People Who Knock on the Door (30 page)

“And the funeral—did you take Robbie?” Arthur asked.

“He could’ve gone. He didn’t want to go,” said his mother.

There were a few seconds of silence.

“Well—shall I do something about lunch, Mom? I have to take off just after one. French this afternoon.”

“I know, dear. I’ll fix something for us.—Just want to get out of these shoes first.” She went to the bedroom.

Arthur set the table for three, not caring if he ate a bite standing up. “Hope Irene wasn’t at the funeral,” Arthur said softly to his grandmother.

“She was. Weeping. Real tears, I saw them. Still—as I said to your mother, I had the feeling she hadn’t talked all over town. Didn’t you think that, too, Lois?” she asked as his mother came back.

“You wouldn’t be able to tell. People wouldn’t let on—not at the funeral.”

“You saw Robbie, too, Mom?” Arthur asked.

“For a minute. Then Mama talked with him in his room. I think Mama’s a little surprised.”

“He was so cold,” said his grandmother. “He’s like a changed boy. And then maybe he isn’t.”

“Just said, ‘I don’t want to go to the funeral’? Something like that?” Arthur asked.

“Yes,” said his grandmother. “And he said he thought—what he had done was right. Was
right
. He is a changed boy.”

Arthur sipped a glass of milk and glanced at his wristwatch. He felt sorry for his grandmother.

“And he doesn’t seem to mind at all being where he is,” his grandmother said. “He talked about joining the Marines later.” She tried to smile.

“How long’s he going to be where he is, Mom?”

“Couple of days, I gathered. Something about a psychiatrist talking to him; then there’s a hearing.” His mother was putting some warm corned beef hash on the table.

“He told me,” said Joan, “that your father made a confession to him about Irene. And then he knew what he ought to do.”

Arthur felt a shock, as if he had not known this before. “Sunday?”

“Yes, after midday dinner. Robbie told me Irene spoke to him on the telephone Saturday, but she’d told Richard long before.”

Arthur looked at his mother. “Robbie didn’t say anything to you Saturday?”

“No!” said his mother. “I remember now, Richard and I were out for a couple of hours shopping Saturday afternoon.”

“And he went to church on Sunday?” Arthur asked, amazed, but only for an instant, because his brother of course would go to church, no matter what.

“Yes,” said his mother, “and I didn’t notice any difference at all the—in the way he acted with Richard.”

Arthur slid around the bench seat, past the place where Robbie usually sat. “Better be going, Mom—if you’ll excuse me.” Arthur tapped his pants pocket to make sure he had his car keys.

“Yes, and you know Robbie told me, Arthur,” said his grandmother, looking at him, “that what his father had said was so awful, he didn’t want to tell his mother. So he just gave him the correct punishment, he said.” Then she crumpled, or her face did, and she closed her eyes to stop the tears.

In his grandmother’s chin, illuminated by the sunshine that came through the kitchen window, Arthur saw little hatchlike wrinkles that he had never noticed before. He ached for her, because there was nothing he could do, no words he could say that would make the facts any easier to bear.

“I feel that I’ve lost a grandson, that’s all,” said his grandmother. “And it’s very sad.”

28

T
he Reverend Cole was due to arrive at half past 5, his mother told Arthur, when he got home after the French exam.

“Bob said he was going to see Robbie this afternoon, too. And Gus phoned as soon as you’d left. Really the phone’s been ringing all afternoon.”

Arthur had seen Gus and talked with him just a few minutes ago.

“And Robbie’s hearing is on Friday morning. I’m allowed to be present, which they implied was unusual, but nobody else is—of the family.”

“I see.” Arthur’s last exam was on Friday morning. “Where’s Grandma?”

“Having a nap. She wants to go back to Kansas City Friday afternoon, then come back next week to help me out with things. She came here on such short notice, you know—she has to do a few things at her school before she’s free.”

Arthur knew there was paperwork for his mother, though she had said something about a woman from his father’s office coming to do that. He went to his room, put on old Levi’s and a T-shirt, and went out into the backyard. The light of the declining sun struck his face and felt delicious. He took the spade from the toolshed.

