Something in the Shadows (5 page)

At quarter-to-six Wednesday morning the storm began suddenly; water splashed over the earth like another whole world had landed smack in the middle of the watery heavens above; now it was spilling over. Lou was running around the large upstairs bedroom naked, closing windows, long hairy legs and huge toes Janice always made fun of. Or use to. “Dese ain’t toes, Lou-zee, dese is fingers. Ummm, kiss zem!” Long time ago.

“God! Coming down!” Lou muttered.

Janice turned over in the bed and blew her nose hard into a Kleenex she pulled from a wad under her pillow. The sound of Stilt’s paws on the bare parts of the floor as he crossed the room made her turn back, greet him. “You afraid, baby?”

The big dog wagged his tail and crept over to the bedside.

“Don’t like the bad old mean old naughty old storm?”

Lou was scratching a match, a cigarette hanging from his lips, facing the window, staring out.

“Poor Stilt-zun, baby!” She reached down and hugged the dog. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said. “All the thirsty ground is getting a drink. You
know
how you drink out of the toilet sometimes when you’re thirsty? Well, the ground is thirsty now and God’s giving it a drink.”

“That’s right, Stilt,” said Lou. “God is up in heaven flushing His almighty toilet.”

Janice said, “Are the floors wet?”

“I’ll get a sponge from the bathroom. They’re not bad.”

“Lou?”

“What?” Naked he always looked so vulnerable to her. All she had to do to forgive him times when it was rough, was remember him naked. Poor, skinny.

“Bring some fresh water, hmm?”

He picked up the glass from the bed table and walked towards the bathroom. It had been good last night; it was always very good when Janice rewarded him, and last night she had rewarded him for being nice, finally, about those people the Meakers. At first he had been very angry with her for accepting the invitation; then he had come around and agreed, what would it hurt? Janice had kissed him like she was nineteen again, nipping his cheeks and neck, surprising him.

It had been that way too often to count since she was nineteen, but it had never been as natural after nineteen, and she had always thought of her younger self there in bed with him, as though her older self were sitting in a chair across the room, tiredly waiting for the high-strung girl in bed with Lou to relax, so she could take her place once Lou dropped off to sleep, send the girl back where she came from, the Past.

“Stilt is a booboly-boo,” Janice said, hugging the dog. “Stilt is a little butterfly, not a great big old baggy booboly-boo!”

The dog whined at her silly tones and became himself silly, making coy gestures with his paw on the side of the bed, his enormous tongue flagging the air, trying for her hand.

Lou came back into the bedroom wearing his light-blue towel-cloth robe, slippers, the cigarette dangling from his lips, the glass of water in his hands. She knew it irritated him to have Stilt in the bedroom, and almost as if to aggravate him, she continued talking to the dog. “Booby, booby, boo-boo!” — that way, the way Tony loved and Lou hated. Why aggravate good old Lou? No reason. He brought the water dutifully. He said nothing about Stilt, even gave him a pat on the head as he passed him. Still, “Loopty, doopty, boopty, Stoopty-Stilt!” said Janice. Stilt barked, three sharp crashing barks, and jumped full on the bed.

Lou ignored it. “Can you go back to sleep?” he said to her.

“Doubt it.”

“Shall I make some coffee?”

“I can.”

He hated to make coffee. He made no protest at her offer, and sat on the bureau’s edge smoking.

Janice pushed the dog off the bed.

“Really coming down!” said Lou.

“I can make instant and bring it up to you right away, or wait twenty minutes for regular,” Janice told him.

“All right. Instant.”

“I told you I could make regular if you want it!” Janice said. She wondered why she felt mean that morning. It even was in her voice, the meanness.

“Instant is fine,” he said.

Janice walked out of the bedroom, “Come on, Stiltsy, Pill-Stilt,
mon
booby!”

“Go on with her,” she heard Lou say. “Get the hell — ” and a smug smile of satisfaction pressed at her lips over the accomplishment of his anger. She went downstairs wondering why sometimes, for no reason, she played this game with herself; to see if she could ignite his anger, even when she loved him and would do anything in the world for him — except make regular coffee if she could worm out of it.

