The Fiend (23 page)

Miss Albert sat for a while, her emotions swinging between wonder and envy. When the pendulum stopped, she found her­self thinking in a more practiced and realistic manner. Louise was her superior in the library, it wouldn't hurt to do her a favor and warn her that Charlie was coming. It would give her a chance to pretty up, she'd looked awfully ratty when she left.

Louise's number was listed on a staff card beside the tele­phone. Miss Albert dialed, humming softly as if inspired by the sound of the dial tone.

Louise herself answered. “Yes?”

“This is Betty Albert.”

“Oh. Is anything wrong?”

“No. Mr. Gowen was just here asking for you. When I told him you'd gone home he rushed right out. He should be there any minute. I thought—”

“Did he tell you he was coming here?”

“Why, no. But—well, it seemed obvious from the way he tore out and used the wrong exit and everything. I thought I'd tell you so you'd have a chance to pretty up before he arrived.”

“Thanks, I'll do that,” Louise said. “Good night, Miss Albert.”

She hung up and went back down the hall toward her bed­room. Through the open door of the kitchen she could see her parents, her father watching something boiling on the stove, her mother getting the company dinner ware out of the top cup­board. She remembered that it was her father's birthday, and to celebrate the occasion he was preparing a special potato dish his grandmother used to cook for him in Germany when he was a boy. The thought of having to eat and pretend to enjoy the thick gray gluey balls nauseated Louise.

She spoke from the doorway. “I'm going out for a drive, if you don't mind.”

He father turned around, scowling. “But I do mind. The
kloessen
are almost done and I've gone to a great deal of trouble over them.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You know but you don't care. Well, that's typical of the younger generation, lots of knowledge, no appreciation. When my grandmother was making
kloessen
you couldn't have dragged any of us away from the house with wild horses. I don't under­stand you, Louise. One minute you're lying down half-dead and the next minute you're going out. You're not consistent this last while.”

“I guess I'm not.”

“It's that man who's responsible. He's no good for you. He's blinded you to—”

“A lot of blind people do very well,” Louise said. “With luck, so will I.”

“So now the man isn't enough. You're demanding luck too, are you?”

“No, I'm praying for it.”

“Well, I hope you get it.”

“Then
sound
as if you hope it, will you? Just for once,
sound
as if you believed in me, as if you wanted me to have a life of my own, independent of you, unprotected by you.”

“Oh, do hush up, both of you,” Mrs. Lang said, brushing some dust off a plate with her apron. “It's hot in here. Open another window, will you, Joe? And Louise, don't forget to take a coat. You never can tell when the fog might come in.”

The sun had gone down and stars were bursting out all over the sky like fireworks that would burn themselves out by morn­ing and begin their infinite fall.

Charlie leaned against the side of the building. Of all the things Miss Albert had said to him, only one had registered in his mind: Louise had gone home. When he desperately needed her reassurance, she had gone where he was afraid to follow.

Home was where people went who had never done anything wrong—like Ben and Louise. For the others—the ones like him, Charlie—there wasn't any room, no matter how large the world. There wasn't any time to rest, no matter how long the night. Whatever their course of action or inaction they were always wrong. If they called out for help they were cowards, if they didn't call they were fools. If they stayed in one place they were loitering; if they moved they were running away.
“We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of everything and sentence him to a life of nothing
—” And all the people in the crowded court­room, all the people in the world, broke into applause.

He knew it hadn't really occurred like that. No jury would say such a thing even though it might be what they meant. Be­sides, there'd been no jury, only a judge who kept leaning his head first on one hand and then on the other, as if it were too heavy for his neck. And the courtroom wasn't crowded. There were just the lawyers and bailiffs and reporter and Ben and his mother sitting near Charlie, and on the other side of the room, the child's parents, who didn't even glance at him. The girl herself wasn't brought in. Charlie never saw her again. When it was all over, Charlie rode in the back of the Sheriff's car to the hospital with two other men, and Ben took his savings and his mother's, and borrowed money from the bank, and gave it to the girl's parents, who'd sued for damages. They left town and Charlie never saw them again either.

That time it had happened. Even Louise couldn't have said it didn't, that it wasn't real, that the girl was at home safe in her bed. Perhaps she would have said it anyway, knowing it wasn't true. He couldn't afford to believe her ever again. He had to find out for himself what was real and what wasn't and which children were safe at home in their beds.

(18)

Ellen had expected
a dull evening because the Arlingtons were usually tense and quiet the night before Howard was to leave on another business trip. She was pleasantly surprised by Vir­ginia's show of vivacity and by the sudden interest Howard was taking in Jessie.

While the others ate at the redwood picnic table, Howard sat with Jessie on the lawn swing, asking her all about school and what she was doing during the holidays. Jessie, who'd been taught to answer adults' questions but not to speak with her mouth full, compromised by keeping her answers as brief as possible. School was O.K. Natural history was best. During the holidays she played. With Mary Martha. On the jungle gym. Also climbing trees. Sometimes they went swimming.

“Oh, come now,” Howard said. “Aren't you forgetting Aunt Virginia? You visit her every day, don't you?”

“I guess.”

“Do you like to visit her?”

“Yes.”

“You go downtown shopping with her and to the movies and things like that, eh?”

“Not often.”

“Once or twice a week?”

“Maybe.”