When his mother called to him, nearly an hour later, he was grimy and sweaty. He walked toward her, swinging the spade by its handle. “Mom, I don’t want to see that guy,” he said softly and firmly.

“Please, Arthur.—Five minutes? He knows you’ve been busy with exams. He gave a very nice speech at Richard’s—before the funeral, in the church.” His mother wore a fresh summer dress.

He knew he had to put in an appearance if his mother had told Bob Cole he was here. “Okay, Mom. In a minute.”

Then Arthur took his time, lazily washed his hands, wet his head, and spat out water from the backyard faucet whose handle was hot to the touch. He was hoping the minister would be on his feet and on the way out when he went in.

Not so. The minister sat solemn-faced with a full glass of iced tea in his hand when Arthur entered the living room. Arthur accepted a glass of iced tea from his mother, but declined to sit, saying his Levi’s were too dirty.

“Arthur, we’re all of us extremely sad and shocked by what has happened,” said Bob Cole, sadly smiling. “I’m just here to say a few words of friendship and sympathy.”

Arthur waited. Was he going to mention Irene? Had he already?

“. . . hard for us all to realize that a quiet boy like Robbie could’ve done such a thing. It’s a time when we all need all the inner strength we can muster. But that can come with love, forgiveness and neighborliness.” His dark eyes moved past Arthur’s grandmother, who was sitting on the sofa, past his mother sitting on the edge of an armchair, and returned to Arthur.

“Have a coconut cookie, Arthur, they’re very good,” said his mother.

Arthur took one to please his mother. He was remembering when the Reverend Cole had spoke to his father about him and Maggie. Now the minister was extending sympathy to his family about his father? “Robbie thought he was doing the right thing, you know.”

“Arthur, I don’t think we need to go into that,” said his mother gently.

Arthur could see in Bob Cole’s suddenly more alert expression that he knew Irene’s part in this story. “If you talked with Robbie, he probably said the same thing to you.”

“Ye-es, he did,” said the minister.

“And you’ve probably talked to Irene,” Arthur said.

“Now, Arthur,” said his grandmother, “we all—Do sit down. Your jeans aren’t all that dirty.”

Bob Cole looked into the distance and cleared his throat. “It’s not appropriate for me, Arthur, to talk about what members of our congregation tell me in confidence.”

“But she talked with you, I suppose. So you know why my brother was angry.”

The Reverend took a deep breath. “But she’s not always to be believed.—She’s still rather disturbed mentally,” he informed Joan, “though a lot calmer than she used to be.”

“But my brother believed her story,” Arthur went on, “and according to Robbie, my father said it was true.—That’s what I’m talking about.”

“Arthur—” His mother seemed not to know how to go on. “Arthur’s had a trying day today, Bob. Two exams, morning and afternoon.”

Bob Cole nodded calmly, as if he understood. “No matter what Irene told me, Arthur, I cannot tell you—or the general public. That would be a breach of confidence, unfair to everyone and to myself, my vocation.”

This brought Arthur back to what he had been thinking seconds before. “This reminds me of last year—the abortion.” He moistened his lips nervously. “I remember you heard it from someone and spoke to my father and evidently to a few other people such as Eddie Howell. Anyway—it seems to me that was making it sort of public—I think.”

Bob Cole looked at his grandmother with a faint smile, as if to say that they had to be patient with the young. “That was for your own good, Arthur—in the long run.”

A platitude and an evasion, Arthur thought. “The whole fuss last year was over whether my f-friend should have an abortion or not, though she wanted one and got one. Now that something’s really happened—you sort of back out. You’re not interfering.”

“How so?” the Reverend asked earnestly. “We are all
most
concerned. And—we are concerned about abortion, yes. We all know that Irene is not married, but abortion was always out of the question and she will have that child
and
—our church is going to help financially. And that’s something.”

Yes, it was something, Arthur realized, in the church’s favor. But a child from an insane mother? “You said a minute—”

Arthur was interrupted by the Reverend’s suddenly sitting forward. “I think it’s time I took my leave.”

