The Expendable Man (18 page)

The man cocked a wary eye. “The best way's to stay out of that district.” When Hugh did not respond, he got up from his chair and moved over to the wall where a large map of the city was posted. “But if you got business there, let's see.”

Hugh moved beside him.

“How well do you know Phoenix?”

As if he came to town now and again, Hugh said unconvincingly, “I know it pretty well.”

The man accepted it as said. His finger pushed along the map. “I guess the easiest way's to go down here. Veer left here and keep going south until you get there.”

Hugh asked, “Is there a bus goes that way?”

Again the man gave him a curious eye. “I wouldn't know. Only time I ever go down that way is when I get a call somebody's car is stuck.” He must have decided that Hugh was what he appeared, a wayfaring stranger, for he explained, “It's not rightly a district. Just a collection of sharecroppers' shacks, mostly Mexicans. Folks call it Three Oaks because it's built around three old oak trees. When you see them, you're there.”

Hugh looked out disheartenedly into the glare of sun. “Is it very far?”

“It's not too far,” the man said cheerfully. He wasn't going to walk it. “Not more'n a mile maybe after you veer.” As Hugh moved to the door, he added, “It's safe enough daytimes but I wouldn't be caught there alone at night.”

“Thanks.” Hugh matched the cheerfulness. It wasn't hard to do. He was on his way to something which had purpose.

It could have been no more than a mile, but it seemed ten times that as he moved, sweat-stained, through the heat. He was in the country once he'd veered left, but there was no difference between the heat of country and town save for the lack of shading buildings here. Eventually he saw ahead the three oak trees, tall, heavy-leafed oasis for the crazy-quilt of ramshackle flat-roofed shacks which angled about them. He made for the trees. There were several old wooden benches beneath them. On one, two wrinkled men in farmers' woven straw hats nodded over their knobby canes. On another, a young woman sprawled, surrounded by a bevy of dusty-footed children. The third bench was peopled only by two little boys, dripping ice cream sandwiches down their chins. Hugh sat down on the unoccupied end. The little boys gave him a solemn gaze, then ran off, giggling and gibbering in Spanish.

Hugh could have asked his question of the young woman, she appeared too tired to run away, but he saw then the lean-to grocery store fronting on the makeshift plaza. Surely there would be someone English-speaking there. He rested a little before crossing over to it.

It was insufferably hot inside the dusky store. Flies droned disinterestedly about a ragged bunch of overripe bananas. Behind the counter a stout woman in a housedress splashed with orange butterflies fanned herself with a newspaper.

Hugh removed his dark glasses and assumed the hangdog demeanor and accent the woman might expect from one of his color. “Scuse me,” he singsonged, “would you happen to know where I could find Mahm Gitty?”

For a moment she stared at him, suspicious, then broke into furious gesticulating Spanish. He understood some Spanish, but she was speaking too rapidly for him to catch more than a few isolated words. It was probable she knew no English; however, she had recognized the name because it recurred in her torrent.

He didn't give up. When she had abruptly ceased talking and resumed her slow fan, he asked again, “Maybe somebody around here could tell me where Mahm Gitty lives?” This time he stressed the name, looking directly into her eyes and perceiving there the recognition of it.

Again she broke into galloping words, punctuated with Mahm Gittys, ending by raising her voice, “Pepita!
Pepita!
” with an epilogue which seemed to wash her hands of the whole subject.

Pepita appeared, an undersized girl of perhaps twelve years, her black hair, long and dank, hanging about her face. She might have been asleep; she was barefoot and wore only a crumpled wraparound dress. The woman spoke and the girl spoke. They shrugged shoulders at each other and they swiveled their eyes over and again at Hugh. Finally the girl said in heavily accented English, “She don' live here.”

But they knew, they hadn't been discussing a grocery order. “I just want to know where she lives,” Hugh said. “Where her house is.”

The girl stared at him for long moments, not speaking, as if she hadn't understood his words. Then she turned to her mother and again the two were voluble. Hugh waited. Not knowing whether it was better to break into the conversation with demands, pleas, insistence, or hold his peace.

