her about her language, pointing out that it was hardly suitable to one with two college degrees. I can’t say that it changed anything, but she acknowledged the criticism with seeming humility, and solemnly promised to mend her ways.
So everything was all right—ostensibly. The work went on, and went well. Ditto for my relationship with Manny. No one could have been more loving or understanding. Certainly, no one, no other woman, had ever been as exciting. Over and over, I told myself how lucky I was to have such a woman. A wildly sensuous, highly intelligent woman who also had money and was generous with it, thus freeing me from the niggling and nagging and guilt feelings which had heretofore hindered and inhibited me.
It is a fallacy that people who do not obtain the finer things in life have no appreciation for them. Actually, no one likes good things more than a bum—and I say this knowing whereof I speak. I truly appreciated Manny after all the sorry b-axes which had previously been my lot. I truly appreciated everything she gave me, all the creature comforts she made possible for me, in addition to herself.
Everything wasn’t just all right, as she had promised. Hell, everything was beautiful.
Until today.
The Day of the Dog…
…I lay on my back, bracing myself against any movement which would cause him to attack.
I ached hideously, then grew numb from lack of movement; and shadows fell on the blinded windows. It was late afternoon. The sun was going down, and now—my legs jerked convulsively. They jerked again, even as I was trying to brace them. And now I heard a faint rustling sound: The dog tensing himself, getting ready to spring.
“D-don’t! Please don’t!”
Laughter. Vicious, maliciously amused laughter.
I rubbed my eyes with a trembling hand. Brushed the blinding sweat from them.
The dog was gone. The manager of the place, the mulatto woman, stood at the foot of the bed. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder in a contemptuous gesture of dismissal.
“All right, prick. Beat it!”
“W-what?” I sat up shakily. “What did you say?”
“Get out. Grab your rags, and drag ass!”
“Now, listen, you—you can’t—”
“I can’t what?”
“Nothing,” I said. “If you’ll just leave, so that I can get dressed…”
She said I’d get dressed while she was there, by God, because she wanted to look at the bed before I left. She figured a yellow bastard like me had probably shit in it. (And where had I heard such talk before—the unnerving, ego-smashing talk of terror?)
“Jus’ so damned scared,” she jeered. “Prob’ly shit the bed like a fucking baby. You did, I’m gonna make you clean it up.”
I got dressed, with her watching.
I waited, head hanging like a whipped animal, while she jerked the sheets back, examined them, and then sniffed them.
“Okay,” she said, at last. “Reckon you got all your shit in you. Still full of it, like always.”
I turned, and started for the door.
“Don’t you never come back, hear? I see your skinny ass again, I lays a belt on it!”
I got out of the place. So fast that I fell, rather than walked down the stairs; almost crashed through the street door, in attempting to open it the wrong way.
After the dog, I had thought nothing more could be done to me, that I was as demoralized as a man could get. But I was wrong. The vicious abuse of the mulatto woman had shaken me in a way that fear could not. Or perhaps it was the fear and the abuse together.
I drove blindly for several minutes, oblivious to the hysterical hornblasts of other cars. The outraged shouts of their drivers, and the squealing of brakes. Finally, however, when I barely escaped a head-on collision with a truck, I managed to pull myself together sufficiently to turn into the curb and park.
I was on an unfamiliar street, one that I could not remember. I was stopped in front of a small cocktail lounge. Wiping my face and hands dry of sweat, I combed my hair and went inside.
“Yes, sir?” The bartender beamed in greeting, pushing a bowl of pretzels toward me. “What’ll it be, sir?”
“I think I’ll have a—”
I broke off at the sudden insistent jangling from a rear telephone booth. The bartender nodded toward it apologetically, and said, “If you’ll excuse me, sir—?” And I told him to go ahead.
He hurried from behind the bar, and back to the booth. He entered, and closed the door. He remained inside for some two or three minutes. Then he came back, again stood in front of me.
“Yes, sir?”
“A martini,” I said. “Very dry. Twist instead of olive.”
He mixed the drink, poured it with a flourish. He punched the numbers on the tabulating cash register, extended a check as he placed the glass before me.
“One-fifty, sir. You pay now.”
“Well—” I hesitated; shrugged. “Why not?”
I handed him two dollar bills. He said, “Exact change, sir.”
And he picked up the drink, and threw it in my face.
11
He was a lucky man. As I have said, my general easygoing attitude, an ah-to-hell-with-it attitude, is marred by an occasional brief but violent flare-up. And if I had not been so completely beaten down by the dog and the mulatto woman, he would have gotten a broken arm.
But, of course, he had known I had nothing to strike back with. Manny, or the person who had made the call for her, had convinced him of the fact. Convinced him that he could pick up a nice piece of change without the slightest danger to himself.
