The Feud (28 page)

“You didn’t miss much if you ain’t been to Curly’s,” Junior told him. “He’s dirty as a pig, and he’s got some black African coon for a cook who spits in the food. I hear he’s gonna be closed up by the health authorities.”

“They all should be,” Durkey said with some heat. “All of ‘em.” He seemed to be getting weak-minded.

Junior left the neighborhood and walked west until he got near the district where dark-skinned people abounded, and he made a wide detour to the south: he had always heard that boogie girls had hot asses and would give it away for free to anybody who asked, white or black, but he didn’t want to risk having his guts cut out by some big buck’s razor at this stage of the game.

When he reached the highway he went above the intersection a block or two and began to show his thumb to the cars that passed. This proved to be totally useless for a good half hour. Most drivers didn’t even seem to see him. He was beginning to get discouraged in this venture and to consider going home. If he could only watch his mouth and be patient, there might come a time when Curly would trust him—and have more than a few dollar bills in the register while his back was turned. The same might be true of his father, at the new hardware store. Meanwhile he could make it up with Clara, and maybe joke around and get into a mock-wrestling match on a bed when everybody else was downstairs and feel her tits and maybe even get his hand up inside her pants as if by accident, in the heat of the game, and, rolling around, before she knew it, his pecker would be right up her giggy and she would be moaning, “Oh, oh, oh, please don’t, please … don’t… stop!” He remembered this bit of erotic dialogue from one of those little cartoon fuckbooks, shown him by that cousin of Howard Bing’s, that smart-aleck kid from Hornbeck named Dickie Herkimer, who thought he was a big shot because he had this book and a brand-new rubber in its original folder, like a matchbook. Junior would have had to trim his ass if he was forced to spend much time with him.

Just as he was about to turn away from the road now, a little green coupe stopped opposite him, the door was flung open merrily, and a middle-aged guy looked out and said, with a grin, “Hi there! Hop in!”

Junior did so hastily. This guy was wearing a suit and tie and a felt hat. He looked pretty successful.

He asked, putting the car in gear, “Where you headed for?”

“Just about anyplace.” No sooner than he’d said it, Junior realized it hadn’t been a wise statement. The man could well be with the Authorities.

“By gosh,” said his benefactor, “you met just the right fellow. I got my customers outa the way for today, and I was just thinking I’d have me some fun.” His hand, on which there was a big ring with a red stone in it, closed over Junior’s kneecap. “But what I always say is, you can’t have much fun alone. Don’t you agree?” His hand was moving slowly but surely up the inside of Junior’s thigh. Nothing like this had ever happened to Junior before, yet he knew exactly what it was, and he was ready for it.

“Let’s have a nice picnic in the state park,” said the salesman, and it wasn’t long before he turned into the entrance of the place in reference.

But when he found a remote place to park and turned to deal with Junior, the latter slid against the door and said, “Gee, I guess I oughta be getting home, though I’m gonna be in dutch when I get there.”

The salesman’s pink, hairless hand pursued him. “You mean, for doing naughty things? But how will they know?”

“Naw,” said Junior. “I lost some money I was holding for my dad.”

The salesman got a funny look. He reclaimed his hand. “How much?”

“Five bucks.”

The salesman now acquired a definitely peevish expression. He deliberately lifted his rump and took a wallet from his back pocket. He said, “All right. But for that kinda money I want what I want.”

This turned out to be something Junior had not expected or even known that anybody really did, despite all the jokes on the subject. It also was so painful that it brought tears to his eyes, but he stuck it out like the trooper he was.

B
obby Beeler had made a little shrine to Dolf on an end table in the living room: a hand-colored portrait photo of him taken in the days when he had held office at his lodge, five years or more ago, which seemed to have been the period of his life in which he was happiest, was flanked by two vases full of flowers. But when the blossoms from the funeral floral pieces had withered, it looked as if the vases would stay empty, at least until the following spring, because only rich people could have afforded to buy the hothouse products of the Hornbeck florist in the ordinary course of events.

But Bernice said, “I sure hate the look of empty vases, Mama. They got some real nice-looking artificial flowers downtown at Gobel’s. They ain’t cheap, but gee they never die.” She sat at the kitchen table, drinking beer from the bottle’s mouth and puffing on a cigarette. Bobby had assumed that smoking was a newly acquired habit, but Bernice assured her that she had enjoyed it for years but did not indulge when on visits home so as not to disturb her late father. She had also lately taken to drinking beer in mid-moming.