The girl gave a final shrug, shoulders, hands, head, and scuffed to the open doorway. “She live there.” His eyes followed her thin brown forefinger to the row of windows and doors, each set in its own small frame box, to the rooftops beyond, any of which could be “there.”

He wondered if he might ask her to guide him but knew at once that would but confirm their latent suspicion of him. Instead he asked, “Where the yellow dog is sleeping?”

“No, no. This one.” The finger hadn't varied.

“Where the geraniums are on the window sill?”

“This one!” The finger stretched.

“The blue door.” Next to the geraniums.

The girl smiled at his success. “The big one,” she said. It was perhaps a yard taller than its neighbors.

He said, “Thank you very much,” and to the mother, also smiling now, “Thank you, ma'am.” Again he stepped into the plaza. He wanted like hell to buy a Coke but he was afraid to force his luck. It might be that only Spanish-speaking were served; it might be they learned North American prejudice after crossing the border. He sauntered past the three oaks and across to the house with the blue door. As he knocked, he glanced back at the grocery store. The girl in the doorway was watching him, the mother's head was shadowed over one shoulder.

He knocked again; there were women inside, he could hear their voices. Nor did the voices cease as the door was without warning opened by a little boy; it could have been one of the two who'd run away laughing at him. The boy was startled by the appearance of Hugh; he backed away, and without waiting for an invitation, Hugh went inside. He stepped directly into the front room. It seemed filled with women, ancient ones in black, rocking and fanning themselves; a young one, with child, sewing; a painted young one in a tall hairdress reading a movie magazine; a fat matron in a wilting pink sack, her puffy feet bare, who advanced on him. The room was suddenly silent. Her face like stone, she asked, “What you wan'?”

He retreated a step. “I'm looking for Mahm Gitty, ma'am.”

“She ain' here.”

She could have been one of the crones.

The woman's eyes were hostile. “What you wan' with her?”

There could only be one thing he'd want with her and the woman knew it. He said, “I just wanted to talk to her about something.” He made his whine more servile. “You know where I could find her, ma'am?”

“I don' know no Mahm Gitty.” Suddenly she padded toward him menacingly. “Get out of here,
gringo
.”

He would have laughed but it was no place for laughter. He stayed in character. “Yes'm. I'm going.” His departure was rapid. They knew where she was. The harridan knew and the girls and the old Mahm Gitty women. But he'd been afraid to persist. There was evil in the fat woman. He couldn't risk being involved in more trouble.

He walked back to the bench under the tree and sank on it. And now what? It didn't look as if he could go further on his own. He'd have to ask Houston for help. They'd be afraid not to answer Houston's questions. It rankled that he could not bring the same force to bear, that he had to forgo his own social position and become a caricature to ask a simple question. And receive no answer. Until the boy was at his knee, Hugh didn't see him.

“Ice cream?” the boy grimaced.

He sensed it was a trade. “Where is she?”

The round face grew solemn. “She is very sick. They take her to the hospital.”

“Mahm Gitty?” He was incredulous.

The boy nodded solemnly. “She is in the hospital for a long time.”

“How long?”

“It is two weeks. Two weeks on this Sunday.”

Hugh wondered how a child could be sure. “How do you know it is two weeks? Not one week, or three weeks, or yesterday?”

“It is two weeks.” The boy was firm. “It is the First Communion Sunday. She is in church and she feels sick. She tries to get up from her knees and she cannot.” His eyes widened like dark flowers unfolding. “She falls down. There in the church. They carry her out and they take her to the hospital. She is very sick. Maybe she will die.”

Hugh could no longer doubt. And Mahm Gitty was absolved of any present evil.

The boy was standing there. “Ice cream?”

“All you can eat.”

The boy, grinning again, ran ahead to the grocery doorway. Hugh followed. The girl and the woman were both waiting inside. Hugh didn't play the old part. He ordered, “A Coke for me and ice cream for my friend.”

There was no trouble. The girl uncapped the Coke bottle and handed it to him. The boy was removing from the ice chest a precarious pile of assorted ice cream sandwiches. He shouted, “Thank you, mister,” and scuttled away.