I ran a sleeve across my face. I got up from my stool, turned and started to leave. Then, I stopped and turned back around, gave the bartender a long, hard stare. I wasn’t capable of punching him, but there was something that I could do. I could make sure that there was a connection between the thrown drink, and the afternoon’s other unpleasantries—that, briefly, his action was motivated and not mere coincidence.
“Well?” His eyes flickered nervously. “Want somethin’?”
“People shouldn’t tell you to do things,” I said, “that they’re afraid to do themselves.”
“Huh? What’re you drivin’ at?”
“You mean, that was your own idea? You weren’t paid to do it?”
“Do what? I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll tell some friends of mine what a nice guy you are.”
I nodded coldly, again turned toward the door.
“Wait!” he said. “Wait a minute—uh—sir?
“It was a joke, see? Just a joke. I wasn’t s’posed t’tell ya, an’—I can’t t
ell ya nothin’ else! I just can’t! But—but—”
“It’s all right,” I said. “You don’t need to.”
I left the bar.
I drove home.
I parked in the driveway near the porch. Another car wheeled up behind mine, and Manny got out. Smiling gaily as she came trotting up to me, and hooked an arm through mine.
“Guess what I’ve got for you, darling. Give you three guesses!”
“A cobra,” I said, “and two stink bombs.”
“Silly! Let’s go inside and I’ll show you.”
“Let’s,” I said grimly, “and I’ll show you.”
We went up the steps, and across the porch, Manny hugging my arm, smiling up into my face. The very picture of a woman with her love. Mrs. Olmstead heard us enter the house, and hurried in from the kitchen.
“My my!” she chortled, beaming at Manny. “I swear you get prettier every day, Miss Aloe.”
“Oh, now,” Manny laughed. “I couldn’t look half as nice as your dinner smells. Were you inviting me to stay—I hope?”
“ ’Course, I’m inviting you! You betcha!” Mrs. Olmstead nodded vigorously. “You an’ Mr. Rainstar just set yourselves right down, an’—”
“I’m not sure I’ll be here for dinner,” I said. “I suspect that Miss Aloe won’t be either. Please come upstairs, Manuela.”
“But, looky here, now!” Mrs. Olmstead protested. “How come you ain’t eatin’ dinner? How come you let me go to all the trouble o’ fixin’ it if you wasn’t going to eat?”
“I’ll explain later. Kindly get up those stairs, Manuela.”
I pointed sternly. Manny preceded me up the stairs, and I stood aside, waving her into my bedroom ahead of me. Then I closed and locked the door.
I was trembling a little. Shaking with the day’s pent-up fear and frustration, its fury and worry. Inwardly, I screamed to strike out at something, the most tempting target being Manny’s plump little bottom.
So I wheeled around, my palm literally itching to connect with her flesh. But, instead, Manny’s soft mouth connected with mine. She had been waiting on tiptoe, waiting for me to turn. And, now, having kissed me soundly, she urged me down on the bed and sat down at my side.
“I don’t blame you for being miffed with me, honey. But I really couldn’t help it. I honestly couldn’t Britt!”
“You couldn’t, hmm?” I said. “You own the place, and that orange-colored bitch works for you, but you couldn’t—”
“Wh-aat?” She stared at me incredulously. “Own it—our place, you mean? Why, that’s crazy! Of course, I don’t own it, and that woman certainly does not work for me!”
“But, dammit to hell—! Wait a minute,” I said. “What did you mean when you said you didn’t blame me for being miffed with you?”
“Well…I thought that was why you were angry. Because I didn’t come back from the bathroom.”
“Oh,” I said. “Oh, yeah. Why didn’t you, anyway?”
“Because I couldn’t, that’s why. I had a little problem, one of those girl things, and it had to be taken care of in a hurry…” So she’d hailed a cab, and headed for the nearest drugstore. But it didn’t have what she needed and she’d had to visit two other stores before she found one that did. And by the time she’d returned to our place, and taken care of the problem…
“You might have waited, Britt. If you’d only waited, and given me a chance to explain—but never mind.” She took a three-thousand-dollar check from her purse, and handed it to me. “Another bonus for you, dear”—she smiled placatingly. “Isn’t that nice?”
“Very,” I said, folding it and tucking it in my pocket. “I’m going to keep it.”
“Keep it? Why, of course, you are. I—”
“I’m keeping the car, too,” I said.
“Why not? It’s your car.”
“But my employment with PXA is finished as of right now. And if you want to know why—as if you didn’t already know!—I’ll tell you,” I said. “And if I catch any more crap like I caught today, I’ll tell you what I’ll do about that, too!”
I told her in detail—the why and the what—with suitable embellishments and flourishes. I told her in more detail than I had planned, and with considerable ornamentation. For a while she heard me out in silence and without change of expression. I had a strong hunch that she was laughing at me.
When I had at last finished, out of breath and vituperation, she looked at me silently for several moments. Then she shrugged, and stood up.
