The Lockwood Concern (49 page)

He parked the borrowed Buick in front of the garage, which was locked. He peered inside the garage, where the Lincoln was jacked up and covered for the summer. Thus shrouded and given the extreme height of the blocks under the axles, the car seemed enormous. He made a mental note to give some future consideration to a trade-in on a new limousine. Brewster was putting out a town car on a Ford chassis that was just the kind of swank that Geraldine would enjoy. Geraldine was going to benefit in such ways from her altered position in his life. He wondered how long it would be - not long, surely - before she became fully aware that her position had been altered. He would stay married to her, continue to be courteous and generous to her, and he probably would sleep with her, since marriage to Angela was out of the question. On the other hand, if Geraldine decided to make trouble, even a little trouble, he would deal with that at the proper time. At the moment he was working on a schedule that went only as far ahead as the Christmas dance for Tina and her husband. At the moment Angela Schultz-Schuyler was in ignorance of the coming alteration of her position in life. Inevitably she, a retiring whore, would give him trouble; he was not deceiving himself on that. In a year, possibly sooner, she would have a tantrum and say, "Where am I better off than I used to be?" He would be prepared for such outbursts, and the most solid preparation would be to have Angela convince herself that she wanted to be his mistress, solely his mistress, and to let the idea seem to originate with her. It was an important point and would take some doing, but if he could not out-general a whore, he did not deserve to dominate her. He was pleased with the way things were turning out for him. Another man - yes, a lesser man - would be crushed by the disasters of the past year. A lesser man was crushed and had created the principal disaster by murdering his mistress and killing himself. A lesser man, listening to the sordid confession of his daughter, would have succumbed to anger and self-pity. And a lesser man, informed that his youngish son was an outstanding crook among crooks, would surrender to shame, a shame that he might not feel so deeply as he felt that he ought to feel shame. Each disaster would have been crushing to an inferior individual; and when all three had made impossible a man's lifelong ambition of an enduring place in the history of his homeland, he had all the necessary excuses to plead for charity. An inferior man, getting closer to sixty, would allow himself to be subdued by charity and spend the rest of his days subsisting on compassion. But not George Lockwood. In the whole country there was not - may never have been - a man who had come through such ordeals and vicissitudes with his spirit intact. No, not only spirit; integrity was better. Old Moses Lockwood, a man of vigor and violence, had survived and prevailed; Abraham Lockwood, the first of the line to learn manners, had behaved like a gentleman and misbehaved with the gentlemen's ladies; and George Lockwood's son, a scoundrel already, was almost predictably a man of national notoriety who would be immune to the tiny pinches of small morals. When the friendly biographer prepared the life story of Bing Lockwood in 1960, - at a guess - he would not fail to emphasize the integrity and independence that had been so characteristic of the family from generation to generation. George Lockwood now believed that the major triumph would belong to his son, but he was his son, just as he was the son of Abraham and the grandson of Moses. The previous postponements of major triumph were fateful; the Lockwood destiny, the Lockwood dynasty, either or both were awaiting a more suitable moment and a larger stage than the previous century and a small valley in Pennsylvania. J. P. Morgan's grandfather got rich in the hotel and stagecoach businesses before the family left Connecticut. And why should he not be pleased with the way things were turning out? He was convinced by recent events (and his son's predictable future) that he belonged to a line of men who had proved and would prove that they were of harder stuff than the generations of conventional men who had rejected one Lockwood after another. There for the alert and friendly biographer to see was a record of struggle and conquest that in another day would have elevated the Lockwoods to the status of nobility - if, indeed, it stopped at nobility. The Lockwood women had contributed nothing much but the Lockwood sons, when they had contributed anything. The Lockwood daughters had gone insane or, in the case of Tina, been sterilized. Even Tina had not escaped the madness that had destroyed her great-aunts. George Lockwood would always love his