Come Destroy Me (11 page)

There in the dirt he sank to his knees and was sick.

R
USSEL LOFTON
stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel to dry himself. When he was finished he put the towel around his waist and looked at the profile of his figure in the full-length mirror. He pulled up his chest and sucked in his stomach and he thought, Lordy, I have a damn fine physique for a man who doesn’t work at it.

He had no use for those men at Rotary luncheons who refused potatoes and skipped desserts because of their diets. Some things were just inevitable. Some men would get fat in their forties, and others would stay slim. Some men would grow opinionated and set in their ways, and others would remain open-minded and elastic.

Women were the same way, too. Take Em, for example. Over the years it had seemed to Russel Lofton that Emily Wright had never changed. That was ridiculous, of course, and yet there was a kernel of truth in such an observation. Em had never been what one would consider a
young
woman. She was spry and active and aggressive, but she was not young. Em was always static. She liked to cook and she liked to work, and after both, she liked to go to bed early and get up the next day and do the same thing. Lordy, Em didn’t even seem to enjoy her children. She certainly didn’t understand them. She might understand young Chucker because there was not much to understand there. It was clear-cut. The kid was a bookworm. But Evie — Em would never understand Evie.

Lordy, he knew how Evie seemed to other people. A silly child, sophomoric, he supposed, and that was undoubtedly the reason Miss Jill Latham had refused to hire her for the inventory job. Well, he’d patch that up. As soon as he finished dressing he’d pay a visit to Miss Jill and talk with her about Evie. Lordy, if people could only see the depth to Em Wright’s daughter. She
was
a wild sort of a kid, he guessed, but all she needed was something to occupy her mind. Something and someone to keep her away from holligans like Jim Prince.

Prince had been calling her, too, and Lofton resented the way Em told her she hadn’t ought to moon around the house all the time. Em had said that after all, Prince said he was sorry. It was pitiful, really, the way Em didn’t understand the problems a young girl faced.

Lofton put on clean white shorts and went through the bathroom into the bedroom closet. He selected his lightweight blue linen suit, a white shirt with short sleeves, and a matching blue tie. Jill Latham was a beautiful woman, he thought to himself, and it was queer that he had never been much interested in meeting her more than casually. She was not too much younger than he was himself, mid-thirties, he supposed. Yet he had lost interest in women about three years before his own wife died. Could a man simply lose interest? Golly darn, it wasn’t normal or anything like that, but it was true.

Sure, since he had met Evie, he
had
started thinking about women and things like that, but not in relation to Evie. Geehosopher, no! Why, that would be asinine. It was just that Evie had these problems and they had started him remembering again. Remembering his own youth. Lordy, no one would call him a Don Juan or anything. No one ever had. But he had his memories. For heaven’s sake, everyone did. Even Em. Didn’t she? Sure, even Em.

The library clock struck seven and Lofton stuck a white handkerchief in the pocket of his suit. He inspected himself once more before the mirror over his bureau in the bedroom, and then he turned to go. Golly, all he had to do was explain Evie to Jill Latham. She’d understand. Lordy, she probably went through that same stage herself
years
ago.

• • •

Charlie heard the clock too.

He was sitting out on the back-porch steps after dinner. He had a book in his hands, a book of mythology, and he didn’t give one single damn about that clock or the library. In a word, he was through. Through with kid stuff. Her. That silly kid stuff. He was going to read about mythology. Mom had cooked stuffed cabbage for dinner and he could still smell it, taste it. Gee, he was full from it. The hell with her. Jill Latham. The
hell
with her!

Well, so what if he was reading about Eros? The god of love! A guy had to know this crap to get in college! He turned the pages rather more rapidly than he usually did. Tonight he did not feel like deliberating over the words. But wait now, wait. What the devil did
that
line say? The line describing Eros. Charlie turned back a few pages, his finger running down the rows of sentences until he found the passage he was looking for. A description of Eros, all right. Gee!

Charlie began to memorize the words.
Evil his heart. Honey-sweet his tongue. Evil his heart. Evil his heart.
Oh, Christmas, Christmas, Christmas and Easter, what was the matter with him? What was happening to him? Was there no way? None! Oh, God, he was so filled with it, right up to his head, drowning in it — this obsession.

Look, one minute he made his mind up that he didn’t give a damn. The next minute he started in all over. It was something like a roller coaster. You get on and you take a few loops and you say well, hell, they were bad but the worst is over and nothing will faze me now. Then another loop and your stomach’s flipping all over again and there’s no way to get off.

The other night wasn’t your fault, fellow. That Jill dame is a dizzy dame. She got you drunk.

I can hold my liquor.

You’re just a kid. You’re too young to drink.

I’m no kid! Get that straight! I’ve been a kid all my life but I’m no kid any more. Besides, she needs me. She needs my help.

You couldn’t help a flea.

I know it.

You’re a sap!

I know it. I know it.

Charlie closed the book and made his forehead wrinkle the way he would if he were going to cry, but he couldn’t cry. If he could only cry or drop dead in the grass or go to China or something fantastic like that. He was no damn good
this
way.

“Jill, when you kissed me, the reason I cried was because it was so beautiful.”

“I thought it was beautiful, too. Charles Wright.”

“Jill, don’t drink any more. Please. I love you.”

“I never will drink again. I don’t need to now. Do you understand that? Since I met you I simply don’t need to.”

Nuts! She wouldn’t say that in a million years. She’s a tank!

The back door slammed and Charlie turned around to see his sister standing behind him. For once Old Daddy Lofton had sponged a meal off someone else.

He said, “What do you want?”

“I have to want something?”

“I don’t know.” Evie was kind of goofy lately. Dreamy and goofy. She stood there in her yellow cotton dress, barefoot, her hands in the pockets of her dress.