Bobby had just lugged in a big wicker-basketful of sun-dried clothing from the lines in the back yard. She now put up the ironing board and began to sprinkle the garments that needed dampening.

Bernice said, “Maybe I’ll go down there ‘safternoon and pick up some of them. Japanese cherry blossoms are nice. They make it look like spring all year, and you can’t hardly tell ‘em from the real thing. A couple dollars’ worth’d do it, I bet.”

“A couple dollars!” said Bobby. “That’d feed us the better part of a week.” She dipped her fingers in the soup bowl that held the water and flicked them at a shirt of Jack’s that lay in that peculiar rumple of sun-dried clothes, which was altogether different from that of clothing rumpled by wear or, again, neglect. Bobby was a real journeyman in the craft of keeping house. She rolled up the shirt and began to flick water on another. “I’m sure Dad would understand, up there.” She looked at the ceiling. Though she wasn’t really sure he would hear her words as such, she knew that wherever he might be, he was aware of her: you couldn’t dismiss all those years of marriage merely by dying.

“We have to watch our pennies now, Bernice. That insurance won’t take care of much more than the mortgage for a year or two.” She had made the same statement morning, day, and night ever since the funeral, and though both the boys had taken it to heart (though neither was ever extravagant in the old days), and Tony now had that Saturday job—Bernice gave no evidence of having been affected by it in the least. Not a day went by without her suggesting some new expenditure.

“Well, I sure wish I could help,” Bernice said. “But with this one on the way”—she patted her stomach, which thus far was perfectly flat—”I got my work cut out for me. I got to build up my strength.” She had apparently retained some smoke inhaled earlier, for it all came out now, in pale blue, from her nose and mouth.

“Then you better not go downtown,” said her mother, “and have to dodge those trolleycars and fire trucks and police cars and swallow a lot of fumes. They always make me sick to my stomach.”

“You sure got a hick’s idea of the city,” Bernice said, and then lifted the bottle and poured some of its contents down her throat. Bobby wondered where she had picked up this unladylike style. “You don’t notice stuff like ‘at when you’re used to the big town,” Bernice went on, having swallowed and burped. She polished off the rest of the bottle and got to her feet. “Maybe I’ll just go down and do some winda-shopping. Better’n sitting around here all day. And Ernie can’t make it for lunch today. His mother wants him home. He’s gotta fix something.” She sighed sulkily.

“Well,” said Bobby, “it’s sure your personal business, Bernice, but I believe Miz Krum will have to find out someday. Whatcha gonna do when the baby comes?”

“Oh, Ernie’s gonna tell her any day now. He’s working her up to it by degrees.” Bernice lifted her shoulders and let them fall. “Well, I guess I’ll take a bath, anyway.” She was still in her pajamas, under a satin dressing gown somewhat the worse for wear. She shuffled to the dining-room doorway in her runover mules, then turned back. “Maybe he could come over for supper, though. He gets out sometimes to go down the firehouse for a stag evening, you know, to play cards and have a few brews. Maybe he would come over here for supper for a change…. Say, Mama, coont you make something else for a change but a casserole? Some nice baked ham, maybe? Or fried chicken?”

Bobby sighed deeply. “Bernice, I just wish you would think about—”

Her daughter threw up her hands and howled, “O.K., O.K.”

When Bobby had finished dampening all the clothes, it was a quarter after eleven, and she had no food on hand for the boys when they came home from school for lunch, so she took off the apron she wore even when doing clean housework, fetched her purse, and went down the street to Wessel’s little corner grocery. Bernice was still in the tub, she knew, because every now and again she could hear the faucet running as her daughter warmed up the water. Luckily she had the wash all done early, for there wouldn’t have been enough hot water for the machine had Bernice been soaking at the same time. A new hot-water tank had been on the list of improvements Dolf made from time to time and shared with her as they undressed for bed. For some reason, that was his favorite time for discussing such subjects. That had never seemed at all odd when he was alive, but now she saw that some people might have found it so. He had got around to realizing few of the projects he had mentioned over the years, and maybe that was just as well, for look what had happened when at long last he was ready to strip the paint from that old dresser which she suspected might be, underneath it all, solid walnut. As a result, the last few days of his life had been unhappy ones, and it was a really unfortunate coincidence that his death came at that moment rather than at one of the many times when he had been satisfied with his lot.

