The Street (12 page)

But the kid got the water for him so fast that he
didn't get much chance to look around. He saw there were three empty beer bottles and a couple of Pepsi-Cola bottles under the kitchen sink. Even while drinking the water, his mind kept peering into the bedroom. What kind of bed did she sleep on? Perhaps he could open the closet door and just touch her clothes hanging there. They would be soft and sweet-smelling.

Back in the living room the boy went on with his endless telling of the movie, and Jones thought there must be some way he could get to look in the bedroom.

‘Your ma need any extra shelves in her closet?' he asked suddenly.

Bub stopped talking to look at the Super. What did he keep interrupting him for? He shook his head, ‘Naw,' he said indifferently. Then he picked up the thread of the story, ‘This guy that was really a cop—'

Jones lit another cigarette. The ash tray was slowly filling up with butts. His throat and mouth were hot from the smoke. It seemed to him they must be raw inside and the rawness was beginning to go all the way down inside him.

‘Let's you and me play some cards,' he said abruptly. ‘You kin get some matches for the stakes,' he suggested.

He watched the kid go into the kitchen and he got up quickly and tiptoed toward the bedroom. He was almost inside the door when he heard Bub start toward the living room. He cursed the boy inside his head while he stood in the center of the room pretending to be stretching.

‘Pull your chair up, Supe,' Bub said. ‘We can play on top of this table.' He moved a bowl of artificial flowers that were on top of the blue-glass-topped coffee table in front of the couch.

‘Pull your chair up, Supe,' he repeated when the man didn't move.

Jones was staring at a lipstick that was on the table-top. It had been lying close to the bowl of flowers so that he hadn't noticed it. The case was ivory-colored and there was a thin line of scarlet that went all the way around the bottom of it. He kept staring at the lipstick and almost involuntarily he reached out without moving his chair and picked it up. He pulled the top off and looked at the red stick inside. It was rounded from use and the smoothness of the red had a grainy look from being rubbed over her mouth.

He wanted to put it against his lips. That's the way her mouth would smell and it would feel like this stuff, only warm. Holding it in his hand he got the smell from it very clearly—it was sweet like the soap that round girl had used. The one who stayed three days and then left. He raised the lipstick toward his mouth and the boy suddenly reached out and took it out of his hand, putting it in his pants pocket. It was a swift, instinctive, protective gesture.

‘Mom thought she'd lost it,' he said, almost apologetically.

Jones glared at the boy. He had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts he had forgotten he was there. And he had been holding the lipstick so loosely that the boy took it away from him without any effort. He hadn't even seen him reach out for
it. And he thought again of Bub's father and that the boy had known there was something wrong about his lifting the lipstick toward his mouth. He was conscious of the loud ticking of a small clock that stood on a table near the couch. He could hear it going tick-tock, tick-tock, over the sound of the radio. He leaned forward aware that he had been silent too long.

‘Let's get the game started,' he said roughly.

He showed the boy how to play black jack. Bub learned the game quickly and started playing with a conservative kind of daring that made the pile of matches in front of him increase steadily. Jones studied him in the blue-glass table-top. There ought to be some way of getting that lipstick away from him. It would be good to hold it in his hands at night before he went to sleep so that the sweet smell would saturate his nostrils. He could carry it in his pocket where he could touch it during the day and take it out and fondle it down in the furnace room.

When he stood outside on the street, he wouldn't have to touch it, but he would know it was there lying deep in his pocket. He could almost feel it there now—warm against him. Mrs. Hedges could stare at him till she dropped dead and she wouldn't know about it. The thought of her made him wish desperately that he could just once get his hands on her. Wished that just once she would come out on the street and stand near him. ‘She's marked for somebody else.' Grinning like an ape when she said it and her eyes cold and unfriendly like the eyes of a snake. No expression in them, but you knew you weren't safe. ‘Ain't no point in you lickin' your
chops, dearie.' And her eyes boring into him, going through him, threatening him. Mrs. Hedges or nobody else was going to get Lutie away from him. He'd seen her first. Yes, sir. And he was going to have her.

He lit another cigarette and, when he inhaled, he was aware that the dry hotness in his mouth and throat had gone all the way down him. He laid the cards he was holding down on the table. He had to have a drink of beer. Had to have it bad.

‘Hey, kid, go get me some beer and a pack of smokes'—he reached in his pocket and laid thirty-five cents on the table. ‘You kin keep the change.'

As the boy slammed the door behind him, he wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. He was alone in the place as easily as that—just by sending the kid on an errand. He listened to the boy running down the stairs and then got up quietly and walked into the bedroom.

He stood inside the room without moving The sweet smell was stronger in here. It came from the side of the room. He fumbled for the light and hit his knee against a chest of drawers. And stood there for a moment rubbing the place and cursing. Then he turned on the light. The bed was covered with a flowered pink spread and the same kind of stuff was at the air shaft. Everything was so close together that he could look all around the room without moving.

The sweet smell came from a can of talcum on the bureau. He picked it up and looked at it. She sprinkled this under her arms and between her legs—that's how she would smell when he got close to
her. Just like this. He opened the top of the can and sprinkled some of the powder in his hand. It lay there dead-white against the dark paleness of his palm. He rubbed his hands together and the sweet smell grew stronger in the room.

He turned away abruptly. He mustn't stay in here too long, the kid would soon be coming back. The way he ran down the stairs it wouldn't take him any time to get to the store. Probably ran all the way to the corner. He wished that Lutie would come home while he was there. But the kid ought to come back now, he thought fretfully. She might not like it if she came home and found he had sent the kid out on an errand at night. What was keeping him so long? She'd probably be home any minute, now. Why hadn't he told him to get two bottles of beer? Given him enough money for two bottles and then she and him could have sat out in the living room on the couch drinking beer.

He opened the closet door. It seemed to him that the clothes bent toward him as he looked inside—a blue dress, the coat she wore to work, a plaid skirt, some blouses. He looked closely at the blouses. Yes, there was the thin, white one he had seen one day when she came down the stairs with her coat open. It had a low round neck and the fullness of the cloth in the front made a nest for her breasts to sit in. He took it out and looked at it. It smelt like the talcum and he crushed it violently between his hands squeezing the soft thin material tighter and tighter until it was a small ball in his hands except the part where the metal hanger was near the top.

Then he tried to straighten it out, patting it and
smoothing and thinking that he must go quickly. Now. At once. Before the kid came back, so that no one would see the look on his face. He thrust the blouse back into the closet, closed the door, reached up and turned out the light.

He hurried out into the living room intent on leaving before the kid came back. He paused in front of the open bathroom door. It wouldn't hurt to look inside, to see how that blue color looked. There were white towels hung on a rack over the tub. He walked all the way into the small room trying to imagine how Lutie would look with water from the shower running down over her. Or lying there in the tub, her warm brownness sharply outlined against the white of the tub. The room would be hot from the steam of the water and sweet with the smell of soap. He would just be able to see her through the steaminess. Perhaps he could hold her next to him while he patted her body dry with one of those white towels.

Why didn't the kid hurry? He felt a sharp anger against him. She would be coming home at any minute now. She wouldn't like it if the kid was out. He forced himself to look away from the tub and he was conscious that the thirst in him had become red-hot. He sat down on the toilet seat and buried his head in his hands. Instantly his nose was filled with the smell of the talc he had rubbed between his palms.

He began thinking of Min. He would throw her out tonight. He had to get rid of her tonight. He wouldn't be able to stand the sight of her any more after being close to Lutie like this. He heard the kid
tearing up the stairs and he reached up and jerked out the light. He was standing in the living room when the kid opened the door.

‘Get me a opener,' he ordered, and reached for the brown-paper bag Bub was carrying. He followed the boy into the kitchen and stood in the middle of the room under the glaring, unshaded kitchen light while he lifted the bottle to his mouth. He didn't even wait to take it out of the bag, but drank in long swallows—faster and faster. He sighed when he put the bottle down empty. ‘Thanks, kid,' he said. ‘That's what I needed.' He started for the door.

‘You goin' now?'

‘Yeah. I'll be seein' you tomorrow.'

He walked heavily down the stairs. He was tired. And he thought, It's got to be soon. He had to have her soon. He couldn't go on just looking at her. He'd crack wide open if he did. There musta been some way he could have got that lipstick away from the little bastard. He thought derisively of Mrs. Hedges. ‘There's others interested.' Yeah. But not as interested as him.

He opened the door of his apartment, thinking that he was going to throw Min out so hard she would walk on the other side of the street when she passed this house. He set the stage for it by letting the door bang behind him so that the sound went up and up through the flimsy walls of the house until it became only a mild clapping noise when it reached the top floor.

Just inside of the door he stood still because all the rooms were dark. Buddy, the police dog, came toward him whining deep in his throat. Jones fumbled
for the light in the foyer, pushing the dog away from him with his foot.

Min wasn't in the kitchen, the bedroom, or the bathroom. A look in each room had merely confirmed what he had already known when he found the apartment dark. Amazing as it seemed, she had gone out. She never went anywhere at night. She always came home from work and stayed in the house until she went back to work the next day. It occurred to him that she might have left him like all the others had. Even though he had come downstairs with the intention of putting her out, the thought of her leaving him was unbearable.

In the bedroom he pulled the closet door open in a kind of frenzy. Her few clothes still hung there—shapeless house dresses and the frayed coat she wore every day. The run-over felt slippers were on the closet floor, the raised places along the sides mute testimony to the size of the bunions on her feet. But her best hat and coat were gone; and the ugly black oxfords she wore on her occasional trips to church.

Could she have gone off and left him like the others? It was impossible to tell from the contents of the closet—these limp house dresses weren't important to her. She could always buy some others. And the felt slippers, though easy on her feet, were practically worn out. She didn't own a suitcase, so he couldn't tell whether she would be back.

If she had really left him, it didn't look so good for his chances with Lutie. For the first time he felt doubtful about Lutie's having him. Up to now he had been confident that it was only a matter of time and he would have her. This way he couldn't be
sure, because if a creature like Min didn't want him there was no reason for him to believe that Lutie would have him.

Yet he still didn't know for sure. He reached in toward the clothes, pushing them into a corner with a wide violent gesture of his arm as if by threatening them they would reveal whether Min had walked out on him. Abruptly he turned toward the living room, for it occurred to him that he could tell very easily whether she had gone for good. Just one glance would be enough to tell him. No. He nodded his head with satisfaction. She hadn't walked out. She'd be coming back. For the big shiny table with the claw feet was still there against the living-room wall. She would never go away and leave that behind her. All he had to do was sit down and wait for her. Because he was going to put her out tonight and the shiny table could go right along with her.

He dozed in the chair by the radio, waiting to hear Min's key click in the lock, wondering where she had gone. This was the first time he had ever known her to go out again after she came home from work. For she did the shopping on her way from work and then cooked and cleaned and soaked her feet for the rest of the evening. She didn't have any friends that she visited. He grew angrier as he waited because he wanted to think about Lutie and instead he found himself wondering uneasily where Min had gone.

EARLIER IN THE EVENING, when Min was in the kitchen enjoying her supper, she was quite certain that Jones was planning some devilment while he sat in the living room. Even though he didn't answer when she told him supper was ready, the thought of him sitting there by himself, probably hungry but being stubborn about it, finally brought her to the door to ask, ‘You ain't eatin'?'

He shook his head and she went back to the kitchen to pour herself another cup of tea and spread butter thickly on a third slice of bread, thinking, He don't know me. He thinks I don't know what's the matter with him.