Skeleton Key (6 page)

“Y'mother's a fine woman, she's devoted to us both,” said the elder Devlin. The words flowed perfunctorily past his lips, as if he'd learned them years ago. Ricky retorted, “Well, I know it. But doesn't she know I'm a man now? Heck, if I could find some way to prove it, kind of in public—”

“That's enough,” his father cut in loudly. “For the Lord's sake get the Jeep out of the garage so I can park my bus under cover. You know how y'mother feels about caring for the cars.”

Georgine was several yards down the road when a series of snorts and rattles made her turn. Ricky had proudly brought his jalopy to rest on the curve of the vacant lot.

Good grief
, thought Georgine,
the one spot where it's visible from every point in the street! I suppose he thinks it'll be a treat to us
.

Mr. Roy Hollister passed her in his car, with a genial wave. He slackened speed in front of No. 18, to lean out and yell, “Hullo there, Devlin! Home again, hey? How's the wide-open towns of Nevada?”

In an astonishingly surly voice John Devlin called back, “All right, I guess. What's it to you?” He turned angrily on his heel and made for the house.

Georgine wondered what made him so haggard and uneasy. The war, maybe; it got everyone down more or less. And yet the haunted look seemingly had nothing to do with the problem of bombings, nor with Ricky's desires. He'd been thinking about something else, had John Devlin, even as he argued.

She began to reflect that Grettry Road showed a very low percentage of contented residents. There, was, of course, the cheerful Mr. McKinnon, at home during the day in the house near the intersection; his mouth-organ music floated constantly onto the still air, and now and then the musician himself emerged to call at the various homes up and down the road, presumably in pursuit of his duties as a day warden. (At the home of Professor Paev, she knew by auditory evidence, he made no headway whatsoever.) There was also Mr. Peter Frey, who, insulated by his deafness from the alarms of the world, daily set up an easel in the canyon below the Gillespies' back yard, and painted untutored but pleasing landscapes.

Georgine, traversing the short cut on Tuesday evening to the great detriment of her stockings, forgetfully greeted Mr. Frey when his back was turned. He painted steadily on, the look of patient endurance quite gone from his face.

There
, she thought,
is a happy person; he's made himself a full life in spite of his handicap. But as for the others…

Maybe she was offering herself for the sacrifice, by coming out onto the level space at the foot of the road for her rest periods; but a girl had to have a breath of air now and then, and—well, it was rather interesting to see what topic of conversation appealed to each of the neighbors. “Mental adventure,” Georgine told herself on the afternoon when she met Ralph Stort coming out of the Carrnichaels' garden with an armful of flowering branches.

He seemed to feel that he must defend this action; he looked at her sulkily, and remarked, “Mimi sent me over to pick some of these. We were supposed to, you know. The two old Tories left for Carmel this morning. You see 'em?”

“I must have been at work,” said Georgine. “Otherwise I can't think how I missed the departure. It's about the only event I have missed, so far.”

“God!” said Ralph Stort violently, running a shaking hand through his lank blond hair. “I try to fix my mind on little bits of neighborhood gossip, just to keep from thinking. Sit around here and think—it's driving me mad!”

“You don't, uh, have a job to do?”

“Job?” Mr. Stort looked at her with bitterness. “What chance of a decent job does a man have in a country like this?”

“Plenty,” said Georgine with spirit. “And what's wrong with this country?”

Stort said, “And I thought you looked intelligent! It's going to hell, that's what's wrong.” His voice took on a plaintive cadence which sounded as if he talked like this from habit, to himself if no one else would listen. “Talk, talk, talk about freedom, and at the same time let a man be hounded and tortured…”

With a rather startling effect his eyes ceased to focus on her. “If I just knew what to
do
,” he muttered just audibly. “If I could get away from here, if I only dared to—”

The rest of this was lost in the roar of a plane, swooping low over the hill and streaking toward the Bay. The noise seemed to recall Mr. Stort's thoughts, for he addressed Georgine again, most of his speech being drowned out. She heard nothing but the last words. “Lost Generation,” said Mr. Stort, touching his own breast tenderly.

