Some Came Running (153 page)

Enthusiastically, he parked the car and went upstairs to the office. He bounced through his work with all the flair and energy Frank Hirsh was becoming noted for, anxious to get home to his wife. When he did get home that night, and found the note and the house messed up from the packing of the suitcases, he collapsed: stunned. Completely stunned, into a state of shock; like an ox is stunned with a hammerblow between the eyes, before they slice his neck.

It took him fifteen minutes to really realize it, in the numbed state he was in. And eight seconds after that, he fell completely apart.

He had seen the note, of course, first thing after he had noticed all the clothes strewn around. The usually immaculate, spotless house was in a terrible state. Frank pushed some clothes off a chair in the living room and sat down with the note and read it over and over. He knew what it said, but the meaning did not register on him with its full import. Along toward the end of the fifteen minutes, when his mind began to work again a little, he grasped craftily at the straw that she was only doing this to devil him, and had not left at all.

And with this in mind, he searched the house. He went upstairs, then down and into the laundry room, he even looked in the basement. Then, finally, he went out to the garage and checked to see if her car was gone.

It was when he came back inside from the garage, and saw again the clothes-strewn rooms and went and got the note and read it through again that the full import of it all hit down on him. She had really left him. His own wife, whom he had done more for and loved more than anybody else in the world, and
needed,
had actually left him. It made him come completely unstrung, and sitting in the clothes-strewn living room, the note dangling from his hand, he began to cry. That she could do this to him. Frank did not cry easily, had not cried for years. He had always believed men ought never to cry, and it was a broken, convulsive, shoulder-shaking kind of crying that came out of him. The tears ran down his face and splashed on his dangling hands, and he held his mouth and nose tightened up against it, except when the convulsive little gasps for breath would shake him.

Still crying, he went about and aimlessly began to gather up the clothes. It seemed an endless; there were so many of them. Finally, he kicked them all together in a couple of piles and bent and picked them up and carried them in and dumped them all on her—on Agnes’s; Agnes his wife’s—bed. That she would do this to him, deliberately. And not only that: his son! Walter! She had taken him, too! And after he had already had the signs changed on the store windows! That would make him look like an ass, wouldn’t it! At least, she could have left him Walter. But that she could do it at all, such a horribly cruel thing, to him, who had always loved her—that was the worst of all! And he began to cry again.

It was, in the end, the panic that finally made him stop the crying. It had been growing in him steadily all this time: the nameless, frightened panic—at the thought of living here all alone the rest of his life; at the thought of having to clean this house up himself; at the thought of eating meals in restaurants, greasy spoons, all the rest of his life; at the thought of the laundry room and of trying to run the mangle: but most of all at the thought of walking echoingly back and forth all through this house, alone, all the rest of his life. No Agnes. No Walter: no son! The panic grew until finally it was so strong that it superseded the crying and the feeling of self-sorrow and forced them both out of him.

Well, he would have to get her back, that was all! And suddenly, he jumped up, filled with a frantic energy to do something, an energy which, of course, was only frustrated leaving him just that much more unstrung—because, he realized, there wasn’t anything he could start to do. At least, not now. If she was going to her sister Mary Ellen’s in Kansas City, they would not arrive there until some time tomorrow. He could not even call her, on the phone, until then. A wire would mean a long wait for an answer. And he couldn’t send a wire anyway, not publicly in Parkman. For a moment, the frustrated energy to do something tormenting him, he thought of getting in the Cadillac and following them. Sure. That was what he could do. Maybe he could catch them. But then, what if he passed them, and missed them? And for that matter, how could he be sure which route she took? And, he thought craftily, how did he even know she was going to Mary Ellen’s in Kansas City? Maybe she only told him that as a red herring to throw him off, while she was, in fact, going someplace else?