She boiled the water, listening to him move about upstairs. She heard the sound of the hallway closet opening, being closed — it stuck, so he had to bang it a few times; but it was a gentle bang — over the anger as quickly as she was over her meanness, and she thought, oh God, not the goddam back-number magazines at six in the morning! She measured out teaspoons of coffee. All right, what of it if he killed time that way! Let him read all the old
Looks
and
Lifes
he wanted to, back to the Dark Ages, for all she cared, why should it get her? Then she knew the reason she had felt mean: Lou had just plain out and out stopped caring one so-called tinker’s goddam about Right Now. Last night had proved it! They had not had an invitation to anyone’s house for dinner since Mother Hart was alive and used to have them on Saturday nights!

Lou had said, “Who the hell meets people by walking up to them in a parking lot and introducing themselves! Then inviting them to dinner!”

“Maybe,” Janice had said, “Just maybe, Lou, that is the way it is being done now, for all
we
know. Times may have changed, for all
we
know. All I know is that at this point I would accept an invitation at dinner at a werewolf’s house!”

Janice put sugar in her cup and cream in Lou’s; then poured the boiling water into both and stirred. Sure it was strange: guy just marches up to Lou at the shopping centre, introduces himself; next day his wife calls and asks them to dinner. Janice herself would no more do that than ride a horse naked through Philadelphia, but she supposed some people were like that. They were new out here and all; he’d noticed Lou’s car passing his house, found out they lived on the same street. What of it? Pssss; Janice chuckled. She had married Lou a year before she was twenty, and her twenties were Lou’s head buried in medical books while she turned into the “before” version of a Good Housekeeping Clinic on Young Newlyweds. Lou was like dope or something. She had loved him too much; her mother always told her that and it was the truth. Diapers, dishes, dusty volumes from Father Hart’s library stacked on the floor — all in one furnished room and Janice barely out of bobbysocks.

• • •

From the shelf beside the stove, Janice grabbed a teakwood tray, set the cups of steaming coffee on it. The pyjamas lent her a younger look than dresses did; they were Lou’s, and too big, so they hid the fact she had put on weight, weighed nearly 150, and she was tall, too. Face it, it’s fat, she told herself; herself was not too disturbed. She was all right. Red hair and freckles and blue eyes, no more looked thirty-nine than Lou looked Chinese. Tony said she was a dead ringer for Greer Garson, and Tony would sit around with her and talk, tell her all the gossip about the stars! His imitations of Louella Parsons used to leave Janice doubled-up. “And now here’s another exclusive from Hollywood’s film colony — Rita Maybe has a bad case of hair lice, but her physicians assured me this morning that they will not spread to her fabulous thirty-six-inch bust, known all through Filmland. They are strictly head lice; so, good luck, Rita!”

Stilt goosed Janice with his nose all the way up the stairs, while Janice squealed and the coffee spilled on the tray. In the bedroom, Lou was sitting in the wing chair, a magazine across his lap.

“Look,” he said, holding up the magazine for Janice to see the cover. “Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland. 1940.”

“You
look!” she said. “Janice and Lou Hart. Breakfast in the bedroom. 1960.” She put the tray on the bed table. “The Present.”

“Breakfast?”

“If you’d wanted toast, Lou, you should have said so.”

“I didn’t. They have an article glorifying a weekend in Havana. Mickey Rooney was still making Andy Hardy pictures, for Pete’s sake.”

“One thing I hate about this rain is that I was going to New Hope to hunt for a dress this afternoon.”

“What for?”

“For a dress.”

“I know, but what for?”

“I need one.”

“I know what for,” said Lou, reaching across for the coffee, “for Friday.”

“All right, for Friday. What’s wrong with that?”

“They could be nudists, for all we know about them.”

“Well, was he wearing clothes at the shopping centre?”

