Some Came Running (56 page)

Old whore! she raged at herself. She was right when she called you old whore. With a very heavy hand, she shut her door. Then as an afterthought, she locked it.

In her room, the first thing Jane did was get a tissue, and standing barefooted on the floor (she had kicked off them damn slippers), thrust it up under her nightgown.

Well, I got it, she thought. I got the clap.

I surely do. For perhaps the eleven thousandth time.

Oh. Damn, she thought, damn damn damn.

Horror slithered through her chest and stomach like a muscular spasm. Old whore, she thought viciously, guilt standing at her side like a black specter. That’s what you are and that’s all you ever been, all your whole life. Jane Staley.

She couldn’t go to a doctor. She would be too ashamed. Old Jane Staley. And she couldn’t go out of town, either. She could sneak off to Terre Haute, sure, but what would Edith say, when Edith knew she hadn’t been out of town for more’n ten years?

And above everything else, she mustn’t let Edith find out. She just mustn’t.

Horror and hatred of herself and guilt welled up in her sickly and made life drag heavy at her shoulders.

She couldn’t understand how she had got it. She knew none of her boyfriends had it. She definitely
knew
it. Then how? She might have got it off a toilet seat in one of the bars, But who’d believe it. Old Jane Staley. A damned man could go to a doctor. It was just a big joke to wink at with a man. But not no woman.

Wearily, she climbed into bed and turned out the light, the springs creaking under her weight, and then lay there, sleepless. What a horrible thing I am. It had become a sick refrain.

There was one other thing, the most terrible of all, and lying wide-eyed in the dark she thought about it now. Just a week ago, she had been out with Old Man Herschmidt. Old Vic Herschmidt, Frank Hirsh’s father. It was the first time she had ever had a date with him. And it was that same night that she had discovered she had the discharge. Even though it was her very first date with him, she couldn’t have got it off him, she knew enough to know it took six days. But if she had had it then—and she must have, if it showed up in her that very same night—then he had it now.

And what would he be thinkin about her!

Whore, that’s what! he’d think she knew she had it all along.

Springs creaking, Jane rolled over with her face to the wall. In the dark, she couldn’t see the wall, but she knew it was there, and it made her feel better. Safer, and more hidden.

Oh, she wouldn’t have done it for the world! If she had only knew, she wouldn’t have gone out with him nor nobody else! That sick frightened guilty sadness gripped her again, and she cried, tough Old Janie cried.

O
LD
M
AN
H
ERSCHMIDT
,
about the same time Jane Staley was climbing into her bed, was feeling pretty chipper; and he did not have the clap.

Nor did he get it later. Whatever it was was wrong with Janie, it evidently wasn’t that, and in fact, nothing could have been further from Old Vic Herschmidt’s mind. In fact, his mind beamed with a sense of peace and well-being. It weren’t too many men at his age who was still good lookin enough to attract the women; and it weren’t too many of
them,
who still were men enough to satisfy them if they did, he thought smugly.

All in all, he was pretty proud of himself and not only that, he thought balefully, he had finally got one up on Old Lady Rugel his goddam landlady who run the pensioner’s home where he lived practically for nothing since she washed his clothes free and fed him and give him what little money he could wangle out of her for beer—all because she wanted to marry him and reform him. Yes, sir, by God, Old Lady Rugel could hardly stand it.

And if Frank knew it, Frank would crap his pants. His own cleaning woman and hired help. He wished (his mind froze) Elvira would find out about it, too, sometime. Well, she probly would, eventually. So would Frank. He-he.

Old Vic had been in this state of unqualified happiness for the entire week since he had happened into Smitty’s Bar and picked Old Jane Staley up and took her out and romped her—and on the very first time, too!

(Not so bad for an
old man.
Old Man Herschmidt!)

Vic was out looking for her right now, to try her again. He hadn’t seen her around at all in the past week, but he expected she would show up. And right now, he was on his way to the taxi stand to see that boy Dave and get some more money.

That boy Dave was turnin out to be almost a human bein, Old Vic thought balefully. He seemed to almost understand what people felt. The son of a bitch. It was largely because of that boy Dave that he had got his chance at Old Jane Staley at all. It was that boy Dave who had bought him the fifth of whiskey he’d had that night. And it was that boy Dave who had also give him enough money so he could go in the bar and sit and drink several beers, instead of just having to drink one and git out, like he usually had to do.