The Coke was icy. Hugh drank it in grateful gulps. He tendered one of Ellen's dollars and received the change. Only when he was leaving, did he ask of the girl, “Why didn't you tell me Mahm Gitty was in the hospital?”

“You did not ask me that. You ask me where her house is.”

It was factual and he accepted it. The way back to town didn't seem so far as when he'd traversed it looking for the three oaks. When he reached Jefferson, he used a public telephone booth on the lot of another service station. He called Edward's office. Edward was in, but engaged with patients. “If you'd leave your number,” the nurse suggested.

“This is his brother-in-law,” Hugh told her. “I'll see him later.”

It was close to five o'clock. If he were to make Houston's by six-thirty there was no time to waste. He walked over to Van Buren and caught an eastbound bus to The Palms. He didn't enter the grounds until he was near the unit. The car was there. He knocked at the door.

Ellen hadn't yet dressed; she was in tennis shorts and a white blouse. “You didn't phone.”

“I took a bus up from town. Anyone asking for me?”

“No, it's been quiet.” She led him to the table by the window. “I made daiquiris.” She'd even frosted the glasses.

He sank into the blessedly cool chair and accepted the drink. “I may revive.” He knew she was waiting for him to tell her where he'd been but she didn't ask.

“We've only time for one,” she said. “I don't want to miss the swim. I didn't go in this afternoon because I was afraid I might miss your call.”

He was casual. “You were going in the pool here?”

“Didn't you?”

“I didn't have the guts,” he admitted frankly. “I'm no crusader.”

“Nor I. But I like to swim. I don't think many of the guests will leave in high indignation if I do. Most of them are darker than I.” She smiled slightly. “And somehow I don't believe the management will drain the pool afterwards. It's too expensive a job.” Her smile widened. “They may add a bit more chlorine.”

He sipped the good drink comfortably. “If you were Lilymay Johnson in for the night you wouldn't dare it.”

“I'm not Lilymay Johnson, I'm Ellen Hamilton,” she stated coolly. “And if I swim here, that much sooner Lilymay will swim here.”

“Of course you're right,” he agreed. “It's legal, now it must become custom.” He finished the drink too quickly but there wasn't time to dally. “I'll run over to Gram's and change. I'll try to make it back by quarter after. I wonder if Houston is as much a stickler for time with his dinner guests as with his office clients.”

“We may find out,” she commented.

She followed him to the door, her eyes still asking the question he could not yet answer. He said, “If anything goes wrong, I'll call you.”

THE FAMILY WAS GATHERED
in the living room. Waiting for him. For a moment, he felt sick, certain the police had been here. Then Gram spoke spicily, “It's about time.” They hadn't.

He had somehow managed his load of luggage, the big suitcase and the small, the plastic car case for his suits, his doctor's kit. His grandfather came to help. “Why didn't you holler?”

He said, “It's all right,” but the large suitcase was taken from him.

In the upstairs room which he always occupied here, his grandfather set down the suitcase and fumbled in his pocket. “You had a telephone call.”

Hugh was afraid to speak.

“I wrote down the number.” He found the fold of paper. “I didn't tell the ladies. They're too curious.”

He chuckled a little while Hugh was reading blindly the Scottsdale number.

“You're not in any trouble, Hughie?” Either he had recognized the numerals or Hugh's face had given his turmoil away. “You can always come to me.”

Hugh looked across at him, into the compassion and generations of understanding. And he lied. He laughed and lied. “Not at all, sir. It's about the dinner tonight, a lawyer friend of Ellen's.” He crumpled the paper and dropped it on the table. “She had the message earlier and passed it on to me.”

At least for the moment, his grandfather accepted the statement. Hugh watched the anxiety fade out of the old eyes, the weight lift from the shoulders. And the question came softly, “White friends?”

Hugh said, “Yes. Her father is Judge Hamilton, you know,” as if this were enough to explain.

His grandfather said, “You'd better get a move on or you'll be late,” and went away.