Fury on Sunday (13 page)

Vince bent over Jane and stuck the point of the knife to her throat.

“Get up, get up!” he ordered, his voice shrill in the tiny kitchen.

“Vince, don’t…” Stan sobbed.

Jane looked up at Vince, her mouth still open, gasping for breath.

Suddenly Vince grabbed her hair with his left hand. A bolt of pain raged up the arm and he let go with a gasp. Still holding the knife, he grabbed Jane’s dark hair with his other hand and tried to drag her to her feet. She’d get out of here if he had to drag her out himself!

A breathless cry of pain twisted Jane’s lips as Vince pulled her up.

“Get up, I said!”

Vince backed away as she stumbled into the sink with a sob of pain and Stan caught her around the waist with one trembling arm. The two of them stood there shaking without control, driven and afraid. All subtleties had gone from their minds; they were two hurt, frightened animals; the eyes they watched him with were dumb and uncalculating with fright.

“Get in the bathroom,” Vince said.

He backed into the living room but they still stood there as if they didn’t understand him.

Hot tears flew from Vince’s eyes as he leaped forward with a gagging curse.

“God damn it!” he screamed at them. “Are you—”

“Don’t hurt us!” Stan begged.

Vince backed away, shivering, while they came stumbling out of the kitchen, Jane bent over clutching her stomach, Stan, eyes wide and dumb, staring at Vince.

Ruth gasped as they came out. She couldn’t understand it; it was like a senseless, incredible dream. From the moment she’d seen Vince, then Bob lying on the floor, her mind wouldn’t function. Thoughts jumbled one on top of the other.

“Stan,” she muttered, “Jane…”

She knelt there, looking first at them, then at Bob’s white face, at the blood running across the leather jacket and around his still body to the floor.

“Go on, go on,” Vince snapped in a jaded voice.

Vince’s mind felt numbed now. Too many things had happened. He didn’t want to think; it was too painful. There was only one thing he wanted to worry about. Ruth and him going away and…

“I’ll be right out,” he told Ruth in what he thought was a comforting tone.

She stared at him unbelievingly.

Then, with a gasp, she stood and ran for the hall.
I have to get help!
The words burst in her brain, the first coherent thought she’d had since Vince had opened the door.

She turned in numbed surprise as Vince grabbed her coat and pulled her back.

“You’re not going away?” he asked, surprise in his voice, incredulous surprise.

For a second she stared at him blankly.

“I—I have to get help,” she said feebly. She didn’t understand.

“No,” he said as if he were reasoning with her. “No, Ruth. You and I…”

She still didn’t understand. She tried to pull away but he held on to her. She stared at him, face still expressionless, eyes wide and uncomprehending.

“Ruth, you and I…” he started again.

“But I have to get help!” she suddenly burst out. “My husband is hurt!”

She recoiled as his face twisted angrily.

“You’re not going anywhere!” he snapped, “I killed him for you and—”

“You!”

She backed into the wall with a shudder.

Vince’s throat moved. He wouldn’t let himself believe that look of horror on her face. He grabbed at her wrist.

“Get in there,” he said.

She froze against the wall, staring at him.

“I said get
in
there!”

His voice broke and he almost started crying. Why wouldn’t she do what he asked? What was the matter with her? It was obvious that he’d only killed Bob to help her.

Her body shuddered as Vince half dragged her into the living room. Stan and Jane were still there, Stan leaning against the bedroom door and supporting Jane, who still bent over, hands clutched over her stomach.

“I said get in the bathroom,” Vince ordered.

He pulled Ruth back from Bob.

“He’s hurt!” she cried out at him.

“He’s dead! Leave him alone!” Vince cried back at her.

Her white hands pressed into her cheeks.

“No.”

Stan moved across the bedroom staggering because he had to almost carry Jane.

Vince pulled Ruth into the bedroom.

“No,” she muttered in a dead voice. “No, he isn’t.”

“He
is
, he
is
,” Vince insisted, then looked at Stan. “Get in there!”

He pushed Ruth toward a bed.

“Sit there,” he said.

She tried to rush for the living room but he stood in her path and drove his left hand across her cheek. They both gasped at the same time, she from surprise, he from pain.

