A Covenant with Death (22 page)

Parmelee looked at me again with that same ruminative expression.

“So do I,” I said, and then I put my head up and said, “but he wasn't a judge,” and while they wondered what I had meant I got up and walked out.

“What a race we are!” I snarled over breakfast, eggs, beans, whatever it was, tasteless, rubbery. “How can they feel the beat of their own hearts and still kill? How can they fight? or quarrel, even? How can they not know what they have, and always want more? Don't they know what a god damned miracle it is that their organs work? That the sun warms them and they can eat and make love? I can see it when people are starving. When they're hurt bad. When they have nothing, only trouble, and just being alive is a curse and not a blessing. But these people. Here. Donnelley.”

“People,” my mother said. “People do all kinds of things. That's why we have laws.”

“I know, but Donnelley. Three people dead because he looked in a window and saw four circles and a triangle. What he could have seen on the wall in any barbershop.”

“Not the same,” she said, “and you know it.”

“Yes, I know it.” I pushed the plates away, pushed back my chair, slumped. “There but for the grace of God. But to let an innocent man be hanged—”

“Because he was damned anyway. Donnelley.” She blew smoke and there was pity in her voice. “He was damned even before he looked in that window. He was damned when he was five years old and they told him not to touch himself. They never gave him a chance. A little more damnation was meaningless because it was too late.”

“No degrees,” I murmured. “Who's they?”

“They,” she said, waving her cigar in disgust. “Them. Out there. They're all over. I guess I like your dirty mind better after all. So what did it matter if another man died? Besides, he may have hated Talbot. Talbot had those circles and triangles. Donnelley didn't.”

“He had Mrs. Donnelley. Mrs. Donnelley is a handsome woman and she seems warm. All right, all right. I know. That doesn't matter.”

“It's the women who suffer,” she said. “Always. Men made up that story about Adam and Eve. They had to blame Eve for something so they could feel better about what they do to their women.”

The bitterness in her voice startled me. “That, from you? The one complaint you never had—”

“Who says?”

I was speechless. Shock, outrage: I wanted to rush to his defense and there was nothing I could say. I shriveled.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean that the way it sounded. And it wasn't anything serious. But men are men, Ben. They hurt women. You too. You have and you will. You chase a fat bubby here and when you get it you chase a fat tail somewhere else. The worst men do because they don't care and the best men do because they care too much. Any man good enough to be loved is going to be loved by more than one woman, and somewhere along the line he's going to love back, and he can't love two at a time. I don't care what the poets say: he can't love two at a time. If he's lucky he gets finished with the wrong one and gets back to the right one. Either way some woman gets hurt.”

By then I could talk: “And men never get hurt?”

“No.” Scornfully. “They feel bad for a little. Sorry for themselves. Then they figure she was no good anyway, or they meet another one. And I'll tell you why.” She leaned forward, grim and glum. “When a woman makes love she feels it for hours, for days. But a man can kiss his sweetie goodbye and step out into the street and see a skirt and he's ready. And ten thousand years of rules and regulations hasn't changed that one bit.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “This is all—I'm sorry. I never dreamed. Anyway you can't mean all men.”

“No,” she said. “No. That was just stupid talk. And I didn't mean your father either. You Lewises. A long line of connoisseurs. You know my trouble?”

“What?”

“I was just so damn happy with your father. Oh, I was, I was. And when he died, he hurt me. Past all repair. You don't have to be a Talbot or a Donnelley to hurt a woman.” I looked away from her sudden tears. “And you still don't understand,” she said. “You think I'm an old lady with a bruised heart and a lot of happy memories. Love is for the young, you think. You're too stupid and naïve to think that I've got a bruised body too. And I lie there at night and hurt just the way you do. Damn that man! And damn you too, sonny. Women love more and they get hurt more. Remember that,” and she blundered out of the kitchen.

She went to visit Mrs. Donnelley that afternoon. Dressed up, in what might have been called festive black, quite formal, and walked to the Donnelleys' slowly, greeting friends and being slightly ostentatious. She opened the gate, entered the front yard, and swept regally to the door. Helen Donnelley opened it, and for a moment they stood unmoving and silent; then Mrs. Donnelley looked past my mother to the three or four rubbernecks across the road, and stepped aside to admit her guest, and closed the door. The house was almost unbearably suburban, the guest reported later, like something transplanted from the east, with odd touches of New England like a captain's chair. Much chintz, many flounces; an upright piano; embroidered mottoes; mission magazines; half a dozen books. The living room was dim and cool, and Mrs. Donnelley too was cool, defensive and wary.