Yes, sir, that boy Dave was turnin out to be damned near human, he thought. You might almost think he was a Herschmidt; instead of a Bales like Elvira.

He rounded the corner of Plum and West Wernz just in time to see the lights of the taxi stand wink out.

“Hey!” he called, hurrying up the block. “Hey, you! Boy!”

Young Dave was standing just outside the door, locking it, holding something under one arm.

“What the hell?” Vic said. “You’re a-leavin early, ain’t you?”

“Yeah,” Dave said. “Closed up early tonight, Pop.”

“Don’t call me Pop, goddam it,” Vic said. “What of you got there? A book?”

“Yeah,” the boy said. “I just been doing a little reading. Book about a small town. In the South. By a guy named Faulkner.”

“Never heard of him,” Vic said. “Listen, boy, I need some more money.”

“What the hell?” Dave said. “I just gave you three dollars. What the hell did you do with that?”

“Now don’t get mad. I spent it, damn it, what’d you think?” Vic said. “On beer. I think I got me a date lined up, y’see.”

“A date?” Dave said.

“A heavy date,” Vic said. He cackled. “In more ways’n one.”

“Ain’t you gettin about old enough to outgrow all that crap?” Dave said.

“Gettin old enough!” Vic said. “Are you, damn you?”

The boy laughed, and Vic knew that he’d get the money. He really wasn’t such a bad boy, he thought, not compared to the rest of the sons of bitches who took after Elvira, damn them.

“How much do you need?” Young Dave said.

“Well,” Vic said, feeling his way, “I need enough for a fifth of whiskey; and then two or three for beer before the bars close. Say, ten dollars?”

“Jesus Christ!” Dave said. “I didn’t take you to raise.”

“No, and I didn’t ast you to, you son of a bitch,” Vic said.

“I’ll give you seven.”

“All right, if you want to be a tight-ass son of a bitch,” Vic said.

The boy was looking in his pocket. “I ain’t got seven. All I got’s a ten.”

He passed it over. “Here, I’ll give you that. But I want three dollars of it back tomorrow. What kind of a sap do you think I am? The bars close in fifteen minutes. You won’t have time to drink more than one.”

Old Vic folded the bill and put it in his pocket. “Well, I’ll probly have to take a taxi to get out there, in time,” he temporized.

“The taxi stand is closed. You forget. I run it.”

“That’s right,” Vic said. “Well then, I better hustle. Thanks for the money, boy.” He turned and started back down the block, half trotting.

“Don’t forget, I want that three dollars back tomorrow,” the boy called after him.

Vic stopped and turned around. “Well you won’t git it, you son of a bitch. If you thought you’d get it back, you’re dumber than even I thought you was.”

“I wanted you to get out to the bar in time,” Dave said.

“Go to hell,” Vic said. “Don’t try to use no sympathy on me. I don’t owe you nothin for
nothin.
And you can’t make me obligated to you by givin me your lousy money.” He turned and started off again.

Behind him, he could hear the boy’s thin laugh. He was beginning to learn how to handle him. The more you insulted him, the better he apparently liked it. Probly thinks I’m a tough old bastard, Vic thought. Well, let him. Besides the ten, he had in his pocket four bucks left from the last two times he’d hit him up. He-he. He’d have to remember to hide it out in the yard before he went up to his room, he reminded himself. Or Old Lady Rugel’d find it sure’n hell and that’d be the last he’d see of it.

He hurried along to the square and on across its corner to turn north out North Main and down the long hill toward Smitty’s Bar. If he didn’t get there before they closed, Old Jane Staley would be going off with one of them decrepit old sons of bitches she run around with. That boy Dave was a pistol. A real soft touch. The first time he’d gone over there to that taxi building, it had just been on a hunch, thinkin he might be able to get a buck off of him maybe, because of that whiskey he’d bought him in Ciro’s that time. A buck hell! by playin it careful, he’d wound up with five! Yes, sir, he hoped that boy Dave stayed around quite a while. Heh-heh.