No, there was nothing for it except to wait until tomorrow. And then call. It would mean waiting until almost tomorrow noon. The very thought was so agonizing that he could hardly stand it. To relieve himself, he went to the bar and shakily got out a full bottle of whiskey. He did not even bother with the pretense of mixing a drink, but took the bottle into the bedroom with him and lay down with it on the bed. But he could not stand the bedroom, with all those clothes there, on Agnes’s bed; and he got back up and went back out to sit in the living room. And there he sat, drinking the whiskey and peering at his watch every few minutes to see how much time had passed. He promised himself that he would agree to anything she asked to get her to come back. He would give up Edith. He hadn’t known it meant that much to her, to Agnes. Sure, he’d give up Edith and he’d never take another mistress. If that was what she wanted. My God, she was destroying his whole life! But if that was what she wanted, okay, he’d give it to her:
Let
her destroy his life. Finally, he managed to get drunk enough to sleep. Anything. Anything she wanted. Agnes. Agnes.

He woke up, feeling dirty and greasy and still in his now-rumpled business suit, just shortly after daylight. His watch, which he looked at immediately, said it was five o’clock. My God! that meant seven more hours he would have to wait! He didn’t think he could stand it. Could stand to wait. Because how did he even know they were going there? And he would have to wait seven more hours just to find out, even. What if they didn’t go to Mary Ellen’s? What would he do then? How would he ever find them?

Getting a grip on himself, he made himself get up to go shower and shave. And it was then he saw the whiskey bottle on the floor, where it had slipped out of his hand last night when he fell asleep; and as soon as he saw it he smelled the whiskey. Capless, the bottle had fallen over and most of its remaining contents had run out on the rug. Staring at it, the deep unnameable, unbearable panic seized him again. Frantically, he ran out to the kitchen and got the dishrag at the sink and grabbed some dishtowels and ran back in to try and clean it up. The raw whiskey smell was strong in his nose as he knelt and rubbed ineffectually. It was a very poor effort at cleaning, and it did not even assuage his conscience. Here he was, ruining his and Agnes’s house, almost before she had even left it. Guilt of a strength unknown to him before gripped him as he tried to clean it up. My God! what would he do if she didn’t come back? The whole place would sink into ruin and decay; and he himself would descend into sloth and dirt and stagnation. A bum. She just had to come back!

When he had cleaned it up as best he could—which was very poorly—he took the fine expensive dishtowels, soaked with whiskey and water now and dirt rubbed into them from the rug, into the laundry and threw them in a bunch on the floor, and looked down at them guiltily. Even his attempts at cleaning up had resulted in more destruction than good. Miserably, he forced himself to go shave and shower.

Afterwards, he felt a little better. But it was still not yet six o’clock! Dejectedly, he ambled out in the kitchen and put some bread in the automatic toaster and made some coffee. But after he had made it, hopelessness made him unable to eat any of it, and he only sat and stared at it emptily. Agnes always made him such good breakfasts.

Finally, unable to think of anything else to do, he got up and got another bottle of whiskey and took it back to the kitchen table with him. He would have to be careful. He didn’t want to be drunk when he called. And so, sparingly, he drank whiskey and sat at the table and looked at his watch every few minutes to see how much time had passed.

Finally, he called Mary Ellen’s at ten o’clock. Desperately, he tried to make his voice sound calm. No, she hadn’t seen Agnes; she hadn’t even known she was coming.

“Well, when she gets there, you tell her I called,” Frank said, striving to sound calm. “And that I’ll call back.”

He went back to his whiskey and his watch.

He called again at eleven. Still no word.

Then, at a quarter to twelve, he called again; and she was there.

“Just a minute,” Mary Ellen said. “They just got in.”

Frank waited, half tight, filled with a hopeful despairfulness, and then Agnes’s voice came on the phone.

“Hello?” she said.

“You’ve got to come back,” Frank babbled. “You’ve got to come back right away.”

“I told you I didn’t ever want to see or hear from you again,” Agnes said sharply.

“I don’t care,” Frank said. “You’ve got to come back.”

There was a silence on the other end.

“Agnes?” he cried. “Agnes! Are you there? We’ve been cut off!”

“No; I’m here,” she said.

“Oh,” Frank said with relief. “Look: I’ll do anything you say. Anything. I’ll tell her we’re through, all washed up. And I’ll never have another—”

“Don’t talk over the phone!” Agnes said.