“I came to see if there was anything I could do,” my mother began. “I'm awfully sorry.”

Mrs. Donnelley said, “Oh.”

“I lost my husband two years ago, and whatever a man was, losing him is the worst thing that can happen to a woman.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Donnelley said in some wonder. “Yes. I didn't know that before.”

“I won't stay long. I wanted to tell you that you must not worry about your friends and what they may think. Some are afraid that you may be embarrassed by visits, but we're all very sorry.”

“I can't face anyone,” she said. “I didn't want to let you in.” She was whispering.

“I'm glad you did. How can I help?”

“I don't know. Would—would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you. Do you have food? Can I cook for you? Take care of the boys?”

“Oh, no. We have everything. The boys are upstairs.”

“It must have been terrible for them.”

“They're bewildered. I didn't tell them everything. I suppose everybody knows.”

“Yes.”

“We'll move away.” She seemed almost asleep. “He left insurance. I have to see a lawyer. No one's been here since the doctor.”

My mother asked sharply, “Your pastor? The people from your church?”

Mrs. Donnelley shook her head. “No one. Just that nurse.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

Mrs. Donnelley hesitated.

“That was a silly question,” my mother said. “Of course you don't. You have to do two things: take care of the boys, and take care of yourself.”

“Yes.” And Mrs. Donnelley looked up abruptly, pleading: “Do you really think he did that?”

“It doesn't matter. It's all over now.”

“Looked in her
window
?”

Afterward my mother was sorry to have made the visit. “It was awful,” she said. “I can't do that, commiserate. The funny thing was that I never remembered until I got home that the house next door was the Talbots'.”

But that was later. That was the afternoon. The morning was much more difficult. To begin with I was exhausted. And there were too many elements. Two murders and a suicide; trial and verdict; misfired execution; miscarriage of justice; two lawyers who did not think much of me. Two ladies who did not think much of me, and of whom I should not have been thinking at all. And I had to contend with John, who was full of questions I could not answer. And I was not feeling well. The stomach. A slight indisposition, coupled with an explosive nervousness that verged on hysteria now and then and had to be beaten down. I was assailed by the willies and borborygmus, and my mind refused to compose itself, leaping about from the hanged man in a tarot deck to a haunting line from George Moore (“I wonder why murder is considered less immoral than fornication in literature”) to Geronimo Goldman and his minor prophecy and then to my father, who had had the bad taste to die and hurt my mother. The world was full of a number of things and I was very unhappy.

Hochstadter met me at the courthouse and said the wrong thing immediately: “Don't hesitate to call on me if you need help.” John seemed rather offended but I said “Thank you” and we marched in. It was a hearing and I thought we could use privacy, so I had Harvey lock the door. Harvey was out of sorts. Working on Saturday. The steel companies had just refused to shorten the twelve-hour day but Harvey was grumpy because it was Saturday and he could not fish, or read a magazine. Also, I was tired of the same old faces. Here we were again: Hochstadter, Parmelee, Dietrich, Harvey, John, Alfred, Talbot, I.

Girded in a robe I took my place at the bench, opened my portfolio, and cleared my throat resoundingly. I looked at Talbot and nodded. He returned the nod. He glowed. He radiated life this glorious summer morn. A prisoner, a widower, a killer, he was in fine fettle. Parmelee seemed at once determined and excited, and Dietrich was suspicious of us all. I could not see Hochstadter's face but I imagined he was solemn.

“This will be informal,” I announced. “I expect we'll have a more official meeting this afternoon. We have to get certain things straightened out this morning and I want to stick to the agenda. Please try not to fly off on tangents. Time for that later.”

“My only concern is to see Bryan released,” Parmelee said.

“You're jumping the gun,” I said. “As of now he is still a prisoner, still guilty of murder, at least on paper, and still under sentence of death.” Talbot's face darkened and I went on quickly, “No. No, Mr. Talbot, there is no danger of that particular sentence being carried out. All I mean is that certain forms have to be observed before you can be cleared of the one charge. And as you must know, you are to be charged with another murder.”