It was funny to think how he had made that boy hisself. And there he stood, just like any other
regular
person. And yet he had made him, made him with Old Elvira. He was the last one, the last of the six: Francine and Frank, Edward, Darrell, George, and Dave, a whole damn worthless bunch just like Elvira. And it didn’t even seem the least bit sensible. Why them? Why not somebody else? Why anybody? Dog trotting down the long hill toward Smitty’s, Old Vic let himself dwell on the night he had made Old Jane Staley. Yes, sir. Not bad for an
old man.
Yes, sir, by
God!
wouldn’t that make young Frankie blow his head clean off and crap all over the floor when he found out! Heh-heh. It like to have killed Frank when he come back home and wouldn’t change his name, and this would even maybe kill him worse. Kill him even worse maybe than when he wouldn’t take his damned money and move to Terre Haute. Vic chuckled out loud and his beaked face wreathed itself in happy smiles.

With more pleasure than he’d felt over anything in quite a time, Vic ran his mind back over the night of the seduction as he walked. It was really all just luck really. He’d just happened to go in there to Smitty’s Bar, and he’d had that boy Dave’s money; and there, by God, Old Jane Staley had been sittin there, and there just happened not to be none of them old cruds of boyfriends of hers sittin with her. Just pure luck, that was the only way you could explain it. But then he’d always been lucky. Lucky Vic Herschmidt, they’d always called him.

He had hid the fifth of whiskey before he went into Smitty’s that night. Hid it across the tracks in the lumber yard. Hell, no use lettin everbody know he had it, heh-heh. So he had set at the bar and ordered a beer, and laid his five-dollar bill straight out on the bar so they could see it, damn them. That one-armed boy had grinned and took his order and clicked them hooks at him.

“Who the hell you been robbin, Vic?” he’d said.

“Never mind,” he’d said. “Not the govment, anyways, like you.”

“By God, that’s right! It’s the state goverment you’re robbin. I wouldn’t settle for nothin less than the federal, myself,” Eddie had laughed, and Vic watched him get the beer. He sure could use them hooks. Eddie brought his beer back and he had took a great big satisfyin slug and looked around. That was when he seen her settin in the corner booth, she like to filled up one side of the whole damned booth, and all by herself. And he’d knew right then that he was bein lucky. It was a while before he could get his nerve up to go over and say somethin to her, but finally he done it. She’d been givin him the eye anyway, hadn’t she?

So he just took his beer and just walked right over.

“How do, Miz Staley,” he’d said. “Mind if I set down here with you a spell?”

“Christ, no, Mister Herschmidt!” Old Jane bawled. “Please do!” Then she’d lowered her voice; and her eyelashes. “I seen you sittin up there to the bar,” she said, “and thought of askin you to come sit over here where it was more comfterble, but I didn’t know what you might think of me if I done that, Mister Herschmidt.”

“Hell, I wouldn’t have thought nothin,” Vic said. “Say, what do you say we cut out all this Mister and Miz stuff?” he’d said, and sidled over a little in the booth. “After all, we’ve knowed each other quite a while, ain’t we?” His knee’d bumped hers underneath the table. Heh-heh. He’d felt hisself gettin eager as some young pup.

“Well now, why I think that’d be fine,” she’d said. “I’ll call you Vic, and you call me Jane. Long as there ain’t no sort of misunderstandins comes of it, you know.” But he’d noticed she’d never moved her leg none.

“Why, course I understand!” he’d said. Heh-heh. “What kind of man you think I be?”

“Why I’m sure you always been a perfect gentleman around me,” Old Jane said, “Vic.”

“You bet your life!” he’d said, and let his leg rub against hers a little. “An I awys aim to be, Jane.” But then she’d moved it. “Excuse me, Mister Herschmidt! But you’re gettin just a little too close to me to be quite proper.”

“It was a accident!” he’d said. But he’d wanted to cuss. Especially when he looked down at her chest. Jane Staley really had the bosoms.

“I’m sure it was, Vic,” she’d said. “But I’m afeard you’re gettin wrong ideas about me.”

“Who, me? Not me!” he’d said. “I don’t never get no wrong ideas about nobody. Everybody’s got a right to live his life jist any how ever he wants to.”

“Well, as long as you feel like that, Vic,” she’d smiled, “I guess it’s all right, don’t you? But a lady has to be purty careful, you know.”

“Sure she does!” he’d said.

“You know, you’re quite a thinker, ain’t you?” Old Jane said. “I like that there what you said about Life. And you’ve seen a good bit of it, too, I bet.”

“Well, I’d say I seen a bit more than the average, anyways,” he’d said modestly.

“Yeah, I’ll bet you have,” she’d said, and slapped him gaily on the hand. Christ, for a minute he’d thought she had done broke two of his fingers. “Say, whatta ya say we have another beer?”