“You never told me exactly what she said when she called. What did she say, exactly?”

“She said she was Mrs. Joseph Meaker. Margie or Maggie, she said, was her first name. She said her husband had told her we were neighbours, and she wondered if we would have dinner with them Friday.”

“And that was all.”

“She said they were both communists and the last time they had made love was two weeks ago, and they had one child who was a hydrocephalic, and one who was a cretin, and neither of them liked prunes, and both were from Tanganyika, and both smoked Newport cigarettes because they liked that cool menthol flavour.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, what was she supposed to say?”

“Who are they? She could tell us that! What do they do? What do they want from us?”

“They want to poison us.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me.”

“They’ve seen that flashy car of yours and they think we’re millionaires. They’re after our money.”

“What did she sound like?”

“She spoke in a Tanganyikan dialect. It was hard to tell.”

“I just hope you think it’s this amusing Friday night.”

“Anything for a change, as the flat tyre said to the jack.”

“I know,” Lou said.

She wished he had not said it in such a gentle way, edged with a certain self-deprecation. It made her sorry for him that he was sorry for her, or for them — whichever way it was — and ready to take the blame. She had been enjoying herself up to that moment, sparring with him, pleased by her own sharp humour; she did not like it that he brought her back from there to here, with two words and the old tone of disenchantment. She looked across at him and for the briefest moment their eyes met, and she wished there were a way for her to tell him that half of her was just an act, that none of it had really been that bad. They used to talk and talk, remember? When they were first married they used to lie in bed and talk sometimes until it was light, and neither one had any sleep, and Lou had his classes and she had the mess of the day and Tony already stirring in his crib, but God it was glorious how they never got tired of one another’s voice! Even now, she liked talking with Lou; they talked a lot — that was all there was to do — but it was different. Then she used to be able to say things she was thinking. If now was then she could simply have said, “Dammit, Lou, I’ve liked it, really; it’s been good, and I don’t
mean
this — the way I am!” But it would just embarrass both of them now, and Lou would probably end it by saying something like, “Well then, let’s not go Friday night.” It was different. That was why she was always sitting in the chair across the room those nights, waiting for the high-strung girl in bed with Lou to relax, so she could get some sleep.

“Where’s dat great big butterfly doggie-bob?” Janice called out. It was as though she was seeing herself as some character in a movie, some woman who was really insensitive, really dumb! Calling her dog the one way Lou hated (was it because she used to talk to
him
that way? Bright gal, she thought, very good at snappy deductions!) while Lou sat there, feeling sorry about everything. She thought, well, say something to him; that lousy “I know” is still hanging in the air above us; so say something.

“You’re thin, Lou. I wish you’d eat more.”

“Maybe the Meakers will serve up a Tanganyikan boar.” He was smiling. He was trying too, she realized.

“I remember the old Andy Hardy pictures,” she said.

Dr. Hart’s voice drifted into the kitchen, where Maggie stood poking the potatoes with a fork.

“… yes, sure, but the symbols differ with the county. There’s the star motive in Berks County, and the flower pattern favoured by the farmers around Lehigh and Northampton. I’ve seen horses’ heads, and the iron cross of Germany.”

“I’ve seen the swastika effect in fractur painting,” Joseph said, “but never as hexerei. Nor the cross.”

“Hexerei plays only the slightest part in the symbols, Joe,” Dr. Hart answered, “you admitted that earlier when — ”

Maggie smiled at the “Joe.” No one ever thought to call Joseph that, and the first time the doctor had said it, Maggie had expected Joseph to correct him. Joseph had done no such thing; in fact Joseph was not himself this evening. He was behaving as though he had had a drink, which he had not had; he was loose, somehow, and very nearly gay. The evening was off to a start very unlike Maggie’s week-long, worried conception of it. A moment before the Harts had pulled in the drive, Joseph had said, “Well, it’s almost time for Ishmael’s killer to arrive.” And Maggie had told him again that the whole idea of the evening was the most insane she ever heard.

