Hard Rain Falling (9 page)

“Hey,” said a voice out of the black. “Takin the air?”

“Who is it?”

“Billy.”

They approached each other. Billy, too, had a bottle, and they stood together for a few moments, drinking silently. Finally, Jack said, “What you doin out here? Takin the air yourself?”

“Yeah. This’s not much of a party, is it?”

“Well, you know.”

Later, when Jack had plenty of time to think about it, he wondered why he had not taken this golden opportunity to coldcock Billy Lancing and get his money. He had plenty of time to think about it, and he went over every possible motive in his mind. It wasn’t because he and Billy were friends, and even if they had been, Jack saw no reason not to do it; Billy had money, lots of it, and Jack needed money. And it was not because Billy was smaller and defenseless, even in a way trusted Jack not to take advantage of this accidentally private meeting; no such motive had ever stirred Jack in his life. And it certainly wasn’t because Jack didn’t think of it, or because he was afraid to, or because it seemed unethical to invite a person to a party and then rob him (that had been the original idea of inviting Billy). In fact, in all the time Jack had to think about it he was not able to come up with a logical, reasonable answer. They stood there in the garden and talked, and then they went back in the house. That was all that happened. It was inexplicable.

A great deal was going on inside the house. In the basement party room, three couples were dancing, and one lone boy was behind the bar trying out different exotic combinations of liquor. When Jack came in for another bottle, this boy was holding up something greenish in a milk-shake glass and grinning like a mad scientist. Jack took the glass from him and sipped at the drink; it tasted like sour candy. He gave the glass back and picked up a bottle half-full of Cutty Sark. He looked at the dancers. They all seemed to be elsewhere, moving slowly to the radio playing “Dream.”

It seemed so cozy. He went upstairs. The living room was empty. Several of the glass animals from the mantelpiece had fallen or been dropped on the hearth, and were broken. The nice lady in the white dress with the blue sash looked out into the empty room with a nice, pleasant, warm smile, not noticing what had happened to her ornaments. Her beautiful Persian rug, too, had been damaged by cigarette burns and some spilled liquor, but she did not see it; she was looking off into the distance. Jack saluted her with his bottle and went into the kitchen. Denny, Billy Lancing, and three other boys were sitting around the kitchen table, talking. The room was full of smoke. Somebody had been cooking something on the stove, and it had boiled over and burned. There were long yellowish-black streaks down the side of the stove, and the gas was still on under a blackened pot. Jack went over and looked in, but he could not tell what had been cooking. The boys at the table seemed to be talking about another party, not this one, one that had happened in the past. Jack could not quite make out what they were saying. Either they were drunk, or he was. Perhaps they were all drunk. Jack’s ears buzzed, and his legs felt long and rubbery. One of the boys at the table finished his bottle and tossed it across the kitchen. It tinkled. Jack grinned. That was a funny thing to do. He looked at his bottle. Too full.

“I want a cigar,” he said. No one answered him. He wandered out of the kitchen. Where were the cigars? Oh, yes, in the “Library.” Jack knew this room he was looking for was called the “Library” because he had seen movies in which people had such rooms. It was a room full of books, a small room, but still, full of books. And there was a desk. He and Denny had searched through the desk the night before, looking for money. The son of a bitch that owned the desk did not keep money in it. The fool. Jack wandered around until he found the room. The light was off, and he flicked the mercury switch (which did not click) and caught a boy and a girl on the leather couch. Jack saw a flash of white thigh as the girl turned quickly toward him, smoothing down her skirt. Her face was smeared and puffed, her lips parted over two prominent rabbit’s teeth. The boy sat up, his long Hollywood haircut all messed and down over his forehead. He had pimples and the beginnings of a tiny mustache.

“Beat it,” Jack told them.

“Well I really,” the girl said.

“What the hell,” the boy said.