Georgine had considerable ado to keep from grinning. She had a strong feeling that Ralph's mysterious problems could be solved by someone like a drill sergeant, who would be glad to tell him what to do. Without that, however, he'd never get out of his muddle, whatever it might be. Not guts enough, she thought robustly.

Then his face changed, an ugly flush coming up under its blond skin. Mr. Roy Hollister had just emerged from his front door, a letter in his hand.

“Hollister! Wait a minute,” Stort called out. “I've got to see you.” Absently he thrust the flowering boughs toward Georgine. “Here, take these in to Mimi, will you?”

“Certainly not,” said Georgine crisply. “I must get back to work, I'm behind schedule as it is.”

Yet she lingered for a moment outside Professor Paev's door, watching the two figures climbing through the stippled sunlight in Grettry Road: the stocky back of Mr. Hollister, the taut thin one of Ralph Stort. Stort was talking earnestly, gesturing with the bedraggled sheaf of branches. Hollister's head moved slowly from side to side as if reiterating, “No. No.”

Gait and gesture gave her a curious impression that he was enjoying himself.

She had an inspiration. Hadn't somebody said that Mr. Harry Gillespie worked on the graveyard shift at the shipyards, and went to work at ten-thirty every night? If he'd give her a ride down the hill, she might stay in the Road through the evenings and get caught up on her work.

Mr. Gillespie was agreeable to this. She waited in his car on Wednesday night, observing the fervor with which he kissed his wife good-by at the door, and was astonished to have him start down the hill by the longest route.

Being not without an education in the ways of wolves, she had thought of Harry as strictly monogamous. Had she read him all wrong? If the road led into any dark canyons, she'd better be prepared.

“Flattering myself,” Georgine reflected dryly when, after five minutes, Mr. Gillespie abruptly turned about and drove back to Grettry Road. He was purposeful, he offered no explanation, he looked narrowly at the lighted windows of Hollister's house, and then got out and went into his own home.

He came out almost immediately, looking obscurely satisfied and relieved. “Forgot something,” said Harry, and drove off again, this time by the direct route.

H'm; funny. He hadn't—surely he hadn't expected to find his wife entertaining company at this time of night? Had he gone back in that hope, or fear?

He was very sociable now, chatting about the difficulties of night work. “Sure, like you say, it turns your life upside down. It's like walking around in a bad dream half the time. But hell,” he added simply, “the job's there to be done and it's up to anyone who can, to pitch in and do it. 'Tisn't much when you think of what the boys took on Bataan.”

He meant it, Georgine discovered with respect. You didn't often run across such candid patriotism.

“The toughest part,” Gillespie went on, “is leaving Mimi alone, nights. Of course she's got that da—her brother Ralph with her. Not that he's much good,” said Ralph's host with appalling frankness, “but he's fond of her, I'll say that for him.”

His ensuing silence seemed to demand comment. “I thought he didn't look very well,” Georgine ventured.

“Well!” Harry grunted. “He's prob'ly as strong as I am, they got him patched up good enough after that time his plane crashed, three-four years ago. But he feels pretty sorry for himself, seems like the gov'ment never has done right for him since he was old enough to vote.”

“He, uh, suffers with his nerves, I gathered.”

Mr. Gillespie gave a short laugh. “He's worried. Hasn't felt right for a month, since they sentenced his old pal Pelley. Hell, I oughtn't to 'a' said that, he wants it all forgotten about him being in the Silvershirt gang for a while; but I say, what's the odds if he's out of it now?”

I bet you never let him forget it
, Georgine thought with a flash of reluctant sympathy for Ralph. “Oh, look here,” she exclaimed as the car went round a familiar curve, “you're not to take me all the way home! Just drop me by the street-car line.”

“Not on your life,' said Mr. Gillespie gallantly. “I got plenty of time. Say, if you're going to be working nights you ought to let Hollister know. He's death on knowing just who's at home in his block.” His voice was heavy.

“Really,” said Georgine, opening the car door. “I hardly think that's necessary. He's enough of a dictator already!”

“You said it,” Harry Gillespie agreed. “Well, see you tomorrow night.”

It was odd, she thought, how omnipresent this Roy Hollister seemed; he kept turning up either in person or in conversation.