“That’s just what it isn’t,” Joseph said. “I’m not going to say one thing about Ishmael, not one thing. You’ll see.”

“What will I see?” Maggie really wanted to know; what was Joseph’s point?

Joseph said, “I just want to know what a killer is like. It’s only for my own satisfaction.”

When Joseph first announced she was to invite the Harts to dinner, Maggie refused to believe he was serious. She made all the predictable protests, such as her thinking they would be the last people Joseph would want in his home, and her thinking Joseph was having a delayed reaction to his pet’s death that was not far from the “bughouse,” and her thinking Joseph had something else up his sleeve he was not telling her.

But Joseph was adamant. “Just do it,” was his answer, “just phone them and stop trying to make a Freudian case history out of it.”

• • •

It was an embarrassing thing to have to do — invite perfect strangers to dinner; but Joseph had persisted until he wore her down. The next day at A.&F. Maggie was a wreck thinking about it. Tom Spencer said Joseph’s behaviour was the typical scholar’s.

“Don’t you see, doll,” said Tom Spencer, “he’s got to rationalize his grief, nail it down, understand it. He’ll have these characters to dinner and he’ll find a way to pity them; then he’ll forgive them. It’s the old ‘understand your enemy’ bit.”

Maggie shut the oven door and turned the dial to 250. From the sound of things in the living room, Joseph’s little scheme was backfiring. He was actually having the time of his life. Maggie herself was enjoying the Harts. She poked her head around the corner of the kitchenway and caught Janice Hart’s eye beckoning her.

“Can I help you, Maggie?”

“How many drinks does the doctor like before dinner? Potatoes are done; I can put the steaks in any time.”

“Leave it up to
him,
we’ll never eat!” said Janice. Maggie and she laughed like conspirators in the grim game of husband management.

Maggie said, “One last one?”

“I’ll make it. I’ll get his glass.”

“Wait, how’s he like his steaks? I’ve got individuals.”

“Bloody!” Janice said, making a face. “Medium for me.”

Maggie hauled the steaks out of the refrigerator while Janice went for the doctor’s glass. From the sound of things, the doctor drank. He was probably drunk Sunday night, never mind Joseph’s diatribe about sober, purposeful murder. Joseph was in no mental shape to size up anything or anyone Sunday night. He had cried like a kid; he had insisted on digging a hole out in back, in the dark, burying the cat immediately, and he had sat up past midnight making a marker out of the side of a beer case. R.I.P. he had printed across it in blue paint; “You know what it stands for, Maggie?”

“Latin for rest in peace, isn’t it?”

Joseph had said, “No. English for Retaliation Is Promised.” That was Joseph’s mental shape Sunday night.

Janice Hart put her husband’s glass on the sideboard and said, “You think they’d known each other all their lives.”

“Wouldn’t you? I’ve never seen Joseph take to anyone so fast.”

“Lou doesn’t usually take to anyone, period.”

“That’s odd. I was going to say the exact words about Joseph.”

“Really?”

“Honey,” Maggie said, “he’s not even that friendly with me!”

Janice Hart laughed, and it was understood between her and Maggie how much they enjoyed one another. It gave Janice courage to say, “Lord, and you don’t know how I dreaded this evening!”

“Do
you
know,” said Maggie, “that Joseph had to practically twist my arm to get me to make the phone call? I said, ‘Good God, they’ll think we’re pushy New York Jews, or something, asking strangers to dinner'.” She had said no such thing.

“Oh, it wasn’t that you called up out of the blue,” said Janice. “It was just that I thought Lou would be bored — he’s so unsocial — then he’d blame it on me, and we’d be off to the races, if you know what I mean.”

“Janice, my new friend,” Maggie said, her Scotches resting warmly inside her, “I know exactly what you mean!”

“Isn’t this wonderful?”

“Wonderful!”

“Lord, I think I’ll have a third martini. I
never
do!”

“Take the doctor his drink,” Maggie said, “I’ll make one for you.”

