Songs in Ordinary Time (27 page)

“Why did you do that?” She stared at him. “Do you know how embarrassed I feel? Those are all kids in my class!”

He hunched over the wheel.

“What’s wrong with you? What’re you always trying to prove? God, Norm, it’s bad enough with Dad and now with that Duvall around…. I mean, I mean, I just can’t take it. It’s so embarrassing!” She turned away, trying not to cry. “I can’t wait to get out of here! I can’t wait! I hate it here so much!”

The car flew along.

“Norm! Slow down! You’re speeding! Norm!” she screamed, then grabbed his arm.

He shoved her away so hard that she fell against the door.

“I’ll get you outta here!” he hollered over the roar of the engine.

“Norm, stop it, please!”

“Tell me where you wanna go!” he bellowed. “Wanna go visit Dad?” He was crying, pushing her away as she came toward him again. “I know!

We’ll go get the fuckin’ priest, that’s what we’ll do!”

She looked over his arm at the trembling speedometer. “You’re going eighty-five! Please stop! Don’t do this, Norm!” She covered her face with her hands.

“Fucking bastards,” he growled. “Goddamn fucking no good…”

A police siren screamed after them, its light flashing.

“Norm!”

The car rumbled over the soft shoulder, then finally stopped. Lester’s father was getting out of the cruiser behind them. She took a deep breath, then leaned forward as his flashlight shone from Norm’s face to hers.

“I thought it was your car, Alice,” he said. “What happened?” The light fixed on Norm’s face. “Who did that to you, Norm?”

“Nobody,” Norm mumbled, eyes downcast. “I fell.”

“Where you been, Norm?”

“Home,” he said, trying to cover his mouth so the Chief wouldn’t smell his breath.

“That happen at home?”

“Yup.”

“Wasn’t that big guy, was it? That friend of your mom’s?”

SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 129

“No!” Norm looked up angrily, and Alice’s stomach weakened with the realization that everyone knew about Duvall, too.

“I said I fell!” Norm was saying. “I fell off a ladder!”

“What’s going on here? What’s the speeding all about?” Stoner asked.

From the way he was staring at Norm, Alice was afraid he might arrest him.

“The pedal stuck,” Norm said. “I kept trying to pull it up!”

Stoner leaned in the window. He looked at her. “Pedal got stuck?” he said softly.

She nodded.

“It’s okay now?”

“It’s okay,” she said.

“All right, but why don’t you drive the rest of the way home, Alice? Just to be on the safe side, okay, kids?”

They both nodded, and she could tell from his hesitation that he wanted to say something about Les; then, thinking better of it, he patted the window well. He stepped back as Norm got out and walked around the back of the car to the other side. She slid behind the wheel. “Take it easy now,” he called as she pulled onto the road.

“Norm?” she said when they were out of Stoner’s sight. She thought she’d heard him say something. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I mean it. I really am.”

“W
here am I?” Sam Fermoyle asked, wincing at the stringy sound of his own voice. His head hurt. He touched his bandaged wound where the shaved hair had started to grow back. His fuzzy scalp was itchy, but too tender to scratch.

“You’re in the Green Room, sir,” the nurse answered.

“Where is the Green Room?” He would play their deadening game.

“The Green Room is right here, sir, in the Bullfinch Building.”

“And where’s the Bullfinch Building?” He closed his eyes.

“Oh, I see,” said the nurse. “You’re not a regular guest, are you? Well, then, the Bullfinch Building is our oldest building here at Applegate. Compared to our newer buildings, it is lacking in some of the more modern facilities. But it more than makes up for that in charm and grace. In fact, many of our guests ask for accommodations here each time they come. This old building has a personality all its—”

“How long have I been here?” He looked over at her.

“Let me see…. You’re Mr.…Mr.…” She fumbled through the clipboarded papers hanging by the door. “Of course, Mr. Fermoyle! Up from Detox!”

She flipped a page and looked up with a bright smile. “You’ve been here four and a half days!”

“When do I get out?”

Her smile was as crisp as her pleated cap. “Dr. Litchfield will be in shortly for orientation, and he’ll explain all the little details to you, sir.” She pushed a cart to the bed and cranked it up over his lap. He stared down at the poached egg quivering on a wet slice of puckered toast.