And yet the man himself was so ordinary! If you tried to describe him, you'd start out, “Well, he's an air-raid warden”—and then find yourself stumped. You might also say he was bluff and hearty: a manner which did not appeal to Georgine, but which doubtless was well-meant. He had strolled out at noon to chat.

“Well, well, Mrs. Wyeth! Still with us?”

“For a few days more, Mr. Hollister.”

“Not finished yet? How you gettin' on with the old boy's great discovery? He showed you the Death Ray yet?”

“That's only his joke,” said Georgine coolly. “I don't know what he's working on.”

“You don't?” The warden laughed heartily. “You're nearly through, and you haven't found out yet?”

“It's just words to me. I only copy, you know.”

“Oh, sure,” said Hollister vaguely. She thought,
What an empty sort of man he seems; a face like ten thousand others, and nothing but platitudes behind it… Or was that all?
He was looking searchingly at her, and for a moment something stirred and uncoiled beneath the idle sentences they had exchanged.

Georgine rose, and he laughed again and strolled away. “Got a call to make,” he said over his shoulder; almost as if that remark were significant.

She thought,
Darn him anyhow, reminding me of that old yarn about the Death Ray… I never did look at the Professor's flower bed; I wonder what it's like from down here… I could step round this side of the house and find out…

She had just managed to force her way through the outer layer of flowering shrubs when she looked up at the bathroom window. It framed a bald forehead, an ear-fringe of black hair, a pair of black eyes which were watching her steadily. The Professor appeared to be drying his hands. He was taking a long time to do it.

Georgine gave him a sunny smile and a wave, and with a falsely nonchalant air turned and waded off through the bushes, in quite another direction.

It was later that Thursday afternoon when she held brief converse with Claris Frey. Claris had emerged from her own front door, waving good-by to Mr. Todd McKinnon, resplendent in his warden's armband, who had seemingly been paying the last of his duty calls. Then she came wandering down the road, fetching up beside Georgine and gazing disconsolately out across the canyon. “Darn him,” she murmured vaguely, “darn him, anyhow!”

“Who?” Georgine inquired, smiling, “Mr. McKinnon?”

“Oh, no. He's a good Joe; he dried the dishes for me, while he was waiting to call on Daddy, and then he never did get to. No, I mean Mr. Hollister. Did you see him come out of our house?”

“No, I just came out.”

“I bet he was lookin' pleased with himself,” Claris said, her soft hazel eyes bright with resentment. “He pinched me.” She rubbed herself reminiscently. “As if it wasn't bad enough that he kept Dad until too late for us to go downtown! We were going to buy a war bond, and then get me a new sweater—Dad always thinks he has to choose the color—and now the banks are shut and it's too late. I broke a date, too, just so I could do something Dad asked me to, for once, and old Hollister has to come in and tell dirty stories for an hour first, and hold us up!”

“Dear me,” Georgine said. “Dirty stories, to you?”

“Oh, no. I was in the kitchen, but I think that's what he was writing to Dad. On the pad, you know. Fact is, I'm almost sure, because the pages he'd written were burning in the fireplace when I went in—and I could hear him laughing while Dad read them.”

“Always pleased with his own jokes,” Georgine murmured. “Was your father amused?”

“How do I know? He doesn't laugh aloud, much. I could hear just about what he usually says when people are writing on his pad. ‘No, I can't do that,' and ‘what makes you think so,' and ‘I see your point there.' Sounds absolutely dumb,” said Claris languidly.

“Has your father been deaf long?” Georgine asked.

“Since I was little. My mother was living with us then. I don't remember much about it, but he told me there was an explosion in the factory where he worked, and he—well, he couldn't even talk for a couple of years after.” Georgine clicked her tongue. “Oh, they paid him for it, we're still getting money from some kind of a fund they had, but—he learned to talk again, but he couldn't go back to work because he couldn't hear. He doesn't seem to mind, most of the time,” said Claris with superb callousness. “Look, there he goes down into the canyon to work.” She sighed, her lovely young face slack with boredom, and turned to depart. “Maybe I'd better see if I can unbreak that movie date, I haven't got a darn thing to do.”