daughter, but what was the use of denying that she was afflicted as her great-aunts had been afflicted, with an emotional disturbance that had left her a barren woman already and a bad risk for future stability? Among the Lockwood men only Pen had acknowledged defeat, yet even he in the final hour of his life had behaved with a kind of vigor and integrity that was not inconsistent with the acts of superior breeds. Self-destruction had never been contemplated by George Lockwood, but there may have been courage as well as desperation among the factors that dictated Pen's decision. In his own peculiar way Pen had met the requirements of the superior breed, as George Lockwood now saw them. It was the right of the superior breed to do just what he was planning to do. History was crowded with cases of kings who had taken whores as their mistresses. It was almost the mark of the superior man to indulge himself with a female animal of low degree, to flaunt her publicly. The gesture would not be complete if he kept Angela hidden in a flat on Central Park West; in the weeks to come he would determine the extent to which he might conform to the royal precedent. He discovered now that secret liaisons with Marian Strademyers, supposedly exciting because of their secret nature, were actually paid for in a loss of dignity and self-respect. The superior man did as he pleased; the clandestine romance was for the Kevin O'Byrnes. Were it not for the chance of spoiling Tina's party, he would have enjoyed having Angela make her debut as his mistress at the Christmas dance. Lantenengo County would never recover from that. But the party was for Tina... He turned away from the garage window and saw a man in overalls and a yellow straw hat coming toward him. The man took off his hat and wiped his sweaty skull with a blue bandanna handkerchief. "Good afternoon," said George. "Hy, there, Mr. Lockwood, Doift rememper me, hey? Sam Kitzmiller from the Haven. I work for Chester Stengler. I took care of your garden all summer." "Uh-huh. Where is Chester?" said George. "I expected him to be here." "He won't, though. He's down with a case of di'rea. The shits. They all got the shits from the Methodist picnic. Sauerkraut and pork, they say. I wouldn't eat no pork in the summertime if you paid me." "Well, I am paying you, I guess. But not to eat pork. The garden looks pretty good, from here." "We need rain. The son of a bitchin' dry spell, water from the hose line ain't the same as rainwater. It got chemicals in it." "No it hasn't. Our water comes from two wells." "I know that, but the ground has chemicals in it. Rain. Rain is what we need." "I suppose you have a point. What else has been going on? Do you come every day?" "You don't rememper me. I worked for you when you were building here. I was here one day the fellow got bit with a copperhead." "I do remember you, now. Kitzmiller. Your people go to our church. You have a brother about my age." "Lamarr." "Lamarr, that's right. What's he doing now?" "He moved to Gippsville. He's clerking in Stewart's store, the rug and carpet department." "What the hell does he know about rugs?" said George. "I guess he learned. He's there twenty-five years already." "For Christ's sake. When I knew him he had trap-lines and spent all his time in the woods." "He got married. She made him get a chob." "And now he's selling rugs at Stewart's." "He makes more than me, but I wouldn't trade him," said Kitzmiller. "You must have married the right woman." "Christ, they're all the same, but I don't take no bullshit. If she don't like how much I make, she can take in washing. But a son of a bitch if I let a woman tell me what work I do." "A man after my own heart," said George. "Let's take a walk around. Have you got a pencil and paper? If not, I have." "It'll be better if you write it. I don't. get much practice." "You can read, though, can't you?" "Reading I don't have any trouble, but writing I don't do much of. What are we writing?" "Taking notes on what I want done. I'll print the notes, but I'd like you to go along." "Whatta you doing with such a Buick? Where is them other two nice cars?" "In Massachusetts. The Buick doesn't belong to me. Why?" "When yuz get ready to sell your Packard, let me know how much. If she's around four or five hundred I'll make you an offer." "She won't be around four or five hundred. I expect at least fifteen hundred on a trade. So let's forget about cars and get down to the business at hand," said George. "What's that pile of lumber doing there? That was here when we left, two months ago." "I guess maybe it was left over from some carpentring." "It was, but they were supposed to come and get it. If Ed Muller think I'm going to pay him for those planks, he's in for a rude shock. If you see Muller, tell him I'm going to charge him storage. And