She backed away with a whimper.

“Sit down, Ruth,” he said.

Her brain wouldn’t work. She stood there staring at him, her heart pounding in great, body-shaking beats.

“Sit down.”

Vince wanted to cry because nobody would do what he asked. He wanted to be nice to her and make her happy. What was wrong with her?

Now he heard the sound of the toilet cover in the bathroom being knocked down.

Vince moved across the bedroom and flicked on the bathroom light. He saw Jane sitting down and Stan turned, blinking, his face very white.

“Close the door,” Vince told him. “Lock it.”

“Huh?”

Vince pulled the door shut. As he waited he looked toward Ruth.

“Don’t move,” he told her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He turned back.

“Lock it!” he yelled.

He heard the door being locked. Then he looked around and found a chair. He propped the back of it underneath the knob and kicked it in tight.

There. They were out of the way.

He turned for Ruth.

The two maiden ladies came marching up the steps, obdurate, thin-lipped with puritanical ire. They wore their robes up to the top of their necks, their respectability to the tops of their heads.

“I think we’ve had just about enough from the Sheldons,” said one, her voice acid with a righteous disgust.

“It’s time their
parties
were reported to the authorities,” said the other.

“Parties indeed!” the other woman joined in. “More like…”

She looked over her shoulder lest someone be found trailing them. Then she looked back at her sister.

“Orgies.”

Her lips framed the word; she dared not speak it aloud.

“Wouldn’t be surprised.” said the other, “not a bit. That
lady
he married. She’s just a…”

Her eyes too moved over one shoulder.

“Hussy,” she finished, satisfied that no one lurked behind, taking notes.

The two of them reached the top of the flight and moved across the hall toward the door.

“Almost five in the morning,” said one of them, “and still they’re at it; banging on the piano and knocking over furniture and breaking bottles and screaming at the top of their lungs. It’s a disgrace, I tell you, a disgrace.”

“They’re probably just having a little
fun
,” snapped, the other.

“Uh,” was all her sister replied.

They stood before the door and one of them pushed in the doorbell button.

They stood there waiting for someone to answer.

“He’ll probably be
drunk
when he comes to the door,” one predicted ruthlessly.

“I hope it’s not
her
,” said the other. “I don’t even want to
look
at her.”

“Hussy,” murmured the first.

No one came to the door. Inside, they thought they heard a cry, then only silence.

“I’m sure you’re having a
good time
,” said the one addressing the revelers she imagined within, “but we’re not leaving here until you open the door.”

They both nodded once, sternly in agreement.

Silence inside. The two maiden ladies shuffled blue and pink mules on the cold hall floor. Each held the same posture, each held the top of her robe shut at the throat with a clenched right hand. Each seethed with indignation.

“Well, of all the…!” one finally snapped angrily.

“
I never
…” said the other.

“Probably too
busy
to answer.”

The first held her finger against the bell.

“Well, you’ll answer,” she said sharply to the sybarites she envisioned in every corner of the apartment.

“You’ll answer if we have to—to
ring
your brains out!”

They both nodded once. They liked the phrase. Ring them out. Toll out the evil and the blackness, burn out the…

“Who’s there?” they heard a voice inside.

The turkey throat of the first woman moved.

“Kindly open the door, Mr. Sheldon,” said the woman.

“Who
is
it?”

The first looked at the second. Her lips framed the words, “
That’s not Mr. Sheldon
.”

“We’re from apartment 7C,” said the second woman. “We live in the apartment below and you’re keeping us awake with your
party
.”

The way she said
party
made them both nod vigorously. Whoever it was inside could not fail to recognize, they knew, the acidity in the pronunciation of the word.

“There’s no party,” they heard the voice inside say.

“We would like to speak to Mr. Sheldon.” said the first maiden lady, “We feel—”

“He’s
sick
,” interrupted the voice, “He can’t see anyone.”

Sick
. The first framed the word with her lips and the second nodded with a bitter smile. They knew what
sick
meant.

“I’m sorry but we must demand silence,” said the second woman, taking the reins in her hand. “We cannot—”

“Go away!”

“Oh!”