“All right,” he said eagerly, “all right. But anything. Anything you say. Look, I haven’t been to work. You’ve got to come back, or we’ll lose everything. And anyway I think I’m sick,” he said. “I’ve got a fever, I think. And I haven’t got anybody to take care of me. I
need
you. I can’t afford to get down sick now, with things going like they are. I got to be able to work. You’ve
got
to come back!”

There was another silence on the other end.

“Hello?” he said.

“All right,” Agnes said crisply, “I’ll come back. But you know what the conditions are.”

“All right,” Frank said eagerly. “Anything. Anything. I’ll tell her—”

“Don’t talk over the
phone
!” Agnes said. “Now, listen: I’m willing to come back for little Walter’s sake. He needs both his parents. But that’s all, understand? It’ll be just a simple business arrangement.”

“Anything,” Frank said hopefully, “anything.”

“But I’m only doing it on account of little Walter,” Agnes said. “Now listen: It’s going to take you some time to get
everything,
” she said, “arranged back there. You know what I mean. And since we’re already out here, I think we’ll just stay for a while.”

“Stay!” Frank said. “For how long?”

“For two weeks anyway,” Agnes said. “Walter’s never seen this part of the country. And anyway,” she said, suddenly, in an almost wailful tone, “I don’t think I’m equal to the drive back right now yet.” Then her voice sharpened again. “So you get everything arranged back there, and we’ll stay here and have ourselves a vacation. God knows we both need one.”

“Well,” Frank said miserably, “if you want to stay that long. But I can fix up everything here quicker than that. And I
need
you.”

“Mrs Davis,” Agnes said firmly, referring to the new cleaning woman who had replaced Old Janie, “will take care of you. Have her come clean up the house.”

“All right,” Frank said. Why the hell hadn’t he thought of that himself?

“She’ll probably even cook for you if you want her to,” Agnes said. “But I want Walter to see some of this country, and get to know his cousins. And I want a rest myself.”

“How is little Walter?” Frank said. “Is he all right?”

“Of course, he’s all right.”

“Does he miss his daddy?” Frank asked.

“Of course, he misses you,” Agnes said. “You’re his father, aren’t you?”

“Yeh,” Frank said unhappily.

“Well,” Agnes said, “all right. Now be sure and tell everyone Mary Ellen is sick.”

“Okay.”

“Now, is there anything else?”

“No,” he said lamely. “I guess not. Except that I love you.”

“Yes,” Agnes said. “Well, goodby.”

“Goodby,” Frank said reluctantly. He waited until he heard the other phone click in his ear before he hung up. Then he stood, looking around at the house, and feeling vastly relieved. She
was
coming back. Life would probably be hell on earth for a while, but she
was
coming back. And, more important, was bringing little Walter back home with her. Relief was like a vast relaxing sigh all through him. Then, suddenly, anger seized him. Damn her. Goddam her.

Well, at least he could work this afternoon, now. Carefully, he dressed himself in another suit and clean white shirt and carefully he tied his tie. Then, as a last minute afterthought, went back into the bathroom and gargled with mouthwash to take the smell of whiskey off his breath. There were still a lot of the leases to be taken care of. They were having a restaurant, and this lease was already sold, but he and the Greek and the old man had agreed beforehand not to do anything special with the restaurant because later when they built the motel they wanted to include a restaurant in it, a really ritzy modern one. Of course, the restaurant lessee in the shopping center didn’t know this. Frank had all of this to take care of, as well as more businessmen’s meetings; and the half day he had lost would already throw him quite a ways behind. Still feeling tremendous relief, he got his new summer hat and went out to the Cadillac and left. He would call Mrs Davis from the office, and ask her to come out tomorrow. The big shots’ errand boy, was he? Petty little laughingstock, was he? He had had to do more real work in the past six months than he had ever done in all his life put together before. He’d like to see her do the work he had done in the past six months. She’d drop over dead. As he backed out of the drive, he wished momentarily that he had waited a while before calling her out there. Maybe, if he had waited a few days, she wouldn’t have been so damned cocksure as she was. She might even have found she had decided to come back on her own. Well, it was too late for that now. And now he would have to go and talk to Edith. He hated to do it. But he had given her his word.