“I was going to mention insanity,” Arthur said, setting his tea glass down on the coffee table. “When an insane or mentally disturbed person—as you called Irene Langley—gets pregnant, she has the baby, too?”

“Yes,” replied Bob Cole. “I’ve no doubt she’ll have that baby. Because she wants it.” He smiled sweetly, as if he were christening the baby at that very minute.

“And suppose she’s telling a lie?” asked Arthur.

“About what? Having a baby?” Bob Cole’s smile spread.

“About my father being responsible,” Arthur said, aware that his mother’s hands writhed in her lap.

“Well, is that the point of anything?” asked Bob Cole. “What
she
says? Who can prove it or disprove it?” Now the Reverend stood up. “Human life is the point, Arthur. Everyone knows Irene’s a little strange. Had a hard life, too—unbelievably hard. That’s why we all try to help her in every—”

“The point is, that’s why my father’s dead, why Robbie shot him,” Arthur said.

“That
is
true, Bob.” Lois stood up, looking at Bob Cole as if she were half afraid of what she had just said. “It’s true, because Robbie believed what his father said. And he was so shocked—Robbie, I mean. I couldn’t calm him down Sunday. He had such an idea that sex—anything to do with physical relations outside of marriage—was so evil. Really evil. But as I said to Arthur—no, to Eddie Howell—is it worth killing somebody over, after all? But he learned that at the church. He never used to be like this, when he was ten and twelve, honestly. And there was Richard—not giving me any help at all!” Lois gasped and tossed her head back, as if determined not to cry.

“Loey,” said Joan, getting up. “Just for today try—”

“I’m sorry, Mama, but I have to say—I don’t care if Richard is responsible or not. He’s dead. That’s what matters to
me
.” Then she couldn’t speak anymore.

Bob Cole, still upright, put his hand on Lois’s arm. “There, there. I understand, Lois. I really do.”

Arthur stood with his hands on his hips, repressing an impulse to fling the Reverend’s hand off his mother. Keep your goddamn “secrets,” Arthur wanted to say, and if not for his grandmother’s presence, he would have said it.

His mother and grandmother saw the Reverend to the door. Much mumbling of comforting phrases.

“Two-faced bastard,” Arthur said as soon as he heard the front door close. He headed for the fridge and a cold beer. “Evasive, don’t you think, Grandma?” Arthur said over his shoulder.

“Yes,” said his grandmother firmly, and she gave Arthur a quick smile. The smile was more sad than amused.

F
RIDAY MORNING, ARTHUR TOOK HIS
last exam, during which time his mother attended the hearing on Robbie. His grandmother had gone with her, intending to wait in the car or in a nearby café, if there was one, his grandmother had said. Her plane was at 1:45 p.m., and his mother was to drive her to the airport.

Arthur was home when his mother arrived at 3. For once she had taken the afternoon off.

“He’s got to be in a boys’ detention place for six months,” his mother said. “It’s near Indianapolis, a place called Foster House. For boys up to eighteen. They have schooling there, and gardening—carpentering—”

Arthur had expected something like this. “But what did they
say
?—How many people there at the hearing?”

“Oh—five or six. They said he’d been influenced by his father. Overly influenced, I mean, which of course is true. They said he was obsessive. You know—those phrases.” She leaned against a cupboard, untied the scarf at her neck and yanked it off so quickly it made a snapping sound.

“Sit down, Mom. Want a coffee?—Was Robbie there?”

“For fifteen minutes or so, yes. Then they took him out. He said—his father had admitted to a sin and he said what it was.” She glanced at Arthur, then sat down on a straight chair.

Arthur winced, imagining his mother’s feelings. He was making instant coffee for her.

“And I had to say, because it’s true, that Robbie had all this influence in the last year. And in a way I think that helped in his defense.”

Arthur listened to the water getting hot. “And what happens after six months?”