“Be right back!” Janice Hart promised emphatically.

Happily, Maggie reached for the gin bottle. She found herself singing a bit of the new Picks commercial, “It’s like the old days, sunrays, blue-sky-high-days. Pick a pack of tickled-pin Picks, let go, let go!”

Lou Hart knew he was doing all the talking at dinner, but it was different, wasn’t it, when the person listening to you was really fascinated with what you were saying? Never mind Janice and Maggie Meaker — they were high and silly now; but Joseph Meaker was cold sober, his eyes watching Lou’s every time Lou looked across the table at him, his head nodding with interest. “Go on,” he’d say, “this is interesting to me, go on — ”

Lou continued, “Well, I’d heard a lot about these fellows. They’re competition after all. Be surprised how many people still go to them too. I thought I’d have some fun, see for myself; so I went to one.”

“Isn’t it illegal?” Maggie Meaker interrupted. Lou wished the women would take their coffee and go into the living room and chatter, the way they had in the kitchen before dinner. He could reach Joseph Meaker; Meaker was a serious student, every bit as fascinated by Dutch Pennsylvania as Lou was — but Maggie and Janice were just polite, asking needless questions, making idle comments.

“Yes, of course, but so is fortune telling, and all the rest of it. Besides, the police never get any complaints. A lot of these pow-wow fellows actually
do
relieve ailments, same way medicine men are often effective in tribal areas.”

“Go on,” said Joseph Meaker.

“Tell about that word people say when they think they’ve been hexed, Lou. What is it? German sounding.”

“I will!” said Lou angrily. “If you give me a chance!”

“Oh, my, aren’t we sensitive tonight,” from Janice; and Maggie giggling over the remark with her. Lou ignored them. He saw the slight flicker of irritation in Joseph’s eyes, too.

He directed his conversation to Joe,
“Verhext
is the word. People go to these pow-wow fellows and tell them they’re
verhext,
and ask the fellows to help them. Fellow I went to thought I had kidney trouble. You know what he gave me? A sheet of paper. On it there were eight identical groups of cryptic letters, arranged in a square. He told me to cut off a letter a day and eat it. Chew it up and swallow it!”

“God!” Maggie Meaker said. “What a commercial you could write around that product. Friends,” she said, imitating an announcer’s voice, “have you had your morning paper?”

Janice guffawed, and Maggie shook with laughter, while Joseph Meaker sat stirring his coffee with a glum expression. Lou attempted a smile, since it had been Maggie Meaker’s joke, and not Janice’s, but he felt the same way Joe did. Why did women have to make something silly out of everything? Particularly when they had a few drinks. Lou Hart had no patience with happy drunks; even common sense said liquor was a depressant.

“Do you believe everything you eat in your evening paper?” Janice trying to top Maggie; both on a laughing jag now.

“Oh Lord,” Janice sighed, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Lord, Tony would love you, Maggie!”

“Who?”

“My son. Tony.”

“I didn’t know you had children!”

“Just Tony. He’s on an art scholarship in Paris. He has the same sense of humour we have!”

“You got a grown son? I don’t believe it!”

Joseph Meaker sighed, and Lou saw his wife give him a dirty look. He said to Joe, “Why don’t we do the male thing, and leave the ladies with the dishes?”

“Fine!” said Joseph Meaker.

The pair got up from the long oak table, before the fireplace in the dining section of the kitchen, and walked into the living room. Lou Hart was high enough not to care whether or not it was proper to bring along the bottle of brandy with his glass.

Janice hissed at him, “Just go easy on that stuff!”

Upstairs Maggie was taking Janice Hart on a tour of the house. Joseph hoped they would take a long time; he had been waiting for this moment all evening. Across from him, Louis Hart sat glassy-eyed and confidential, spilling a little of the brandy’s ember juice on the marble-top coffee table as he poured more into his glass.

“… don’t know what you’re getting at,” he was saying. “Sure, a doctor’s life is different from other people’s; so’s a plumber’s.”

Joseph said, “I mean, a doctor gets a different viewpoint, doesn’t he? People are so much flesh and bones.”

“So much piles and prolapses!” Lou Hart snickered. “Hell, Joe, these people I treat — these farm people — everything wrong with them’s wrong below the belt. I’ve become a goddam ass doctor’s all.”

“That’s what I mean, Louis. You get a different outlook as a doctor. Life is cheap, hmmm?”

“I suppose it is.”

Joseph Meaker watched him brush the pool of spilled brandy with his fingers, wipe them across his pants, sloppy, careless. He thought of Ishmael, how he used to wash his face by licking his paws and brushing one paw up past his ears and around his whiskers, meticulous about keeping clean. Grief tugged at Joseph; he remembered what it was like to leave Maggie and her guests downstairs and go up into his study, Ishmael tagging along at his heels. He felt a crazy urge to blurt out, “You killed my cat and I’m going to get even with you,” but he simply smiled at Hart across the table, as though there were nothing in the world wrong. He would get to know Louis Hart and find his own way of retaliating, custom-made for Dr. Louis Hart. He decided it was either going to be a very simple accomplishment, or one almost too complicated to fathom. He liked to imagine that he was enjoying the suspense in the situation, that he was effecting a slow and somehow graceful manoeuvering; but he was well aware of the fact that his emotions were too often taut in the confrontation with Louis Hart, and under the façade of calm there was turmoil. Earlier at dinner, Joseph had looked across at Hart’s plate and seen there a piece of bloody-looking animal, done as the doctor had prescribed, and the steak in Joseph’s mouth, cooked well-done, with not even a pink shade to it, had tasted sanguineous suddenly; horrible! He had wanted to shout, “Get your blood-lust out of my sight; you, go!” But instead, he covered his own steak with a leaf from the salad, unable to eat any more.

“I still don’t get what you mean?” Hart said to him now.

“What I mean, is that seeing death is sort of a part of your business. The body is dead; long live the body. Do you understand me?”

“Yes. Death doesn’t mean much.”

“Did you ever think that a doctor makes a perfectly understandable murderer.”

He saw Hart hesitate, saw Hart’s face blanch. “No.”

“Well, think a moment, Louis. Look at the big murder cases. Dr. Sam Sheppard. Dr. Adams. Dr. Finch. Always doctors. Why? Because they see death all around them: they know better than anyone that life amounts to a bag of bones. It’s easy for them to murder.”

“Just the opposite, I’d say. It’s hard for anyone to imagine someone who saves lives, taking lives. So it makes better newspaper copy!”

“Still where are the famous murder cases involving lawyers, or clergymen, or professors, or bankers, writers, artists?”

“I don’t follow murder cases. I don’t know. Why do you know so much about it all, Joe? Whatsa folklorist doing reading murder cases?”

“The newspapers are full of them!”

“Who played the world series this year, Joe?”

“How would I know?”

“Newspapers are full of sports, too.”

“Look,” Joseph Meaker said, “I haven’t got anything to keep
me
awake nights.”

“Ha! I wish I didn’t.”

“Ah, so you do, hmm?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Let me put it another way,” said Joseph. “What do you think of hunters?”

“I don’t think about them.” “Do you post your land?”

“Sure. Little enough business without them knocking off a good case of gastrogenous diarrhoea on me!” Lou Hart chuckled and reached again for the brandy.

“What’s your philosophy about hunting?”

“Well, I only know about the deer. This is a surplus area. I’ve seen them come into my place starved. A bullet in the fall is kinder than slow starvation in the winter.”

“Do you think the hunters are hunting out of kindness, Louis?”

“Naturally not. But the result’s the same.”

Joseph had felt so near a short time ago; now it was slipping, the moment was passing, like dreams, when the thing you are trying to catch hold of escapes through your fingers, swift slippery.

Louis put the cap back on the bottle of Remy Martin. “We’re all of us hunters in a way?”

“How do you mean that? I’m certainly not. I’ve never hunted anything.”