Howard took a bite of hamburger and chewed it as if his teeth hurt. Then he put his plate down on the grass, shoving it almost out of sight under the swing. “Does anyone else go along on these excursions of yours?”

“No.”

“Just the two of you, eh?”

Jessie nodded uncomfortably. She didn't know why Howard was asking so many questions. They made her feel peculiar, as if she and Virginia had been doing wrong things.

“It's nice of you to keep Virginia company,” Howard said pleasantly. “She's a very lonely woman. You eat quite a few meals with her, don't you?”

“Not so many.”

“When you've finished eating, what then? She reads to you, perhaps, or tells you stories?”

“Yes.”

“She tells me some, too. Do you believe her stories?”

“Yes, unless they're fairy tales.”

“How can you be sure when they're fairy tales?”

“They begin ‘Once upon a time.'“

“Always?”

“They have to. It's a rule.”

“Is it now,” Howard said with a dry little laugh. “I'll re­member that. The ones that begin ‘Once upon a time,' I won't believe. Do I have to believe all the others?”

“You should. Otherwise—”

“Otherwise, she'd be telling fibs, eh?”

“I don't think so. Grownups aren't supposed to tell fibs.”

“Some of them do, though. It's as natural to them as breath­ing.”

Although Virginia was talking to Dave and Ellen and hadn't even glanced in Howard's direction, she seemed to be aware of trouble. She rose and came toward the swing, her stole trail­ing behind her like some pink wisp of the past.

“Have you finished eating, Jessie?”

“Yes.”

“It's getting close to your bedtime, isn't it?”

“The kid has parents,” Howard said. “Let them tell her when to go to bed. It's none of your business.”

“I don't
have
to be told,” Jessie said with dignity, and slid off the swing, glad for once to be getting away from the com­pany of adults. She wished Michael were at home so she could ask him why Howard and Virginia were acting so peculiar lately.

“Well,” Howard said, “I suppose now the party's over for you, Virginia. Not much use sticking around after the kid goes to bed. Shall we leave?”

“I'm warning you. Don't make a scene or you'll regret it.”

“Your threats are as empty as your promises. Try another approach.”

“Such as begging? You'd like that, wouldn't you? The only time you ever feel good any more is when I come crawling to you for something. Well, you're going to have to think of other ways to feel good because from now on I'm not crawling and I'm not begging.”

“Three days,” Howard said bitterly, “I've been home three days and not for one minute have I felt welcome. I'm just a nuisance who appears every two or three weeks and disrupts your real life. The hell of it is that I don't understand what your real life is, so I can't try to fit into it or go along with it. I can only fight it because it doesn't include me. I want, I need, a place in it. I used to have one. What went wrong, Virginia?”

Dave and Ellen exchanged embarrassed glances like two char­acters in a play who found themselves on stage at the wrong time. Then Ellen put some dishes on a tray and started toward the house and after a second's hesitation Dave followed her. Their leaving made no more difference to the Arlingtons than their presence had.

“What's the matter, Virginia? If it's my job, I can change it. If it's the fact that we have no family, we can change that, too.”

“No,” she said sharply. “I no longer want a family.”

“Why not? You've wept for one often enough.”

“We no longer have anything to offer a child.” She stared out beyond the patio walls to the horizon. The wall of fog had begun to expand. Pretty soon the city would disappear, streets would be separated from streets and people from people and everyone would be alone. “Yes, Howard, I wept, I wept buckets. I was young then. I didn't realize how cruel it would be to pass along such an ugly thing as life. Poor Jessie.”

He frowned. “Why? Why poor Jessie?”

“She's only nine, she's still full of innocence and high hopes and dreams. She will lose her innocence and high hopes and dreams; she will lose them all. By the time she's my age she will have wished a thousand times that she were dead.”

Twice Louise covered the entire length of Jacaranda Road, driving in second gear, looking at every parked car and every person walking along the street or waiting at bus stops. There was no sign of Charlie or his car, and the Oakley house at 319 was dark as if no one lived in it any more. She was encouraged by the dark house. If anything had happened, there would be light and noise and excitement.
Nothing's happened. Nothing whatever—

She drove to Miria Street. Ben let her in the front door. “Hello, Louise. I thought you were working tonight.”

“I was.”

“Charlie's not here but come in anyway. I'm making a fresh pot of coffee. Would you like some?”

“Please.” She followed him down the hall to the kitchen. He walked slowly as though his back ached, and for the first time she thought of him not as one of the Gowen brothers but as a middle-aged man.

She accepted the cup of coffee he poured her and sat down at the table. “Are you tired, Ben?”

“A little. It was Dollar Day in most of the stores downtown. What the ladies saved on hats and dresses they came in and spent on food.” He sat down opposite her. “I think I've found the right place.”

“Place?”

“The apartment I wanted down near the breakwater. It's furnished, so I wouldn't have to take a thing out of the house here, and the landlord told me I could keep a dog if it wasn't too big. I'll sign the lease as soon as you and Charlie name the wedding day. . . . You don't look very pleased. What's the matter?”

“I was trying to imagine this house without you in it. It's very—difficult.”

“This house has seen enough of me. And vice versa.”

“Charlie would like you to stay with us.”

“He'd soon get over that idea. He's nervous, that's all. He's like a kid, dreading any change even if it's a good one.”

“Maybe I'm a little like that, too.”