“I’ll run along now. Good-bye and good luck.”
I hadn’t expected that. I don’t know what I had expected, but not that.
“Well, look,” I said. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
“I said good-bye and good luck. I see no point in saying anything else.”
“But, dammit—! Well, all right!” I said. “Good-bye and good luck to you. And take your stinking bonus check with you!”
I thrust it on her, shoved it into her hand and folded her fingers around it. She left the room, and I hesitated, feeling foolish and helpless, that I had made a botch of everything. Then I started after her, stopping short as I heard her talking with Mrs. Olmstead.
“…loved to have dinner with you. Mrs. Olmstead. But in view of Mr. Rainstar’s attitude…”
“…just mean, he is! Accused me of bein’ sloppy. Says I’m always sprinklin’ rat poison on everything. O’ course, I don’t do nothin’ of the kind…”
“He should be grateful to you! Most women would leave at the sight of a rat.”
“Well…Just a minute, Miss Aloe. I’ll walk you to your car.”
It was several minutes before Mrs. Olmstead came back into the house. I waited until I heard her banging around in the kitchen, then went cautiously down the stairs and moved on tiptoe toward the front door.
“Uh-hah!” Her voice arrested me. “Whatcha sneakin’ out for? Ashamed because you was so nasty to Miss Aloe?”
She had been lurking at the side of the staircase, out of sight from upstairs. Apparently she had rushed in and hidden here, after making the racket in the kitchen.
“Well?” She grinned at me with mocking accusation, hands on her skinny old hips. “Whatcha got to say for yourself?”
“What am I sneaking out for?” I said. “What have I got to say for myself? Why, goddammit—!” I stormed toward the door, cursing and fuming. More shamed and furious at myself than I was with her. “And another thing!” I yelled. “Another thing, Mrs. Olmstead! You’d better remember what your position is in this house, if you want to keep it!”
“Now you’re threatenin’ me.” She began to sob noisily. “Threatenin’ a poor old woman! Just as mean as you can be, that’s what you are!”
“I’m not either mean!” I said. “I don’t know how to be mean, and I wouldn’t be, if I did know how. I don’t like mean people, and—Goddammit, will you stop that goddam bawling?”
“If you wasn’t mean, you wouldn’t always forget to mail my letters! I found another one this mornin’ when I was sending your clothes to the cleaners! I told you it was real important, an’—!”
“Oh, God, I am sorry,” I said. “Please forgive me, Mrs. Olmstead.”
I ran out the door and down the steps. But she was calling to me before I could get out of earshot.
“Your dinner, Mr. Rainstar. It’s all ready and waiting.”
“Thank you very much,” I said. “I’m not hungry now, but I’ll eat some later.”
“It’ll be all cold. You better eat now.”
“I’m not hungry now. I’ve had a bad day, and I want to take a walk before I eat.”
There was more argument, much more, but she finally slammed the door.
Not that I ever felt much like eating Mrs. Olmstead’s cooking, but I certainly had no appetite for it tonight. And, of course, I felt guilty for not wanting to eat, and having to tell her that I didn’t. Regardless of whether something is my fault—and why should I have to eat if I
didn’t want to?—I always feel that I am in the wrong.
Along with feeling guilty, I was worried. About what Manny had done or had arranged to have done, its implications of shrewdness and power. And the fact that I had figuratively flung three thousand dollars in her face, as well as cutting myself off from all further income. At the time, I had felt that I had to do it. But what about the other categorical imperative which faced me? What about the absolute necessity to send money to Connie—to do it or else?
Well, balls to it, I thought, mentally throwing up my hands. I had told Mrs. Olmstead that I wanted to take a walk, so I had better be doing it.
I took a stroll up and down the road, a matter of a hundred yards or so. Then I walked around to the rear of the house, and the weed-grown disarray of the backyard.
A couple of uprights of the gazebo had rotted away, allowing the roof to topple until it was standing almost on edge. The striped awning of the lawn swing hung in faded tatters, and the seats of the swing lay splintered in the weeds where the wind had tossed them. The statuary—the little that hadn’t been sold—was now merely fragmented trash, gleaming whitely in the night.
The fountain, at the extreme rear of the yard, had long since ceased to spout. But in the days when water poured from it, the ever-thirsting weeds and other rank growths had flourished into a minuscule jungle. And the jungle still endured, all but obscuring the elaborate masonry and piping of the fountain.
I walked toward it absently, somehow reminded of Goldsmith’s The Deserted Village.
Reaching the periphery of the ugly overgrowth, I thought I heard the gurgling trickle of water. And, curiously, I parted the dank and dying tangle with my hands, and peered through the opening.
Inches from my face, eyeless eyes peered back at me. The bleached skull of skeleton.
We stared at each other, each seemingly frozen in shock.
Then the skeleton raised a bony hand, and levelled a gun at me.