Juice (11 page)

Having exhausted the historical, pastoral, and comical possibilities of his newspaper, Joe found the nub of a pencil and mounted an unenthusiastic attack on the crossword puzzle. This lasted only a few minutes. He dropped the paper and threw the pencil lightly across the room into the fireplace. The beat of his heart was loud again. There was too much undone: he should call Mrs. Storch, or go to see her; he should call Rhein, or Davis; he should think, somehow animate the sodden cells of his brain. But none of this was what he wanted to do. He wanted another newspaper; he wanted a cheap mystery novel, a bad motion picture, a good poker game. He was almost dozing when the doorbell rang.

He had expected Helen with too many packages; he saw instead John James Davis. The man was tall and frankly curious. He stared at Joe for several seconds before speaking. “Joseph Harrison,” he said, like a Quaker, “I'm John James Davis.”

“I know,” Joe said. “Glad to see you.” They shook hands in the doorway. Joe had noticed an expensive suit, a custom silk shirt, English shoes, and behind the man, in the drive, a long black convertible coupé. He had felt a moment's distrust; but the face, the eyes, dispelled it. The eyes were extraordinary, startling, lambent and melancholy in an eagle's face; the contrast was disquieting. “Come in,” Joe said. “I'd rather have a psychiatrist, but I'm glad to see you just the same.”

“Psychiatrist?” Davis asked, following him.

“Yes,” Joe said over his shoulder. “I feel like a jellyfish. No brain, no will. I worked the crossword puzzle this morning. First time in twenty years.”

They were in the living room. Joe waved at a chair opposite his own. Davis delayed; he prowled the room briefly, dropped his briefcase on an end table, inspected the walls, the paintings, the composition floor, took in the view, went to the piano and sounded an “A” with his head slightly cocked, expressed approval, played a quick cadence, went to the indicated chair, an elegantly and austerely stuffed fauteuil, and sat. A cat, all black, yellow-eyed, leaped to one of its arms and stared implacably at him. “Not guilty,” Davis said, stroking it. “Go back and tell your boss I defy him. You know,” he said to Joe, “they used to think that cats were witches. Black ones particularly. They burned them at the stake on religious holidays. St. John's Eve, all over Europe, the fire throwing off infernal smoke and the peasants drunk and scratching themselves and fornicating in the hedges, and through it all the yowling of cats in agony. Fear of the devil. We still have it. Without the devil, God would wither away; who would need Him?”

“When God has withered away,” Joe murmured. “Sounds like a quote from the Christian Manifesto.”

Davis smiled. “Exactly. We'll all be true Christians then. And I suppose witch-burning, or cat-burning, was an ecclesiastical compensation for all the gorgeous sins the congregation was theoretically denied.”

“We've come a long way,” Joe said. “The animals in this house come with the children, like dirty knees or toads in the kitchen.” Davis was what he needed, Joe decided. Davis had energy and quickness. The man sat quietly enough, but he was primed. “Do you want coffee?” Joe asked him. “Or a drink?”

“Nothing, thanks. I know what you mean about a psychiatrist. You ought to be out burning a cat, or maybe chopping off your right hand. We don't do things that way now. The equivalent is to break down, scream, have hysterics. Some of us don't do that either.” Davis smiled. “I've seen it before. We simply close ourselves off.”

“Not entirely,” Joe said. “I've been thinking about it since it happened. I can't keep it out of my mind. I just don't react properly.”

Davis shrugged. “Properly? You're assuming that something's expected of you, that there is an approved reaction. You think you're a monster if you don't come across.”

“That's it,” Joe said. “I feel like a monster.”

“You are a monster,” Davis said. “So am I. So is every man who hasn't the protection of an approved pattern. But you're not a monster to yourself. Your monstrosity is a reflection. You think: Other people would say I was a monster, and therefore I
am
a monster. But I don't feel like a monster; therefore I am a worse monster.”

“That's not true,” Joe said, sitting up. “I don't feel this way because there's a law on the books and I broke it. I feel this way because the law came from somewhere, out of men's feelings about life, and I suppose without ever expressing it I've always approved of life, loved it even, and now I've destroyed some of it—”

“And you feel numb,” Davis cut in. “And your numbness makes you afraid that you've been deceiving yourself for years, that you don't actually care about anybody but Joseph Harrison.”

