The Outsider (12 page)

He went to her and she shrank, burrowing herself against the wall. He caught hold of her shoulder and she lifted her eyes and stared at him and he returned her stare with make-believe astonishment until her eyes fell.

“What's the
matter
, Gladys! You're
shaking
! Here, let me put you to bed. I'll call a doctor…”

He was still holding onto her shoulder and felt a slight lessening of tension in her muscles. Trembling, she allowed him to lead her to the bed and push her gently upon it. She looked at him with eyes filled with shock.

“Lie down and keep still,” he said hurriedly, feigning
deep anxiety. “I'll have the doctor here in a minute. If you felt like that, why didn't you phone me at the Post Office?”

Delicately he pulled the cover over her, went to the telephone at the bedside, picked it up, dialed the first letter and then glanced at her.

“No, no, no…No, Cross,” she begged; her eyes were pools of bewilderment. She breathed uncertainly. Her gaze fell and her fingers fluttered.

“Now, listen, you'd better have the doctor take a look at you,” he said, play-acting and pitching his voice to a tone of half-command and half-entreaty.

She began to sob again, burying her face in the pillow. He sat on the edge of the bed and patted her shoulder.

“Take it easy. Have you any pains? What's happened? Where are the children?”

She stared at him again, unable to believe the evidence of her senses. Her head rocked on its neck. Her mouth trembled and she had to move her lips several times before she could speak.

“Why did you do it?” she whimpered. Then she spoke fully, almost rising to a point of objectivity. “Do you hate me that much?”

“Do
what
?” he asked, replacing the receiver upon the hook of the transmitter. “
Hate
you? What
are
you talking about?”

“Oh, God!” she croaked. “You
know
what you did?”

Fear filled him for a second. She was in her crisis now; would she veer against him or would she still float in indecision?

“You're dreaming!” he shot at her. “Do you know what you are saying?”

“You hit me…You beat me…What
for
?” she asked insistently.

“
Beat
you?” he echoed, as though he had to repeat the word to believe in its reality. His face was the living personification of stupefied surprise. “You are out of your mind. Now, look here, be calm. Tell me what happened.”

Her chest heaved, emptying her lungs; then she looked distractedly about the room like a rat searching for a hole. She was a tiny child hearing a grownup tell a tale that it did not believe, but it dared not challenge that tale because it had no way of successfully disputing it, feeling that its reasoning was not acceptable.

“Cross, you came into the kitchen and knocked me down,” she explained in a low voice.

“You are crazy!” He stood and pretended to look suspiciously about the room. “
Who's
been here?”

“You!”

“Good Lord, you're wild!” He shook his head. “I
just
left the bar; I went there directly from work and had a drink, like always…Look, get hold of yourself.” He wagged his head, aping bewilderment. “Have you been
drinking
?”

“Oh, Cross!”

“Listen, if you don't stop I'll call the doctor. You've got the children to look after,” he copied tones of responsibility.

She stared at him, dumbfounded. Slowly, she shook her head.
Yes!
The idea was working in her mind. It was coming off much easier than he had thought. But he had to be firm and not retreat from his position.

“When do you think I hit you, Gladys?” he mimicked the compassion of one resolved to be lenient.

“I
didn't
imagine it,” she whimpered.

It was working; she was beginning to wonder if what had happened had not been wiped from his memory. Silence followed. The restoration of normality must de
pend upon
his
initiative; what had so mysteriously occurred must seem to have been swallowed up in his mind as though it had never transpired; he must not in any way grant it one whit of objective reality.

“Look, kid,” he began kindly, “I know we are not the loving couple one reads about in books. But you mustn't let our troubles break you down. There's no sense in brooding 'til you start imagining things. You need a rest…”

She clutched his arm. “Cross, don't you
remember
what you did?”

“Darling, really, I hate to say it, but you're
off
!”

“I'm sane, Cross,” she said, unable to restrain her tears.

She collected her senses; she was no longer physically afraid; she was fearful of something more menacingly dark than a slap.

“I don't know what's happened to you,” he played his role.

“Cross, you
remember
you hit me,” she moaned.

“I
didn't
!” His face pretended to grow hard. “You're mixed up…Tell me,
who's
been here?”

“Nobody,” she breathed.

“Who
else
saw me come in here?”

“Nobody,” she whispered, her eyes widening with understanding.

“Look, Junior's coming,” he spoke in a low, rapid voice. “Brace up…You'll upset 'im.”

“Is it possible?” she asked herself in a despairing whisper.

She pulled herself unsteadily from the bed to the dresser and began arranging her hair with palsied hands. He could see her watching his reflection in the mirror; he had to be careful. She had forgotten her bedroom slipper on the quilt; he got it and held it out to her.

“Here; you better put it on,” he said in a neutral voice.

“Oh,” she said in confusion.

She obeyed him with movements charged with suppressed fear. But when he looked at her she glanced quickly away.

Junior, four years of age, came running in in his pyjamas. “I'm hungry,” he sang, lifting an earnest, brown face to his father.

Cross swept the boy up in his arms and fondled him. Watching Cross out of the corners of her eyes, Gladys went hesitantly from the room to prepare breakfast. Cross burrowed his head playfully into Junior's stomach and the boy giggled. He was now certain that he could handle it. This was the beginning, the setup; next time would be the pay off.

During the following week, under the cover of anxious solicitude, Cross craftily urged Gladys to see a doctor and she politely refused. A few days later she timidly begged
him
to see a doctor, telling him that she was
certain
that what had happened was a recurrence of what he had done with the girl. In a tone of play-acting shock, looking her levelly in the eyes, he scoffed at her interpretation and assured her that he was absolutely sane. He now made it a rigorous rule never to refer to the “accident”; all mention of it had to come from her. And, as time went on, she found it more and more difficult to bring it up; but he knew that the thought of it was continuously hovering in the background of her mind.