if it's still here when I come back again, I'm going to burn it in my fireplace." "I'll tell him," said Kitzmiller. "God damn inefficient, and an eyesore," said George. "Smoke out that hornet's nest on the back porch." "I'll do that tomorrow." "And if you see any more, get rid of them. Did you leave that hose lying there overnight?" "I guess I did," said Kitzmiller. "How much is a foot of hose, do you know?" "I guess it runs around ten cents a foot." "There's a sixty-foot length of hose and a good nozzle. Half full of water and lying there to rot. No wonder you think I'd sell you my Packard for four hundred dollars. You must think I like to throw money away. Well, I don't." "I'll blow the water out of the hose before I go home." "You're damn right you will, or don't come back tomorrow. Say, the rhododendrons look nice and healthy." "I water them with the sprinkling can. But take a look at the ground, how dry it is. The sprinkler's all right for the grass, but the plants and flowers all gotta be done by hand. I'm here till eight o'clock every night, watering. It don't do no good to water till the sun goes down." "I'm glad to see you know that," said George. "Most people don't. Let's go over this way." "I got the arbutuses looking nice," said Kitzmiller. "So I see. My compliments." They were walking on a line parallel with the west wall. George Lockwood came to an abrupt halt, not knowing why. Then he looked at the wall and saw what had stopped him: all along the wall, from one end to the other, ivy had been planted so that in two years the growth fairly well covered the bricking. But there was a gap in the growth about three feet wide that left the wall blank from the ground to the top. "What happened here?" "How do you mean?" said Kitzmiller. "Can't you see, man? You're supposed to be a gardener. Look at this wall. A fine growth of ivy the whole length of it except for right here. How do you explain that?" "Search me," said Kitzmiller. "It don't look like there was anyting planted there." "Don't tell me this is the first time you noticed it," said George Lockwood. "Well, it's the first time you noticed it," said Kitzmiller "But I've been away all summer. And as a matter of fact haven't walked in this part of the garden in quite a while." He involuntarily looked up at the top of the wall, and he saw that Kitzmiller was watching him with an expression of loutish cunning. "What do you know about this, Kitzmiller?" "I don't know what yuz are talking about," said Kitzmiller. "You're a stupid, lying bastard," said George Lockwood. "You watch what you're calling me, Lockwood. I don't get paid for insults, and I'm a man." "Was it you, or was it Stengler? You left this space blank deliberately." "It was Stengler, but it would of been me." "Because this is where the Zehner kid was killed." "The Zehner kid was related to Stengler and I'm related to Stengler. You come any closer to me and I'll chop you with this sickle." "Get off this land," said George. "Get-off-my-land!" Kitzmiller backed away, keeping an eye on George Lockwood until he was at a safe distance. George Lockwood remained where he stood, quivering with the suppressed impulse to murder the man. He was unconscious of time until he heard Stengler's half-ton Ford leave the property, no more than five minutes later, but he felt sleepy. In another minute be would have had to lie on the ground and give in to sleep. He walked to the house and let himself in through the front door and went to his study. He was too tired to turn on any lights, to do anything but slump down in a chair and yield to the desire to sleep. When he awoke he had again lost track of time, but oddly enough, in spite of the total darkness of the curtained room, he knew where he was and the deep sleep had restored his vitality. He sat in the dark silence and could very nearly feel the strength coming back as his heart pumped the blood through his veins. Eleven seconds, was it not, that it took for a single complete circuit of the cardiovascular system? About five times a minute, if that were true, he was getting new energy. The luminous dial of his wristwatch was so bright that it demanded his attention, although for the moment he was content to forget about time. It was eighteen minutes to six. It was seventeen minutes to six. It was sixteen minutes to six. Fifteen more times the blood had flowed through all those arteries and organs, and as it cleared his brain almost his first thoughts were of Angela Schultz-Schuyler. He knew that tomorrow in New York he was going to interrupt his journey to begin the conversion of her way of life to a way that would be more desirable to him and certainly an improvement for her. If she were with him now they would make love, but he appreciated the favorable aspect of the circumstance that prevented him from appearing over-eager. She must be made to feel that his company was increasingly indispensable to her happiness. He was dealing with a woman whose ugly life had made her a monster of selfishness, defensively and aggressively. She was aware of the cash value of every tooth in her head and every hair on her body, and it was essential to his relationship with her that she be made to believe in love. He proceeded from the thoughts of her - to which he would later and frequently