They stood there trembling with outrage.

“Very well,” said the first. “Perhaps we’ll just call the police then and—”

“Don’t!” cried the voice inside.

The old ladies smiled and nodded to themselves. There, that had put the fear of God in him.

But the door stayed shut.

“Maybe he thinks he’s having a great laugh on us,” one muttered to the second, visualizing the man inside doubled over with scornful laughter.

The other one spoke, supposedly to her sister, but, actually, directly at the door.

“Well, come along, Nell,” she said, “I guess we’ll just have to call the police then.”

They stood there a moment longer. Then with a firming of lips, a stiffening of backs, they moved slowly away from the door.

“Well, did you ever?” muttered the first as they reached the steps.

“No, I never,” responded the other.

“Should we call the police do you think?”

“I—think we should.”

But they weren’t sure. They didn’t want to get involved in any trouble. They lived a simple, cloistered life and they didn’t want police asking them questions. Especially on the Sabbath.

As they started down the steps one of them stopped.

“Good heavens,” she said, leaning over to squint at the steps, “what are those spots?”

The other one looked, gasped.

“They look like…”

***

Vince lay against the door until the sound of their footsteps had shuffled away. Then his throat moved and he pushed away from the door. They were going to call the police! He had to get Ruth and get away!

I hope I didn’t hurt her, he thought anxiously as he moved down the hallway.

When the doorbell had rung Ruth had cried out, tried to run to the door and answer it. Vince had struck her to make her quiet.

Why did he keep hurting people? All he wanted to do was live with Ruth and be happy. And all he did was hurt people. Some people didn’t matter, of course. Harry didn’t matter and Bob didn’t matter. But he didn’t mean to hurt the man in the subway station or to hurt Stan or… well, Jane, he didn’t care about.

Then, as he started into the living room he gasped and stopped in his tracks.

Bob was looking at him.

Vince stood there rigidly looking down at him.
He’s dead
, his mind said.
He’s dead and he’s staring at me
.

“V-V-Vince.”

Bob groped for speech, the word thick and sticky in his throat.

“No.” Vince cowered away.

“Vince.”

Vince edged around Bob into the living room. He couldn’t touch Bob now. It was different. Before it hadn’t been so bad. Bob had tried to send Ruth away and he shouldn’t have done that; Vince was forced to shoot him.

But now it was different. He didn’t want to touch Bob, he didn’t even want to look at him.

“Vince… h-help.”

“No,” Vince muttered, “no.”

“Vince.”

“No, leave me alone,” Vince gasped. “No. I don’t want to…”

He ran into the bedroom and shut the door again. He leaned, against it, shaking. Why didn’t anything go right? Why wasn’t Bob dead like he should be?

“I—didn’t mean to…” he muttered, but he didn’t know what he meant by that.

Carefully he locked the door and moved over to where Ruth lay sprawled across the bed on her back. He had to hurry; they had to go before the police came.

Quickly he felt for her pulse. His throat moved. She was all right. He straightened up. He should get a wet rag and wipe her face. But he couldn’t use the bathroom because Stan and Jane were there. And, if he went to the kitchen he’d have to go past Bob again. He didn’t want to do that either. Vince was afraid. Suddenly, all rage and violent hate had gone from him. He was afraid and nervous.

He sat down beside Ruth and held her hand. He looked at her still face. His eyes grew pained when he saw the bruise where he’d struck her on the jaw. He shouldn’t have hit her. But if he hadn’t she would have run into the hall. Why? What was the matter with her?

He stroked her hand slowly and his throat moved.

“Ruth?” he said. Timidly.

He started to bend over to kiss her but then he straightened up. No, he’d wait. Until she’d wake up and smile at him and kiss him and they’d go away together and start a new life.

“Just you and me, Ruth,” he said to her as if she could hear. “We’ll go somewhere—together. Some little place, somewhere. Some town, you know, maybe in Ohio. It doesn’t matter, maybe Missouri. I can get a job in a bar maybe or a roadhouse. I can play the piano and we’ll have our secret and we’ll get a little house to live in. And maybe I’ll give a concert and—well, anyway we’ll have a little house. And—and we’ll be happy.”