“Now see here—” Parmelee began.

“No! Please, Mr. Parmelee. That's what I meant by a tangent. You agree that Bryan Talbot killed Willie Waite intentionally and by violence.”

“Yes, but—”

“The ‘yes' is all that matters this morning.” Dietrich nodded in satisfaction. “Now. Mr. Dietrich. Has the state any reason to oppose a dismissal of all charges against Bryan Talbot in the murder of Louise Talbot?”

“Well, no,” he said. “But now I think
you're
jumping the gun. I assume that Donnelley's death was by his own hand, and that the note was genuine, and that it told the truth. But none of those matters has been established by law.”

I nodded. “Fair enough. I expect the coroner's jury—you called them?—will deal with Donnelley's death this morning, and I don't think we have any reason to doubt that they'll call it suicide. For the note, I assume that you'd be content with proof that it was in Donnelley's hand. Do you need proof of his soundness of mind? You could complicate matters badly if you wanted to.”

“He certainly could,” Parmelee chimed in, “and it would be cruel and unusual punishment. Ordinary decency—”

“I have no desire to complicate matters,” Dietrich grumbled. “But I am not doing my job if I assent to sloppy procedure. I'll accept verification of the handwriting as proof of authorship, and I won't ask for an alienist to examine a dead man.”

“The question of truth remains,” I said. “I don't believe there's a jury in the world that wouldn't acquit Talbot on a retrial, but you have the right to point out that we never know what a suicide will do or say in his last moments. But you know the maxim, too—no one is presumed to trifle at the point of death. Can you give me any possible reason short of insanity why Donnelley would have confessed to a crime he hadn't committed? And if you can, you must also hazard a reason for his suicide.”

“I can't,” Dietrich said promptly. “You've misunderstood me. You're a young man and you haven't been on the bench too long. I've had murders before, you know.” I might have spoken, but did not. Parmelee glanced quickly from me to Dietrich, who was still speaking. “If these loose ends aren't tied up, and I just agree to a dismissal with no questions asked, it almost amounts to misfeasance. I have obligations to my office.”

“And I imagine it's embarrassing,” Parmelee said innocently. “You did such a fine job at the trial. Shame to let it go down the drain without a fight.”

“Mr. Parmelee,” I said as dryly as I could, “I think that remark was out of order. I ask you to withdraw it.”

“I withdraw it,” he said, “and apologize.”

“All right. Then I may take it that if the coroner's jury brings in a finding of suicide, and if Mrs. Donnelley—or even some of Donnelley's business associates—will verify the handwriting, state will not object to an immediate ruling by the Court.”

“That's right,” Dietrich said.

“Good enough. Now: the other matter.” The other matter! Willie Waite with his skull in small pieces: the other matter. In re Willie Waite.

Dietrich rose immediately. “I have here an information charging Bryan Talbot with the murder of Willie Waite. I now submit it.”

“What are you talking about?” Parmelee cried. “You can't submit an information at this hearing.”

“I don't know why not,” Dietrich said. “I can submit an information any time I want to.”

“That's correct,” I said.

“But this is outrageous,” Parmelee complained. “I've been so busy with Donnelley's death that I haven't had a minute to think about Willie Waite. I don't even know if there's a legitimate objection I can make to this.”

“‘This' is simply the submission of an information,” I said, “which under the circumstances will serve in lieu of an indictment. Technically you haven't even been told about it; the District Attorney could have submitted it privately any time after Willie Waite's death. Without eyewitnesses you could demand a grand jury, but with two or more eyewitnesses an information has been held to suffice. Even in murder. The murder of Willie Waite was not a Federal crime, and the first clause of the Fifth Amendment has been held repeatedly to apply only to Federal prosecutions. The states operate by their own codes or statutes provided they grant roughly equivalent protections, and in this state the information is enough provided the eyewitnesses exist. Their existence here is not, I imagine, in question. Now whether this procedure is altogether just, I can't say, but it's legal. I wish we had a Federal code to guide us, but we haven't. So if you like we can set a time now for the arraignment, and I'm sure Mr. Dietrich will join me in obliging you with whatever reasonable delay you require.”