The Fiend (3 page)

From the beginning the dog had attached himself to Virginia, as if he knew she needed his company and protection. He was indifferent to Howard, despised the cleaning woman, and held the gardener in line with an occasional growl. He slept inside at night and kept prowlers away not only from Virginia but from the immediate neighbors as well.

Howard had gotten up and let the dog out. Chap came bounding down the driveway, his plumed tail waving in circles.

Virginia leaned down and pressed her cheek against the top of his huge golden head. “You silly boy, why the big greeting? I've only been away for ten minutes.”

Through the open kitchen window Howard overheard her and said, “A likely story. You've probably been over at the Brants' gabbing with Ellen all morning.”

She knew he intended it mainly, though not entirely, as a joke. Without replying, she went in the back door, through the service porch to the kitchen. The dog followed her, still making a fuss, as if she were the one, not Howard, who'd been gone for two weeks.

Howard had made coffee and was frying some bacon on the grill in the middle of the stove. When he was home he liked to mess around the kitchen because it was a pleasant contrast to sitting in restaurants, being served food he didn't enjoy. He was a fussy eater for such a large man.

A head taller than Virginia, he had to lean way down to kiss her on the mouth. “You're a sight for sore eyes, Virgie.”

“Am I?” Virginia said. “The bacon's burning.”

“Let it. Did you miss me?”

“Yes.”

“Is that all, yes?”

“I missed you very much, Howard.”

He flipped the bacon expertly with a spatula, all four slices at once. “Still want me to quit my job, Virgie?”

“I haven't brought that subject up for over a year.”

“I know. It makes me wonder how you've been spending your time while I'm away.”

“If you want to know, ask me.”

“I'm asking you.”

“All right.” Virginia sat down at the kitchen table, her pale pretty hands folded in her lap. “I start off each day with a champagne breakfast. After that, it's luncheon with the girls, with plenty of drinks, of course. We play bridge for high stakes all afternoon and end up at a cocktail party. Then I have dinner at a nightclub and carouse until dawn with a group of merry companions.”

“Sounds rigorous,” Howard said, smiling. “How do you manage to stay so beautiful?”

“Howard—”

“Put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster, will you?”

“Howard, were you serious when you asked me how I spent my time?”

“No.”

“I think you were. Perhaps you'd like me to keep a diary. It would make fascinating reading. Juicy items like how I took some clothes to the cleaners, borrowed a book from the library, bought groceries—”

“Cut it out, will you, Virgie? Something popped into my head and I said it and I shouldn't have. I'm sorry. Let's forget it.”

“I'll try.”

He brought his plate of bacon to the table and sat down op­posite her. “I hope I didn't wake you when I came in this morn­ing. Chap made a hell of a fuss, he almost convinced me I had the wrong house. You'd think he'd know me by this time.”

“He's a good watchdog,” she said, adding silently:
You'd think I, too, would know you by this time, Howard, but I don't.
“How was the trip?”

“Hot—103 degrees in Bakersfield, 95 in L.A.”

“It's been hot here, too.”

“I have an idea. Why don't we head for the beach this after­noon? We'll loll around on the sand, have a walk and a swim—”

“It sounds nice, Howard, but I'm afraid I can't. You know how badly I sunburn.

“You could wear a wide straw hat and we'll take along the umbrella from the patio table.”

“No.”

He stared at her across the table, his eyes puzzled. “That was a pretty definite no, Virginia. Are you still sore at me?”

“Of course not. It's just that—well, the umbrella's no good any more. It was torn. I threw it away.”

“It was practically brand-new. How did it get torn?”

“The wind. I intended to tell you. We had a big wind here Tuesday afternoon, a Santa Ana from the desert. I was down­town when it started and by the time I got home the umbrella was already damaged.”

“Why didn't you take it to one of those canvas shops to have it repaired?”

“The spokes were bent, too. You should have seen it, Howard. It looked as if it had been in a hurricane.”

“The bougainvillea beside the garage usually blows over in a Santa Ana. I didn't notice anything wrong with it.”

“Salvador may have tied it up.”

She knew this was safe enough. Salvador, who spoke or pre­tended to speak only Spanish, wasn't likely to deny or confirm anything. He would merely smile his stupid silver-toothed smile and crinkle up his wise old eyes and go right on working.
You speak, señor, but if I do not hear you, you do not exist.

There had been no Santa Ana on Tuesday afternoon, just a fresh cool breeze blowing in from the ocean. Virginia had not been downtown, she'd been sitting on the front porch watching Jessie and Mary Martha roller-skate up and down the sidewalk. It was Jessie's idea to borrow the umbrella to use as a sail, and it had worked all too well. The two girls and the umbrella ended up against the telephone pole at the corner. Over cookies and chocolate malted milks Virginia told the girls, “There's no need to go blabbing to your parents about this. You know your mother, Jessie. She'd insist on paying for the umbrella and she can't really afford to. So let's keep this our secret, shall we?”

Virginia got up and poured Howard some coffee. Her hands were shaking and she felt sick with fear that Howard suspected her of lying. “I'm terribly sorry about the whole thing, Howard.”

“Come on now. I hardly expect you to apologize for a Santa Ana. As for the umbrella, it was just an object. Objects can be replaced.”

“I could go downtown right now and buy one, while you're reading the newspaper.”

“Nonsense. We'll have one sent out.”

“I'm going down anyway.”

“Do you have to? We've hardly had a chance to talk.”