return - to more immediate realities. The odor of the darkened study was musty, heavy with the smell of leather and wood and the muslin coverings of the furniture in a room that apparently had not been aired all summer. (Inefficiency on the part of Geraldine, who should have seen to that.) The air was so unpleasant that a cigarette or a cigar would have made it worse. Then he had a happy inspiration: since he was dining at the Gibbsville Club, which had long since exhausted its supply of wine, he would treat himself to a bottle of champagne from his own cellar. He was not a connoisseur of champagnes, but almost any he owned would serve the purpose of getting rid of the mustiness of the study, which had lodged in his mouth and nostrils. He would take the bottle to the club with him and he might even share it with one of the dreary men who ate and slept there. If he drank half a bottle at dinner, he probably would sleep better on the train. He congratulated himself on his inspiration and reached out with a sure hand for the light switch. He pulled the chain switch on one lamp. He got up and turned the gargoyle in the fireplace that opened the panel of the passageway. From force of habit he closed the panel behind him and was again in total darkness. Then something went wrong. Perhaps the transitions from darkness to light to darkness; perhaps the heavy sleep in the bad air; perhaps an incomplete recovery from the extreme provocation by Kitzmiller. Whatever the cause, he fell. The stairway in the secret passageway wound around a central post and the steps were of uneven width, from zero to eight inches. He missed the first step completely, and he fell to the cellar, buffeted from side to side all the way down. Before even coming to a jolting stop on the cellar floor he knew that his leg was broken. The pain seemed to prolong the fall, and when at last it ended and he lay still, he wondered why he had not landed sooner. In the blackness he was wholly blind and strangely deaf until a silence entered his ears and he realized that he had created the silence by pausing in the midst of his screaming. The lower half of his left leg had twisted itself crazily and did not belong to the rest of him except as the source of his agony. He reached down, impelled by irresistible curiosity, and forced his fingers along his trouser-leg until he could touch the broken skin. Beyond that his fingers would not go, and for the first time he fainted. But consciousness returned immediately; the pain was too lively for quick relief, and he was trying to shout again. Now a previously unnoticed pain competed with the shrill agony of his leg. He put his fingers to the right side of his skull and touched a sticky substance that he knew was blood. The scalp was cut. The roaring sound he was hearing could have been his own voice in a cave, and this passageway was a sort of cave. In the blindness of the dark he could not tell whether he had actually lost his sight, a symptom he vaguely remembered as having to do with a skull fracture. He held up his left wrist; he could not see the dial of his watch. He was blind. He did not need his sight to observe the next development. It came out of his nostrils without extra pain but with an urgency that was like a bursting dam. It cascaded over his mouth and sickened him, and now he knew that he was going to die. He lost consciousness once more and this time when he awoke he found that his body - not he - was fighting for breath. A compartment of his intellect contained the information that he could not last the night, and that it would be morning before anyone would help him. Who would miss him? He had made no engagement for dinner. A woman in New York (he could not think of her name) was expecting him to telephone her, tomorrow. The man whom he had last seen, Kitzmiller, would not be here tomorrow. And who knew of the existence of the secret passageway? One man, Hibbard, and no one else but the vanished craftsmen who had built it. And so this was the way it all ended, to die hoping to die because there was no hope of living. He screamed again, but the cry was muffled by the stuff that was strangling him. Then soon - always soon, no matter when - came the moment that no one has ever told anyone about. And no one will ever tell anyone about, because it is a secret that belongs to Them.