“Yes,” Joe said. “That's about it. I was more remorseful in the war.”

“You could afford the remorse then,” Davis said flatly. “The responsibility wasn't yours.”

“You didn't come here to be witty,” Joe said coldly.

“No. I'm not being witty. I've seen fifty, a hundred people in your spot. A few of them were numb. Always it was a vicious circle: no immediate reaction, then horror at their own callousness; the horror inhibiting reaction even more, producing even greater horror which inhibited reaction still more, producing et cetera. It happens in love: the man who is momentarily incapable, which scares him, which makes him more incapable, which scares him more, until finally he confesses impotence, blindly hands the lady her fee and shuffles out, a monster.” Davis' eyes were not melancholy now; they were almost fiery. “I can't have a client who thinks he's a monster. Is that clear? I can't have a client who gulps and mumbles and finally cries, ‘Whip me! Beat me!'”

Joe shook his head and said, still coldly, “You haven't. I don't think you've understood me at all. You've translated me into abnormal psychology. I'm not interested in norms and reactions and behavior patterns in general. I'm interested in me, Joe Harrison, just killed a man and can't feel it. Listen—” he leaned forward—“here: an idea. You used the word ‘love,' and then you limned a sentimental scene in a whorehouse. Okay. I won't say it isn't love. It is. We both know it; the forms of love are mysterious, and we each do the best we can. But if that's love, then what happened yesterday is death—not just a breach of the written law, not an accident, not justifiable or unjustifiable, none of those things matters, but death. And if I can feel love and react to it, I ought to be able to feel death and react to it. Do you see? It wasn't war and it wasn't passion, not even money or revenge; I just took a little nub of life and made it disappear. Law or no law—even if it was sanctioned, approved, if that was my acknowledged function—I ought to feel bad about it. Because—because life is life. Because there's nothing else.”

“Well spoken. You're coming alive.” Davis smiled happily. “There was truth in what I said. But I jolted you, which was important. Can't have you sleeping on a bed of nails. Defense attorneys and masochists can't get along at all.”

“Oh, for the love of God,” Joe said. “I'm not a masochist. You're either obtuse or very clever.”

“I'm very clever,” John James Davis said immediately. “Take my word for it.”

Joe hesitated, almost spoke, stared grimly at Davis' English shoes, and then raised his eyes to Davis' face and laughed aloud. “All right. You're very clever. I'm in your hands.”

“Excellent,” Davis said. “I'll have that coffee now, and you can tell me exactly what happened.”

Joe was smiling when he went out to the kitchen; he did not see Davis' tolerant amusement alter fleetingly to alarmed deliberation.

Over coffee Joe told him everything. “Begin at the beginning,” Davis had said; Joe had answered, “Of course, I'm not a philosopher and even less an analyst. For me the beginning was five in the afternoon yesterday.” Davis had bowed, a wry bob of the head, and Joe had told him.

“Who saw it?” Davis asked him.

“The cop, Pearson, his name was, an old lady, about sixty, dumpy, and an old man, a whittler, you know, has a doorway he sits in every day. There was a drugstore right there, but I don't know if the druggist saw it or not. A doctor came along, too, skinny, must have lived nearby. What happens now?”

Davis reflected. “Technically, now, we go to the court-house tomorrow for a hearing. Or we can waive examination and have it all come up in superior court next week. I think we'd do well to handle as much as possible tomorrow. I'll get over there this afternoon. Have you talked to Rhein?”

“No,” Joe said, and wondered at the hint of dislike on Davis' face. “What did he say?”

“Nothing. I haven't seen him. He called me, told me you were in trouble, told me to handle it. Just like that. Rhein is surrounded by people who can handle things for him. He thinks that makes him an executive.”

“I know,” Joe said. “I'm one of them. But I like him. He's futile; his day is over; and he's a busybody; but he uses himself. His goal in life is not retirement, if that means anything.”

“That's the first respectful opinion of him I've heard,” Davis said. The doorbell rang. He went on, “He did have the good sense to come to John James Davis.”

“That's his secret, as you said,” Joe told him. “To be able to afford the best is nothing. To know it when you see it is something.”