130 / MARY MCGARRY MORRIS

“In the meantime,” she said as she opened a delicately barred window,

“eat up and enjoy the country air.”

The fresh air felt like barbed thread passing through his nostrils. He closed his eyes until the nurse was gone. Then he poked at the egg for a moment before devouring it. Cold yoke dribbled down his chin. He was picking crumbs from the plate when a diminutive, slope-shouldered man with a fixed, wan smile entered the room. He introduced himself as Dr. Arnold Litchfield, then stood by the door, flipping through the papers on the clipboard. “Your sister called again this morning,” the doctor said without looking up. He scribbled on one of the papers before coming to the foot of the bed. “Aren’t you interested in your sister’s call?” he asked watchfully.

“Not particularly,” Sam said.

“Your sister seems to care a great deal about you, Samuel.”

“Got a cigarette on you, Doc? I could use a smoke.”

Litchfield came to the head of the bed and pushed the red button protruding from the maple headboard. He spoke quickly to the nurse when she came to the door. She was back in a moment with a pack of Kools, gold-tipped matches, and a silver-plated ashtray. Sam chuckled as she arranged them on his tray. “Hey, now this is classy!” He laughed. Litchfield watched him tear open the pack. He inhaled deeply and sank back against the pillows.

“So tell me, Doc, how come I’m here and not at the statehouse, where I usually dry out?”

“The statehouse?” asked Litchfield.

“The state hospital—Waterbury. Or were they booked for the weekend?”

Litchfield gestured to his bandaged head. “Nasty fall you took.”

“Nasty fall?”

“Your sister said you passed out and hit your head on her bureau.”

Litchfield peered at him. “Do you remember any of that?”

“I remember. My sister tried to kill me, Doc. I was trying to wake her up, but she wasn’t really asleep. Because all of a sudden her hand came up from under the sheet with her statue of the Blessed Virgin in it, and the next thing I knew, I was on the floor, bleeding like a stuck pig and moaning, ‘Helen, I’m dying.’ And she answered back, ‘I hope so.’ And she just laid there, and I begged her, I said, ‘Helen, help me. Don’t let me die. If I die,’ I said, ‘they’ll put you in jail.’ And she laughed, and she said, ‘No, they’ll give me a medal!’” He looked up at Litchfield. “Nice, huh?”

Litchfield perched atop a stool he had pulled close to the bed. He looked down at Sam. “Do you love your sister?”

He blew a chain of smoke rings into the air. “This place expensive?”

Litchfield squirmed and folded his arms. “Since we offer the most enlightened and comfortable care in this part of the country, I would have to say yes.”

“I don’t get it,” he said, scratching his whiskery cheek. “She could’ve had me committed to the statehouse for zip.” Looking up at Litchfield, he laughed so hard that the stitches in his scalp throbbed. “You better run a Dun and Bradstreet on me fast before I even get an aspirin out of this place!”

SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 131

Litchfield smiled and patted his arm. “The financial arrangements are all in order, Samuel. Your sister is your guardian and she told me herself that money is not to be a factor in your treatment.” He leaned forward. “She cares about you, Samuel. She wants you better; it’s that simple.”

“Simple as shit,” he groaned, stubbing out one cigarette and lighting another.

“Why do you say that, Samuel?” Litchfield asked softly.

Looking up, he caught a familiar flicker in the doctor’s eyes. “Are we drifting into analysis now, Doc?” he whispered.

“Only if you’d like to,” Litchfield whispered back.

His head sank back into the pillow, and he closed his eyes. “Christ, I’ve been this route a thousand times. Old docs who fart and fall asleep just when you’re telling them how you always wanted to rape your mother.

And young docs who refuse to believe you never wanted to rape your mother. Sorry, Doc, but I’m just your average American drunk, and all I want to talk about is when the hell I’m getting out of here!”

“When you’re reasonably rehabilitated,” said Litchfield as he slid off the stool. He stood by the door.

“And what the hell does that tell me?”

“As much as you want it to tell you,” the doctor said softly.

“You got me here for thirty days, Doc! That’s all, damn it! I know my rights! Thirty days!” he shouted feebly at the closing door.

N
o one really knew what Omar Duvall did during the day once he left the Mayo sisters’ boardinghouse, but every night at suppertime his airy whistle drifted down the Fermoyles’ driveway. His appetite was incredible. At dinner’s end he would bow his head, declaring himself a burden, a beggar, all the while casting covetous eyes on the few french fries left or the last three peas. Inevitably with dessert would come his promises.