We've had a chance, Howard,
she thought,
we just haven't used it to very good advantage.
She said, “You'll be reading the paper anyway. It seems silly for me merely to sit and watch you when I could be accomplishing something.”

“Since you put it like that,” Howard said, taking her hand, “go ahead. Do you need money? What do you want to ac­complish?”

“An errand.”

“Ah, we're playing the woman of mystery today, are we?”

“There's no mystery about it,” she said bluntly. “Jessie's sick. I want to buy her a little game or two to keep her quiet.”

“I see.”

She could tell from his tone that what he saw gave him little pleasure.

“I'm sorry the kid's sick,” he added. “What's the matter with her?”

“According to Ellen, Jessie's hands are sore from playing on the jungle gym.”

“It hardly sounds catastrophic.”

“I know, but Ellen tends to minimize things like that. Some­times I think she's not sympathetic enough with the child.”

“Sympathy can be overdone and children can take advantage of it.”

“Not Jessie. She's really a wonderful girl. You know, when she and I are alone together, I never have the least trouble with her. The problem of discipline doesn't even come up.”

“Why should it?” Howard said dryly. “She calls the shots.”

Virginia looked shocked. “That's not true.”

“All right, it's not true. I'm just imagining that she comes barging in here without knocking, helps herself to whatever is in the refrigerator, bangs on the piano, feeds the dog until he's too stuffed to move—”

“It so happens that she has my permission to feed both the dog and herself and to come in here when she feels like it. She has no piano of her own so I'm giving her lessons on ours be­cause I think she has talent.”

“Listen, Virginia, I've wanted to say this before but I hated to cause trouble. Now that trouble's here anyway, I might as well speak my piece. You're getting too bound up with Jessie.”

“I won't listen to you.”

She put her hands over her ears and shook her head back and forth. After a moment's hesitation, Howard grabbed her by the wrists and forced her hands to her sides.

“You'll listen, Virginia.”

“Let go of me.”

“Later. It's natural enough for you to be fond of the kid since we don't have any of our own. What isn't natural is that she's taken everybody's place in your life. You don't see your friends any more, you don't even seem to want to spend much time with me when I'm home.”

“Why should I, when all you do is pick on me?”

“I'm not picking on you. I'm warning you for your own good not to make yourself vulnerable to a heartbreak. Jessie doesn't belong to you, you have no control over her. What if something happens to her?”

“Happens? What?”

“For one thing, Dave Brant could lose his job or be laid off and forced to move away from here.”

Virginia was staring at him bleakly, her face white. “That would suit you fine, wouldn't it?”

“No. I happen to like the Brants and enjoy their company. They're not, however, my sole interest in life. I'm prepared to survive without them. Are you?”

“I think you're jealous,” Virginia said slowly. “I think you're jealous of a nine-year-old girl.”

He let go of her wrists as if the accusation had suddenly paralyzed him. Then, with a sound of despair, he walked away into the living room. She stood motionless in the middle of the kitchen, listening to the rustle of Howard's newspaper, the sighing of his leather chair as he sat down, and the rebellious beat of her own heart.

(3)

At 12:50 Charlie
Gowen went back to the wholesale paper supply company where he was employed. He was always punctual, partly by nature, partly because his brother, Benjamin, had been drumming it into him for years. “So you have your faults, Charlie, and maybe you can't help them. But you can be careful about the little things, like being on time and neat and keeping your hair combed and not smoking or drinking, and working hard— A bunch of little things like that, they all add up, they look good on a man's record. Employment record, I mean.”

Charlie knew that he didn't mean employment record but he let it go and he listened to Ben's advice because it sounded sensible and because, since the death of his mother, there was no one else to listen to. He felt, too, that he had to be loyal to Ben; Ben's wife had divorced him on account of Charlie. She'd walked out leaving a note in the middle of the bed: “I'm not coming back and don't try to find me. I'm sick of being disgraced.”

Charlie worked at the paper supply company as a stock boy. He liked his job. He felt at home walking up and down the narrow aisles with shelves, from floor to ceiling, filled with such a variety of things that even Mr. Warner, the owner, couldn't keep track of them: notebooks, pens, pencils, party decorations and favors, brooms and brushes and mops, typewriter ribbons and staplers and stationery, signs saying
No Trespassing
,
For Rent
,
Private
,
Walk In
, erasers and bridge tallies and confetti and plastic lovers for the tops of wedding cakes, huge rolls of colored tickets to functions that hadn't even been planned yet, maps, charts, chalk, ink, and thousands of reams of paper.

The contents of the building were highly inflammable, which was one of the main reasons why Charlie had been hired. Though he carried matches for the convenience of other people, he hadn't smoked since the age of fourteen when Ben had caught him trying it and beaten the tar out of him. Mr. Warner, the owner, had been so delighted to find a genuine nonsmoker, not just someone who'd quit a few weeks or months ago, that he'd given Charlie the job without inquiring too closely into his background. He knew in a general way that Charlie had had “trouble,” but there was never any sign of it at work. Charlie arrived early and stayed late, he was pleasant and earnest, always ready to do a favor and never asking any in return.

In the alley behind the building Charlie found one of his co­workers, a young man named Ed Hines, leaning against the wall with an unlit cigarette in his hand.

“Hey, Charlie, got a match?”

“Sure.” Charlie tossed him a packet of book matches. “I'd appreciate having them back, if you don't mind. There's an address written on the cover.”