Davis bowed again, but Joe had passed him, moving to the door. This time it was Helen. “Take the beer,” she said. “Quick!”

Joe relieved her of the beer; he blocked her entry, and kissed her several times.

“You'll crush the Camembert,” she said softly.

“We have company,” he said.

“Who?”

“Davis.”

“Oh.” Helen's smile fled, and then returned bravely. “Put the beer in the kitchen. I'll take care of all this and then come in.”

Joe set the beer on the kitchen table and returned to Davis. “My wife,” he said. “Struggling with groceries.”

Davis grinned. “Half the history of America, right there.”

“Are you married?”

“No,” Davis said.

“Ever been?”

“No.”

Joe was silent.

“Where's the old evangelical spirit?” Davis asked him. “Not going to sell me on it?”

“None of my business,” Joe smiled. “I was only curious. Ever want to leave a son behind?”

Davis nodded immediately; Joe was astonished. “Yes,” Davis said. “Partly because I like children and partly because I'd like to raise a race of anarchists.”

“Can't do it,” Joe said promptly. “You know the old paradox: two anarchists join forces and automatically cease to be anarchists. Any two people—or more—live together, anarchy dies. Rules, unspoken agreements, constitution, bylaws, a hierarchy; you have to use the bathroom one at a time, Daddy likes toast light, Mommy likes it dark, Junior is a monotone and Daddy has absolute pitch—”

Davis gestured happily, interrupting. “Funny you mention that. I have absolute pitch. Odd virtue for a lawyer, isn't it? I go crazy some days. Automobile horns, the pop singers deliberately flat and the divas deliberately sharp—Huxley or somebody has a novel where the sex is always interrupted by a sofa spring that twangs in B flat.”

Joe was laughing. “You could do a whole love scene.”

“Absolutely,” Davis went on. “I've thought of it. You modulate to D minor for unspeakable iniquities, and to the flatted fifth for perversion. Then—” he conducted vigorously—“you have a whole movement on the chord of the dominant seventh, and you resolve with a little tonic squeak on the flute.”

From the doorway Helen said, “The technical terms are beyond me, but my opinion of men is hugely confirmed. Joe—” she smiled—“is wrong. Put two anarchists together and they start talking about sex.”

“Essentially it's a compliment to the ladies,” Davis said, rising.

“Mrs. Harrison, Mr. Davis,” Joe said.

Helen nodded, still smiling.

For several moments Davis was silent; his intensity gathered and struck at Helen. Joe felt it, Joe saw; Joe did not disapprove.

“What key are we in now?” he asked.

Davis looked at him then and smiled almost sheepishly. “I refuse to apologize. For an instant I was shocked into pure atonality. Will you join us, Mrs. Harrison?”

“With pleasure,” Helen said. “And do go on, please. You had modulated from iniquity to perversion, and there was a thought-provoking remark about a flute.”

“I blush for myself,” Davis said.

“A likely story,” Joe said.

“My mind is such a mess today,” Davis said. “You should have come yesterday, when everything was clean.”

They laughed.

“We've discussed the accident,” Joe said suddenly. “We're in Davis' hands.”

“All right,” Helen said, looking at Davis. Joe was bewildered; it was as though they had met before, or shared a secret.

Davis was with them for twenty minutes more, and then left. He and Joe would meet tomorrow before the magistrate; Joe and Helen were not to worry about the legal processes. Helen shook his hand; he murmured a compliment. He clapped Joe lightly on a shoulder, walked out to the black convertible coupé, and was gone from them.

“I like him,” Helen said.

“So do I,” Joe said. “He's complete. Handles himself well. Bows down before no man. You could guess at that, from the Landauer trial; but I thought he might be too slick and flashy.”

“He's slicker than we think,” Helen said. “But he's all right.”

“You impressed him.”

“Yes. I could tell,” she said.

And he you, Harrison thought.

4

That the temples be closed for the rest of the time, in order that no one shall enter therein out of hours, impelled thereto by superstition; and if anyone be found engaged in any special act of devotion therein or near by he shall be admonished for it: if it be found to be of a superstitious nature for which simple correction is inadequate then he shall be chastised.…