The Fiend (22 page)

But Virginia had already gone. Jessie turned up the sound on the television set. Horses were thudding furiously across the des­ert as if they were trying to get away from the loud music that pursued them. Above the horses' hoofs and trumpets, Jessie could hear Virginia laughing out on the patio. She sounded very gay.

(17)

The pain began
, as it usually did, when Charlie was a couple of blocks away from his house. It started in his left shoulder and every heartbeat pushed it along, down his arm and up his neck into his head until he was on fire. Alone in his room with no one to bother him, he could endure the pain and even derive some satisfaction from not taking anything to relieve it. But tonight Ben was waiting for him. Questions would be asked— some trivial, some innocent, some loaded—and answers to them would be expected. It would be at least an hour before he was allowed to go into his room and be by himself to plan what he would say to Jessie.

He stopped for a red light and was reaching into the glove compartment for the bottle of aspirin he kept there when he remembered that he wasn't driving the green coupé any more. There was no bottle of aspirin in this one, only a map of Los Angeles, unfolded and torn, as if someone had crammed it into the glove compartment in a fit of impatience.

The light turned green. He drove past the house. Ben's car was parked in the driveway, looking, to Charlie, exactly like its owner, not new anymore but sturdy and clean and well taken care of, with no secret trouble in the engine.

The drug store was around the corner, one block down. There was no one in the store but Mr. Forster, the owner, who was behind the prescription counter reading the evening newspaper.

“Well, it's you, Charlie.” Mr. Forster took off his spectacles and tucked them in the pocket of his white jacket. “Long time no see. How are you?”

“Not so good, Mr. Forster.”

“Yes, I see that. Yes, indeed.” Mr. Forster was the chief diagnostician of the neighborhood, even for people who had their own doctors. Out of respect for his position his customers always addressed him as Mr. Forster and so did his wife. He took his responsibilities very seriously, subscribing to the A.M.A. journal and
Lancet,
and reading with great care the advertising material that accompanied each new drug sample.

“A bit feverish, aren't you, Charlie?”

“I don't think so. I have a headache. I'd like some aspirin.”

“Any nausea or vomiting?”

“No.”

“What about your eyes? Are they all right?”

“Yes.”

“Had your blood pressure checked recently?”

“No. I just want some—”

“It sounds like a vascular headache to me,” Forster said, nodding wisely. “Maybe you should try one of the new reserpine compounds. By the way, did the man find your house?”

`”What—what man?”

“Oh, he was in here a while ago, nice-looking gray-haired fellow around fifty. Said he'd lost your address.”

“I haven't been home yet tonight.”

“Well, he may be there right now, waiting for you.”

“Not for me,” Charlie said anxiously. “For Ben. People come to the house to see Ben, not me.”

“Isn't your name Charles Gowen?”

“You know it is, Mr. Forster.”

“Well, Charles Gowen is who he wanted to see.” Forster took a bottle of aspirin off a shelf. “Shall I put this in a bag for you?”

“No. No, I'll take one right away.” Charlie reached for the bottle. His hands were shaking, a fact that didn't escape Forster's attention.

“Yes, sir, if I were you, Charlie, I'd have my blood pressure checked. A niece of mine had a vascular headache and reserpine fixed her up just like magic. She's a different woman.”

Charlie unscrewed the cap of the bottle, removed the cotton plug and put two aspirins in his mouth. The strong bitter taste spread from his tongue all the way to his ears and his forehead. His eyes began to water so that Mr. Forster's face looked dis­torted, like a face in a fun-house mirror.

“Let me get you a glass of milk,” Forster said kindly. “You should always take a little milk with aspirin, it neutralizes the stomach acids.”

“No, thank you.”

“I insist.”

Forster went into the back room and came out carrying a paper cup full of milk. He stood and watched Charlie drink it as though he were watching a stomach fighting a winning battle over its acids.

“I can understand your being nervous,” Forster said, “at this stage of the game.”

“What game?”

“The marriage game, of course. The word's gotten out how you're engaged to a nice little woman that works in the library. Marriage is a great thing for a man, believe me. You might have a few qualms about it now but in a few years you'll be glad you took the big step. A man stays single just so long, then people begin to talk.” Forster took the empty paper cup from Charlie's hand and squeezed it into a ball. “Mind if I say some­thing personal to you, Charlie?”

Charlie didn't speak. The milk seemed to have clotted in his throat like blood.

Forster mistook silence for assent. “That old trouble of yours, you mustn't let it interfere with your happiness. It's all over and done with, people have forgotten it. Why, it was so long ago you were hardly more than a boy. Now you're living a clean, decent life, you're just as good as the next man and don't you be thinking otherwise.”

Please stop,
Charlie thought.
Please stop him, God, some­body, anybody, make him be quiet. It's worse than listening to Ben. They don't know, neither of them, they don't know—

“Maybe it's not in such good taste, dragging it up like this, but I want you to understand how I feel. You're going to do fine, Charlie. You deserve a little happiness. Living with a brother is all right when it's necessary, but what the heck, a man needs a wife and family of his own. When's the big day?”

“I don't know. Louise—it's her decision.”

“Don't leave all the deciding to the lady, Charlie. They like to be told once in a while, makes them feel feminine. You want me to charge the aspirin?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Well, all the best to you and the little lady, Charlie.”

“Thank you, Mr. Forster.”

“And bear in mind what I said. The town's getting so filled up with strangers that only a few old-timers like myself know you ever had any trouble. You just forget it, Charlie. It's water under the bridge, it's spilled milk. You ever tried to follow a drop of water down to the sea? Or pour spilled milk back into the bottle?”