“They’ll see how he’s doing and if he can come home.” His mother smiled suddenly. “He mentioned joining the Marines! But I thought a boy had to be seventeen. Nobody made any remarks in the hearing.” She laughed. “He’ll be sixteen soon, and I was afraid they’d put him behind bars somewhere, which of course wouldn’t do him any good at all. This Foster House—it sounds like the next thing to a summer camp.—Thanks, dear, for the coffee.”

Arthur was sick of Robbie. He didn’t care if Robbie was behind bars, in a room with one other delinquent or a dorm with forty others with beds in a row. “When’s Grandma coming back?”

“She said probably Tuesday.—Oh, the woman from Richard’s office is coming this evening to take some of Richard’s papers.”

That sounded dismal. “I might go over to Gus’s tonight. After supper.” He stood up from the bench seat. “And I’m going to tackle that carpet now.”

“What do you mean, tackle it?”

“Get it up. Hopeless to clean, Mom.”

His mother did not remonstrate, and he went to the study and did what he could with his hands first, then fetched a claw hammer and pliers. His father’s desk was heavy, and he lifted one side at a time and shoved the green carpet under it with a foot. Finally he had the carpet in a heap by the backyard door. He had wanted above all to get the fuzzy-edged stain out of sight, but there it was again, sharper-edged and still like France, on the beige wood of the floor. He swept the floor, and for what it was worth, attacked the spot again with soapy water and a brush. This yielded no visible pink. He put newspapers over the wet place on the floor. Then he slung a rope around the carpet, pulled it onto the lawn and into the garage, and with a couple of heaves got it into the hatch of his father’s car. He took his father’s keys from the hook in the kitchen and backed the car out.

Arthur drove to the nearest public dump he knew, ousted the carpet, and turned at once homeward. It was the first time he had driven his father’s car, and he detested it. It had a loose, uncertain steering. Play, it was called. The wheel suggested phoniness, evasiveness and double meanings.

By a quarter past 8, Arthur was at Gus’s house. All Gus’s family seemed to be in the kitchen.

“We were so surprised by that news!” Gus’s mother said. “How is your poor mother? . . . And where is Robbie now? . . . Give your mother our love, would you, Arthur?”

Gus and Arthur went upstairs to Gus’s room with Cokes and beers.

“Jesus!” Gus said, shaking his head.

Gus was looking at him as if he were someone returned from the moon, or so Arthur felt.

“Mighta gone to the funeral that morning, Art, but I had an exam,” Gus said.

Arthur gave a laugh. “So did I. I didn’t go.”

“What
happened
?”

Arthur told him about Sunday afternoon.

Gus popped open two beer cans. “What’d your brother
say
to you?”

“
Say
to me? Or anybody! Not a damn thing! I took the gun out of his hand! He was sitting in his room with it—maybe two minutes after he fired it. He just takes the attitude he did the right thing.”

“What d’y’mean?” Guss was still standing in the center of his small room.

Arthur sat down on the floor, his back against a leg of Gus’s table. “Well, if you haven’t heard—You haven’t heard? About Irene at the Silver Arrow?”

“No. What?”

“Well, she says my dad was responsible for her being —um—pregnant.”

“You’re
kiddin’
!”

“I am not. She said it to me too last Friday night when I went to the diner by myself. I didn’t believe her, y’know? Then I found out she’d said the same thing to my mom—and then Robbie—”

“You mean it’s true?”

“Could be. I think so.” Arthur glanced at the closed door. It was going to come out, Irene’s story, and he had preferred to tell Gus himself. “You won’t say anything to your folks, would you? No reason for it to get any more spread around.”

“No, no, sure.” Gus had sat down on his bed. “What does your mother say?”

“I know she doesn’t want to believe it. But I think she has to.—Because my father the same as said it! I didn’t hear him, of course; I wasn’t there.” Arthur stared at Gus’s carpet, then looked up at Gus. “Pretty awful to imagine, isn’t it? Coming anywhere near Irene.”

Gus nodded thoughtfully. “Y’know, just a couple of days ago I read in the paper about a fourteen-year-old fellow in Texas shooting
both
his parents dead just because his father wouldn’t let him take the car. Imagine that.—But Robbie’s re-eally weird. I can even understand the Texas guy better.”