One day, puckering up her lips and touching his cheek gently as she spoke—hoping by such a gesture to negate any hint that she thought him insane—she expressed concern that he might harm the children “while in one of your spells”. He patted her shoulder and said
soothingly: “Don't worry, darling. Everything's all right.” She beseeched him to reduce his drinking, his smoking, to sleep more. She strove to keep more order in the house, chiding the children lovingly not to “make noise and get on poor papa's nerves”.

He chose Easter Sunday morning for his next attack. He knew that nothing would be further from Gladys' mind then, for her attention would be involved in buying Easter egg coloring and arranging new clothes for the children's Easter outing. He worked the night of Easter Eve and went straight home and found Gladys alone in the kitchen; she whirled with fear as he came in, for she knew that he was as early as on that other fateful morning. Again he walked slowly toward her, wordlessly, his facial expression simulating dementia.

“No, no, no…!”

He slapped her resoundingly and she went down like a log.

“Junior!” she yelled. “Somebody help me!”

He stooped and slapped her once more, his face contorted in an imitation of rage; then he turned and rushed out, hurried to the bar and joined Joe, Pink and Booker who had not missed him this time. He sat coolly talking and drinking with them, but his mind was trying to picture what was happening at home. At a little past five he went back, let himself in with his key, and headed as usual to the bathroom to wash up. He lathered his hands and whistled softly. Suddenly he was still, hearing muffled footsteps moving haltingly along the hallway. What's she doing…? Then all was quiet. He dried his face and hands and when he emerged he did not have to look for Gladys, for there she was at the door, confronting him with his gun, pointing it straight at his heart.

“Cross,” she said heavily, struggling to manage her breathing, “I can't bear with you another minute. Pack your things and get out,
now
! You're crazy, a danger to yourself and others!”

He saw such craven fear in her face that he was afraid that she would lose control of herself and pull the trigger, causing him to die messily in a trap of his own devising.

“My God,” his voice rang with sincerity. “Take it
easy…
”

His nervousness made Gladys step quickly away from him and wave the gun threateningly.

“If you come near me, I'll shoot!” she cried. “And I'll go free, for you're crazy!”

Her arm trembled and she reached toward him, the gun barrel coming within inches of his right temple.

“Gladys,” he breathed, leaning weakly against a wall. “I can't get my clothes unless you let me pass.”

“You're sick, Cross,” she pronounced in neutral, distant tones.

Realizing that she was blocking his path, she stepped cautiously to one side. He went into the bedroom and began to pack. She waited in the doorway, still nervously clutching the gun.

“Gladys,” he ventured to protest.

“Get out!” she ordered in a frenzy.

He packed a suitcase and stood looking at her out of the corners of his eyes. “I'll come back for the rest of my stuff later—”

“You let me know and I'll
send
you your things,” she said. “Don't
ever
set foot in this house without
first
telling me, you hear! If you do, it'll be dangerous for you.”

“I'll phone you,” he mumbled.

She held open the front door, still brandishing the gun loosely in her shaking hand. He saw her legs wob
bling; he walked over the threshold, sweating, fearing that he would stumble.

“See a doctor, Cross,” she said, slamming the door.

On the sidewalk he paused and saw her peering at him from behind one of the lace window curtains in the living room, still grasping the gun. He walked on and filled his lungs with crisp morning air. It had worked without a hitch.

 

Cross roused himself on the jolting trolley, wiped a clear spot on the sweaty windowpane and saw that he had ridden past Gladys' place. Good God…He rushed to the front of the car and when it slowed he swung off. As he neared the house his steps faltered. He was doubtful if Gladys would help him, but his predicament was so knotty that he had to try, whatever the outcome. He mounted the steps and paused; his instincts warned him away from this Gladys whom he had made hate him too well. But he had to see her. He pushed the button of the doorbell and almost in the moment of his pushing it, the door flung open and Gladys stood before him, grim, erect. Out of a tightly organized face two deep-set eyes regarded him with composed hate.

“Hello, Gladys,” he mumbled.

“I've been waiting for you,” she said with placid irony. “I watched you creep up the walk like a doomed man. Are you scared of your home now?”

“I want to talk to you about something important,” he told her.

A twisted smile played on Gladys' rouged lips. “I suppose it's about Miss Dorothy Powers, hunh?”

Anger flashed through him. No; he had to be calm.

“That's it, Gladys,” he admitted, forcing a smile.

She stepped to one side and he moved gingerly into
the hallway, feeling for the first time intimidated by Gladys. He glanced about apprehensively, his body screaming for a drink to brace him for this ordeal.

“Where're the kids?” he asked to fill the gaping silence.

“I knew you were coming,” she announced, “so I sent them for the afternoon to the house of a friend of mine.” Her voice was a midnight bell tolling tidings of bad news to come.

He walked into the living room and sat. Gladys followed and stood at the other end of the room and regarded him with hostile eyes. He could feel that she was clamoring for an emotional scene. Well, he would refuse her any such satisfaction. He would be polite, bantering, if possible.

“A young lady visited you this morning, I think,” he said, trying to rid his voice of anxiety.

“You mean that bitch you sent—!” The hot lava of hate leaped out.

“Gladys, I didn't send anybody here,” he cut in quickly.

“Cross, for God's sake, why do you insist on being such a crawling coward? You
sent
her here—”

“I didn't, I tell you!”

“You're lying!”

“Gladys, I know how you feel about me—”

“You ought to,” she spat at him. “Do you think you can walk over me? Well, you won't, ever! You sent that little whore here to beg me…”

He tried to stop listening. It was going worse than he thought. Well, if she wanted to blast Dot, let her. The main thing was the question of divorce.