At Wessel’s, Bobby bought a couple of cans of soup—Tony would put away one all by himself—a pound and a half of baloney, a big hunk of rat-trap cheese, and a loaf of unwrapped rye bread with a nice shiny crust.

Wessel, a short, bald-headed man with a brushy gray mustache, wrapped these items in brown paper and put them in a bag. He pushed it across the counter.

“Say, Bobby,” said he, not meeting her eyes, “with all your troubles and all, I didn’t want to to mention it, but, uh, your bill is running real high, uh, and I was wondering if…” He cleared his throat. “See, maybe I should of … well, the fact is, Bernice is charging quite a bit of beer and cigarettes and potato chips, salted peanuts—?”

Bobby had lifted the bag. Now she lowered it to the scarred but polished counter. “She’s been putting the beer on the tab?”

“That’s right,” said Wessel. “I first just thought it was O.K. You know, it seems like yesterday you used to send her down here when she was just a kid, to pick up something you forgot, sweet pickles or mustard or—”

“That was a long time back,” Bobby said. If she thought about those days she would cry all over him. “I’m sorry, Alf. I never knew. You better not do that any more. And if you’re getting worried about the bill, I’ll take care of it ‘safternoon, if that’s O.K.?”

“Aw, listen, Bobby,” said Wessel, with his sad eyes, “I didn’t mention it for that reason. I just thought you ought to know. You pay me when you can. I ain’t in no hurry.”

Bobby realized she was going to have to come to a showdown with her daughter, and when she got home she left the groceries in the kitchen and wearily climbed the stairs to the second floor.

But Bernice had gone, leaving a wet towel on the bathroom floor, a soap-ring inside the tub, a smeared mirror, and, in her bedroom, dirty clothes all over the place.

Bobby went downstairs. Passing through the dining room, she saw on the sideboard something that had escaped her notice when she went by in the other direction: a piece of paper, propped against the base of a glass candlestick, a stiff piece of paper, firm enough to withstand the air currents put in motion by the movement of a woman as large as she. The sheet was imprinted with lines and at the upper righthand corner projected a tab that showed the letters XYZ. This was more of Bernice’s work. For her notepaper she had torn out the last page of the telephone-address book that Bobby had used for years. True, it was the least-used.

The penciled note was neatly written. Maybe she had taken that page so that she could follow its lines.

Momma the bath brought IT on finnaly! See I was late and thought You Know What, which accounts for Ernie & all. Who I never even dated before, my Gosh. Well! I don’t see anny sense in waiting around here all day every day for that momma’s boy to show up, so have decided to go back to the city anyways it’ll be one less mouth to feed now poor Daddys gone. As I am temporly out of funds I hope you don’t mind I took the silver cream & sugar (which you never use) and will hock it till I get on my feet again. Think I can get an anulment since we weren’t intimate. Yr loving d,

Bernice

Chief Clive Shell finally returned to the Millville police station on Saturday morning. His eye still showed some discoloration from the shiner. Ray Dooley secretly wondered whether Shell’s wife, a battle-ax named Mamie, had given it to him. Ray himself was pretty bitter, having had to stay away from his job at the plant, for which absence he would be docked, losing money, for the factory paid more than the police, and every time he tried to settle down to catch a nap, somebody would claim to have seen a mad dog foaming at the mouth, or a guy would want him to come and ticket a neighbor’s car that was blocking the driveway. And then the one important event, the only major money-crime ever attempted in Millville, so far as anyone could recall, had occurred while he was getting the only sound sleep he had had, and was dealt with by a person (furthermore pretty much of a nut) who had no official connection with the police, and in fact none whatsoever, as it turned out, with the railroad, as Ray discovered when he tried to report Reverton Kirby’s death to them. At first he could find nobody at the Hamburg yard who had ever heard of him, but finally somebody came on the phone and said, “I believe there’s some little gent of that name lives onna top floor of the Roundhouse Hotel. He don’t -look exactly like a bum, but so far as I know he don’t do no work of any description.” This information Ray thought better of sharing with Clive Shell, who was mad enough without it.