After one night’s supper, he had greased the back-door hinges with lard.

After another, he had tightened the wobbly table legs, and after another, had glued the chair legs; and then one night as he rolled his eyes in sated gratitude, he saw the ceiling stains from the leaky roof, and to Marie’s horror (Marie who would ask nothing, so that nothing could be asked in return), he went next door to borrow a ladder from the Klubocks. He climbed onto the roof and counted the missing shingles he would replace. He might even have to reflash the chimney. He would spackle the holes in the living-room walls. He would pull out the stump on the front lawn and fill in those dusty trenches Klubocks’ dog had dug. And while he was at it, he said, pouring the dregs of Benjy’s milk over his fruit cocktail, he might as well plant some grass seed. He would replace the pane of glass Sam Fermoyle had kicked through the cellar window as well as the one in the back door. He would mortar the cracks in the foundation and plug each mouse tunnel so tightly that not even the smallest ant could invade this home. Now that he knew the reason for the drawn curtains over the sink, he suggested arborvitae tall enough to block prying eyes. Whatever needed doing, he would do it. Now 132 / MARY MCGARRY MORRIS

take that floor, he said, licking his spoon, then pointing with it. Why, in a day, he could scrape up that split linoleum, then lay down tiles as shiny as glass. Just say the word, put the right tools in his hand, and he could work wonders.

He seemed so vital, so powerful a force that just the possibility of its un-harnessing thrilled and dizzied her. As he spoke, her eyes widened, and the years of neglect vanished with the sweep of his promises. Here was a man who would not only set things straight, but who had already made his way straight through to the core of her loneliness. Now, the gouged, hairy plaster and the coppery-ringed stains over the stove seemed such minor matters that she no longer noticed them. Now when she pulled into the driveway bone-tired from work, she did not see the stump black as a rotten tooth, and when she came through the back door that swung on velvet hinges, her eyes lifted past the scarred floor in search of Omar. He was a man of not only great strength, but goodness. He reminded her of her father, broad-backed, simple, kind. And very proud. When she had offered to help Omar with his first week’s rent, his eyes had welled with tears, and he had turned away, unable to speak. She had wanted to throw her arms around him and hold him close. What had stopped her then and still did now, each time she desired his touch, had been her children’s presence in the next room.

For Norm, his mother’s happiness these last few weeks seemed a shimmering fragile bubble. Even the shattering pitch of her laughter sent a shiver up his spine, its sudden rawness so much like crying that he would tense, ready to spring, his hands clutching the arms of the chair. He had never seen her like this before, gullible and giggly, at times even shy and blushing.

He sensed in Duvall a strange element, some dark and discernible emanation that both fouled and thinned the air, shrinking the tiny rooms in this box of a house smaller still.

Every night after supper, Duvall and his mother stayed at the kitchen table, where they would talk for hours. Actually, Duvall did most of the talking, while Norm lay in bed, listening. Duvall spoke as ravenously as he ate, mountains of words. When Norm finally fell asleep it was with the drugged consciousness of Duvall’s voice in the distance. After midnight, he awakened, gasping as if the breath were being sucked from his lungs.

Duvall was still down there, still talking as the room swayed, the dark heat undulating with his drawl until Norm felt sick to his stomach. He got up and knelt by the window, anchoring his chin over the sill, his brow to the screen, as he took deep breaths of the skunk-filled night. Why doesn’t he go home? he wondered. What are they talking about? What does he want?

And all at once it occurred to him that Duvall
was
home; more home than he had ever been, and he was waiting for Norm to leave.

In this house where flesh never touched except in anger, Omar Duvall was a toucher and a grasper. It gave Alice the creeps to see his large hands SONGS IN ORDINARY TIME / 133

reach across the table to cover Benjy’s or his sweaty arm on the back of her mother’s chair. Over her own untouched plate, she watched how he ate, the little sweat beads quivering on his temples, his lips trembling with anticipation as the fork rose, the delicate chewing, the soft moan and rolling eyes as he swallowed, and her stomach would turn with his gluttony. From nowhere, the stranger at the door had come to be everywhere. Even when she was in her room with the radio on, his languorous voice, like his sweet cologne, seeped up through the floorboards in a sly caress.