Remember Jill’s bare feet?

“What are you reading?”

“Junk.”

“Well, what?”

“Stuff for school.”

“Mythology, huh?”

“Yeah.”

It was late in life to start conversations with his sister, for the love of Pete. “Do you like it?”

“Whatsa difference?”

“Do you have to be so fresh?”

“Who cares?”

“We could start acting like brother and sister,” Evie said, “instead of archenemies.”

Now, that was a hell of a thing to say. What did Evie want to say blubber like that for?

“I suppose
he
told you to say something like that.”

“Who?”

“You know who. Mr. Lofton.”

Evie turned her back and opened the screen. “You’ll never change,” she said bitterly. “You’re an ornery little pipsqueak, and you’ll never change.”

Charlie shouted after her, “I’m bigger than you are!”

She made him sick. His mother was right. She was mooning around all the time lately. Now she was trying to play the loving-sister role. Aw, God, human beings were a dumb bunch. Everybody had an act, and nobody knew which play the rest of them were in, or even if it was the same play. Hit and miss. Hit and miss.
Hit and run.

Yeah, that’s the only way to last.

Charlie sat for a while and looked out at the mountains. He couldn’t even look at mountains any more without thinking of something filthy dirty. Ah, Lord, he ought to get up and go in the house and talk to his mother. Couldn’t he even talk to his mother once in a while?

Charlie stood up. He was wearing a white polo shirt and khaki pants, sneakers on his feet, and no socks. There was no sense wearing socks in the summer. They stank. He sighed and pressed his lips together in a gesture of self-disgust and pulled at the handle of the screen door.

His mother was in the kitchen. She was rinsing the dishes and her forehead was beaded with perspiration, her nose was shiny, and there were beads of perspiration above her lip. Like a mustache. If he had been lucky enough to have a father he wouldn’t be in a mess. Boys needed fathers. Everybody knew that.

Charlie said, “Hi, Mom.”

“Hello, honey. Working awfully hard?”

“Not too.”

“Well, don’t. It’s too hot. You’re smart enough.”

Charlie leaned against the sink and watched her. What did other boys think to say when they talked to their mothers? He had never had any trouble before this all happened to him.

Had he?

It was funny. He couldn’t remember what he had been like before it all happened.

Something else was funny too. He didn’t think much about the kiss. Oh, my gosh, yes, he thought about it enough, but not all the time. So Jill kissed him. So what? Christmas, it had made him feel strange. He had thought, Now she’s kissing me and I can feel her lips and it’s all terribly different than I ever imagined it. There are no flares going up, no cannons going off, no harps, no stars, no blood in my neck. He had thought, Now she’s kissing me and it’s an interesting thing, a hazy, green sort of thing that I would just as soon have happen, but is it supposed to be this way? Is it supposed to be better than this? He had thought, Perhaps I would rather kiss my own wrist than the lips of the lady I love.

Charlie’s mother left the dishes stacked on the drain-board and struggled with the strings of her apron. Charlie could have helped her. He thought of helping her but he didn’t. He didn’t know why he didn’t want to touch her.

His mother said, “Whew, some weather!” and Charlie said yeah, he was going to take a walk. Take a walk and cool off.

• • •

Russel Lofton sat uneasily on the edge of the cushioned rocker in Jill Latham’s living room. He wished he had never come in the first place. Geehosopher, she was on her third drink. His finger traced the sweat on the side of his glass as he listened to her talk.

She said, “Oh, my, I can appreciate all that you are trying to do for the young lady. Of course I can. I
certainly
can. Oh, it isn’t that I don’t
like
her. Evie Wright.”

“Well, it’s up to you,” Lofton answered. “I really didn’t come here to push the idea.”

“I rather imagine everyone likes the young lady, as she is so
very
attractive
and — young.
Mr. James Prince and everyone. Indubitably! There’s every reason…. I, however, had something else in mind. Really, I find it hard to explain it. It is very possible I will do the inventory myself.” She tittered in a high shrill way and pressed her hand to her mouth as though she too were startled by the sound. “Why not?” she said. “I may very possibly do it
un-assis-ted.”
She leaned forward for the glass decanter that looked as though it contained water. Lofton knew she was drinking straight gin.

He said, “Well. It’s been nice talking to — ”

“Oh, my, no,” she interrupted. “You won’t run off so
soon.
Really, now. Now. Now, this is a
social
call. A social visit whereby a gentleman has called to pay his respects to a lady, and we are serving refreshments. Now. Now. I have some pota-to chips in the kitchen. I have. Most certainly. You
will
stay?”

Lordy, Lofton thought, she’s bugs. Alcoholic. Lordy. He said. “Well, only for a minute or two. I have an appointment later.”

It was a good thing he found out about Jill Latham before he encouraged Evie to try for the job again, or before he convinced Jill Latham to hire Evie. Talk about bad environment. Lordy.

Miss Latham rose and walked across the room slowly, with a somewhat stumbling regal air that was comic and sad, and at the entranceway to the kitchen she turned and wagged a finger at Lofton.

“Do not attempt to flee, now. No fair. Remember. No fair.”

“I’ll be right here,” he said. He wondered how long she had been this way, and if the people of Azrael were aware of it. Usually he heard all the gossip at Rotary luncheons on Tuesdays, but no one ever mentioned Jill Latham. He pictured himself telling Davy Cork and Roy Elliot about this evening. He had to chuckle. Even though he wished he were not there, it would make a darn good story.
This wacky dame starts talking about my being a gentleman caller, see, and she says she’s got pota-to chips and I shouldn’t flee.
Lofton was grinning when Jill Latham came back carrying a green dish full of potato chips.