But they left, and Jack started looking for the cigars. There was a cupboard under a glassed-in section of books. They were in here, he thought, squatting down. He got out a cigar, licked it down, bit an inch off the end, and lit it. The cigar tasted raw and burned his throat as he inhaled. The rich life; rich folks smoke these fuckin ropes; I’m gonna smoke em if it kills me. He looked around the room. Books. Money hidden behind the books. Of course. Where else? Got to be money in this house, must be behind the books. He began sweeping books off the shelves, and looking behind them. After a moment he sneezed; it was very dusty behind the books, and the dust had a particularly acrid smell. He swept the books off the open shelves carelessly, and they tumbled to the rug, spines cracking, dust flying. Jack did not find any money. The glassed-in shelf of books was locked. That would be where the money was. Jack picked up a copy of
Wake of the Red Witch
and used it to smash the glass on both sides. He dropped the book and reached in. Have to be careful, now, and not get cut. And open every book; maybe twenty dollar bills will be between the pages of the books. He pulled out a thick little book called
The Perfumed Garden
and riffled the pages. No money in it. He threw it across the room. He pulled out more books, most of them dealing with the Civil War, riffled them, and dropped them on the pile on the floor. He finally found some money. A Confederate twenty-dollar bill, used as a bookmark. It took him a long time to decide what it was. Then, holding the worthless money in his hand, he really lost his temper, kicking the stack of books and cursing in a deep, enraged voice. He looked around for something vicious to do, but the room was already a shambles, and so, stepping over the books or kicking them out of his way, he left, still holding the Confederate money.

As he passed through the dining room, he saw a boy lying under the table, his mouth open, snoring. Jack stared at him, and then got down and stuffed the twenty into the boy’s mouth. The boy gagged, his eyes opening, bulging, and he turned on his side and began vomiting on the rug. Jack said, “I’m sorry, dint mean it that way,” and went back into the kitchen. He wanted an egg salad sandwich. And there was only one way for him to get an egg salad sandwich. And that was to boil some eggs, chop them up, add mayonnaise, find some bread, and
make
the sandwich. He jerked open the refrigerator, and looked through it. There was plenty of food in it, but no eggs. “What the fuck is this?” he said. He swept some of the bottles and packages out of the refrigerator, and heard the cracking of glass.

“Hey, we gonna go get some air,” Denny said into his ear. “Come on, you look drunk.”

“I
am
drunk,” Jack said. He wanted to tell Denny all about the books, but he could not find the words. He followed Denny and Billy out into the back garden. Maybe now we’ll pop the little fucker an take his money, he thought.

The three of them sat on the damp grass and lit cigarettes. Jack still had his cigar in his hand, but he did not smoke it; he just let it burn.

“God damn,” Denny said through the gloom. “What a rotten goddam life. You know what?”

“What?” Billy said dully. He did not sound drunk to Jack.

“Aint you drunk?” Jack asked him.

“Feelin no pain,” Billy said.

“Shit. I bet you don’t drink.”

“Sure I drink.”

“Chickenshit nigger mother.”

“Aw,” Denny said. “You know what? I’m gonna join the Marines. No shit. Get out of this rotten life. School. I hate school.”

“Me, too,” Billy said. “But I just took off; I aint going to join no Marine Corps.”

Jack drew the clear cold air into himself, held it a moment, and let it out. The air almost cleared his head.

“Marines?” he asked. “What the hell for, Denny? Are you gone crazy?”

“Aw, shit. I aint gettin nowhere. I cut school all the time, get caught, get suspended, my old lady eats my ass out, then I got to go to school again. I don’t do nothin there, just sit around. It’s the shits. I don’t do nothin down at the poolhall neither. I just wastin my life. You know what? You know what Clancy Phipps tol me? He says, `You join the service now, while you can, cause after you get a record you can’t get in.’ Aint that an awful thing? Here all his fuggin life he wants to go in the fuggin Marines, an so he cops a radio an gets six months an now the Marines won’t take him. Me’n his kid brother Dale, we’re gonna join together. Dale Phipps, nex his brother, he’s the toughest fucker I ever met in my life. Him’n me, we’re gonna join.”

“He aint so tough,” Jack said. He felt envious, but not enough to join the Marines. “You know what? The Marines is worsen prison. You really got to snap shit.”

“No,” Denny said seriously. “In the Marines, sure, you got to toe the line, but man, they’re
tough
; you got to be good to make it. That’s worth doin.”

Billy said, “Man oh man. But they’re on your ass day an night. Me, I’m goin on the
road
. I figger I’m good enough, fair country poolshooter, an I can make my own livin.”

“Gee,” Denny said. “That’s great. You really got the talent, too. You got a skill, see; I aint got one. So all I can do is join the service. An the Marines are the cream of the crop. See?”