“No. I—”

“Can't be done. Put that whole nasty business out of your head, Charlie. It's a dead horse, bury it.”

“Yes. Good-bye, Mr. Forster.”

Charlie began moving toward the door but Forster moved right along beside him. He seemed reluctant to let Charlie go, as if Charlie was a link with the past, which for all its cruelties was kinder than this day of strangers and freeways and super drugstores in every shopping center.

“I've got to go now, Mr. Forster. Ben's waiting for me.”

“A good man, that Ben. He was a tower of strength to you in your time of need, always remember that, Charlie. He's prob­ably quite proud of you now, eh? Considering how you've changed and everything?”

Charlie was staring down at the door handle as though he wished it would turn of its own accord and the door would open and he could escape.
Ben's not proud of me. 1 haven't changed. The horse isn't dead, the milk is still spilling, the same drop of water keeps passing under the bridge.

Forster opened the door and the old-fashioned bell at the top tinkled its cheerful warning. “Well, it's been nice talking to you, Charlie. Come in again soon for another little chat. And say hello to Ben for me.”

“Yes.”

“By the way, that man who was in here asking for your address, he had an official bearing like he was used to ordering people around. But don't worry, Charlie. I didn't tell him a thing about that old trouble of yours. I figured it was none of his business if he wasn't an official, and if he was he'd know about it anyway. It's all on the record.”

The same drop of water was passing under the bridge, only it was dirtier this time, it smelled worse, it carried more germs. Charlie leaned forward as if he meant to scoop it up with his hand and throw it away, so far away it would disintegrate, and all the dirt and smell and germs with it. But Mr. Forster was watching him, and though his smile was benevolent his eyes were wary.
You can never tell what these nuts are going to do, no matter how hard you try to be kind to them.

“You,” Charlie said, “you look like Ben, Mr. Forster.”

“What?”

“You look exactly like Ben. It shows up real clear to me.”

“It does, eh? You'd better go home and get some sleep. You're tired.”

He was tired but he couldn't go home. The man might be there waiting for him, ready to ask him questions. He had done nothing wrong, yet he knew he wouldn't be believed. He couldn't say it with absolute conviction, the way Louise had the night she found him on Jacaranda Road:
“Nothing's happened, Charlie . . . You haven't harmed anyone. The Oakley girl is safe at home, and I believe that even if I hadn't found you when I did, she'd still be safe at home.”

The Oakley girl was safe at home. So was the Brant girl, Jessie. Or was she? He hadn't seen her at the playground, or outside her house when he drove past. Perhaps something had happened to her and that was why the man wanted to question him. He might even have to take a lie-detector test. He had heard once that real guilt and feelings of guilt showed up almost the same on a lie-detector test. If he were asked whether he knew Jessie Brant he would say no because this was the truth. But his heart would leap, his blood pressure would rise, his voice would choke up, he would start sweating, and all these things would be recorded on the chart and brand him a liar. Even Ben would think he was lying. Only Louise would believe him, only Louise. He felt a terrible need to hear her say:
“Nothing happened, Charlie. The Oakley girl is safe at home, and the Brant girl and the other little girls, all safe at home, all snug in their beds, nothing to fear from you, Charlie. I love you, Charlie....”

He left his car in the parking lot behind the library. The lot was almost filled, mainly with cars bearing high school and city college stickers. The back door of the library was marked
Employees Only
, but he used it anyway because it was the shortest way to Louise.

He found himself in the filing and catalogue room, lined with steel drawers and smelling of floor wax. An old man with a push broom looked at him curiously but offered no challenge; libraries were for everybody.

“Could you,” Charlie said and stopped because his voice sounded peculiar. He cleared his throat, swallowing the last of the clotted milk. “Could you tell me if Miss Lang is here?”

“I don't know one from the other,” the old man answered with a shrug. “I only been on the job three nights now.”

Nodding his thanks, Charlie walked the length of the room and through a corridor with an open door at the end of it. From here he could see Louise's desk behind the reference counter but Louise wasn't there. A woman about thirty was sitting in her chair. She looked familiar to Charlie though he wasn't sure he'd ever met her.

A sixth sense seemed to warn her she was being watched. She turned her head and spotted Charlie standing in the doorway. She got up immediately, as though she was expecting his arrival and had planned a welcome for him. She came toward him, smiling.

“Mr. Gowen?”

“Yes, I—yes.”

“I'm Betty Albert. Louise introduced us a couple of weeks ago. Are you looking for her?”

“Yes. I thought she was working tonight.”

“She was,” Miss Albert said in a confidential whisper, “but some teen-agers gave her a bad time. Oh, she handled it beauti­fully, it was as quiet as church within ten minutes, but the strain upset her. She went home. The public doesn't realize yet that we have quite a policing problem in the library, especially on Friday nights when school's not in session and the kids don't have a football or basketball game to go to. I claim the schools should be open all year, it would give the little darlings some­thing to do. Bored teen-agers running around loose act worse than maniacs, don't you think? . . . Mr. Gowen, wait. You're really not supposed to use that back exit. It's just for employees. Mr. Gowen—?”

Miss Albert returned to her desk, her step light, her eyes dreamy.
He must be madly in love with her,
she thought as she lowered herself into the chair, lifting her skirt a few inches at the back to prevent seat-sag.
Why, the instant he heard she'd had a bad time and gone home, he looked sick with worry, then off he tore out the wrong exit. He's probably speeding to her side right now. Louise doesn't realize how lucky she is to have a man speeding to her side. When there isn't a thing the matter with her except nerves.