“Yeah,” Billy admitted. “But Jesus, what a way to go.”

“Fuck you guys,” Jack said dully. “You got your ambitions. I don’t.” He was feeling very sorry for himself.

“No,” Billy said. “I know it’s gonna be tough, me bein colored an all that; but I figure I can take it, cause I got the skill, see? An that makes all the difference. My old man, shit, he’s got no skills or nothin, so when they layin off all the colored people he goes out of his head, runs around the house drunk an cryin over himself. An there’s a lot of us to feed, man, so I just cut out, you know? I mean to make it.”

“You will,” Denny said with admiration. “You got the guts, an Kol Mano says you got the brains. Hey, tell me one thing; how much money you got on you? No kiddin, we won’t take it; I just want to know how much you won today an how much you stashed. Come on.”

Billy laughed lightly. “I brought twenty; I win almost a hundred today.”

“God!” Denny said.

“Balls!” Jack said. He got up, his joints already rusty, and moved back toward the house. He could still hear them talking about their future plans as he went into the house. It was not a significant moment for any of them, but later on, when Jack had plenty of time to think, the moment took on significance: it was the last time he was to see either of them for years. He thought about them, both of them, often, as he sat in darkness and dreamed away his past; thought of Denny’s friendliness, his openhearted kindness; blew it up all out of proportion, made Denny into a kind of saint in his memory; effectively destroyed the real Denny—thought about Billy and about his talent, his courage, exaggerated him as he did with Denny, so that both boys became almost symbolic of what he lacked, or what he dreamed, in darkness, that he lacked. Then he forgot about them as he forgot about almost everything. But that was later.

Right now, all he wanted was sleep. He was utterly drunk, and sleep seemed as desirable as a woman. He made his way upstairs, and looked into the boy’s bedroom. There was a couple on the bed. He said, “Excuse me,” and went to one of the girls’ rooms. It was empty. He got onto the bed, his body almost deadweight, felt the coolness of the coverlet under him, and passed out.

They really did not know what to do with him. He refused to tell them who he was, or how old he was, or anything at all. They took him down and booked him as John Doe and threw him in City Prison to await magistrate’s court.

It was not easy to do. When he awakened, turned over, and saw the two big plainclothesmen standing over the bed, he only blinked his eyes once, and then started fighting. He did not really try to get away; it did not occur to him that it would be possible; he just started fighting. One of the officers had to hit him along the side of the head with his lead-and-leather sap, and then Jack’s legs went out from under him and with one last wild, swinging left, he collapsed to the rug. They handcuffed him while he was still groggy, and then one of the officers stood straddled over him and hit him in the face, to let him know how things were. It did not occur to him to resent it.

They marched him down the stairs, and he got one last quick look at the house. The living room was a shambles; drapes torn, vomit and cigarette burns on the carpet, a lamp overturned, its shade askew. He did not realize how much the house reeked of smoke and vomit and urine until they opened the front door and he smelled fresh air. “Whew,” he said. It was the first remark he addressed to the officers, and it also turned out to be the last.

For once it was sunny in Portland, and Jack saw on the front lawn the bright diamondlike glitter of broken glass. They climbed into the black police car, one officer in front and one in back with Jack, and drove down the curved streets toward the heart of the city. The motion of the car made Jack sick to his stomach, and his head hurt. He leaned over and vomited onto the officer’s lap, felt something jarring, heard a loud sharp noise, and passed out again.

It did no good to search him; he had no identification at all. He probably would have been arraigned, tried, and sent to prison if one of the policemen hadn’t recognized him from Ben Fenne’s. The policeman spent his lunch hour at the poolhall playing keno almost every day, and he knew Jack’s name. As a matter of routine, they checked the records and learned that he was a Missing Person, and to their dismay, a juvenile. So instead of being sent to prison, in Salem, he was sent to reform school, in Woodburn.

Denny had gotten his growth since Jack had seen him last; he was now at least three inches taller than Jack, heavier, his face filled out and his red hair receding slightly from his temples. But there was no mistaking his greenish eyes or his smile—still boyish, even though Denny was twenty-four or twenty-five. They were sitting in a Market Street poolhall and Denny was telling Jack a funny story: