Twisted Ones (5 page)

Miss Ella said, “Are you interested in antiques?”

It sounded as though she meant, “Are
you
interested in antiques?”

“Oh, no,” said Laura Lee, “I don’t know beans about them. I came to see Reggie.”

Miss Ella’s face turned visibly pale. She turned abruptly and went upstairs.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Mother doesn’t feel well,” Reggie said.

They had their first date that night. It was the only time Reginald Whittier had ever gone anywhere without telling his mother where he was going.

When he returned, the apartment was dark. She had not waited up for him. Momentarily, he believed he had been absolutely silly to imagine that his mother would have raised any objections to his going for a drive with Laura Lee, but when he tiptoed across to the bathroom, beside her bedroom, he heard her voice.

The words were loud and clear, said slowly and emphatically. “They go to and fro in the evening. They grin like a dog and run through the city!”

It was something from Psalms.

It was Miss Ella’s way of telling him what she thought about the matter. She had done it before, whenever she disapproved of anything Reggie did, and he knew that if he were to mention it the following day, she would claim she had been sound asleep. She would say: “Maybe I was talking in my sleep. Folks do!”

• • •

That afternoon in May, at precisely the point when Brock Brown was talking to his headache, and Charles Berrey’s father was suggesting that they all try to talk in words of one syllable, Miss Ella, in the apartment above Whittier’s Wheel, was putting a worn, seventy-eight-speed record on the phonograph.

Below, her son was asking Laura Lee again: “Then it’s all right? You’ll be there waiting at ten-thirty in front of the college?”

“If you’re sure you can get out,” she said.

“I will, don’t worry.”

Suddenly, the militant sounds of “Onward Christian Soldiers” came from above.

“Oh, oh!” Reggie said.

“I don’t see why she has to call you that way,” said Laura.

“Mother doesn’t like to shout at me, that’s all. It’s easier this way.”

“Why can’t she pick something else as a signal, some other song?”

But both knew it was a question for which no answer was necessary. Miss Ella’s ways were her ways. Reggie Whittier waited until Laura was outside and passing by the window. He gave her a two-fingered salute of so long, and she winked back. Then he went upstairs to see what his mother wanted this time.

PART TWO

BROCK BROWN

Everything could have gone nicely that evening between Brock Brown and his stepmother if only Clara had not made that remark while she was draining the asparagus. Brock had looked forward to spending the evening with her. For one thing, when his father had to take the night shift at the garage, Clara never nagged at Brock. She never asked him why he didn’t call up some friends, or go off to Murray’s or drive by and see Carrie Bates. Clara hated to be alone.

For another thing, Brock wanted to make it up to Clara for using her money when he stole the green Mercury that afternoon. He wanted to be nice to her, laugh at her asinine jokes and pretend that he thought she was a very interesting person. He felt he owed it to her, just as he felt he owed it to the owner of the Mercury to leave money to make up for any inconvenience he had caused. That way, it was more like renting the car. Brock always left money behind whenever he took anything that was not his, and he never kept what he took, whether it was a car (which it usually was) or a lawn mower (once) or a string of outside Christmas tree lights (last winter).

Brock supposed Dr. Mannerheim could explain why he took things he did not really want. On the other hand, how serious
was
it? It wasn’t very serious at all, Brock believed. There was no need to run to some head-shrinker for advice. He would grow out of it before long, and meanwhile, he was still a better person than most guys his own age—guys like Derby Wylie, who didn’t care how he looked and did dirty things to girls all the time.

Clara’s remark irritated him more than anything else because it simply wasn’t true. That was one reason he had not said any more than “Oh?” in answer. Just oh.

She was standing there by the sink with a strainer in one hand, and the pot of asparagus in the other, and suddenly out of the blue she said: “When your father and I have a baby, we’ll get a girl in to help.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve never minded cooking. It’s fun to cook. But housework gets me down.”

“Sure.”

“Well, it does. You try it some time.”

“I believe you, Clara. You don’t have to draw a diagram.”

“What’s got into you all of a sudden?”

“Nothing, for Pete’s sake.”

“I’m not complaining or anything, if that’s what you think.”

“I never said you were. Did I say you were?”

“Boy, talk about jigsaw puzzles. I’d like to put
you
together someday.”

“Just forget about it, will you, Clara?”

“I would if I knew what I was forgetting about. You just flare up all of a sudden, Brock. No reason. No warning.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!”

“I’m telling you for your own good. You’re a nice kid, but you flare up. I mean, no woman likes housework. Am I supposed to pretend I like housework?”

Brock did not bother to answer. All through dinner he brooded. Not at the fact Clara thought his father was going to let her have a baby. It would be a waste of time to even consider that. Instead, Brock thought about his car and the possibility that his father had not remembered to put the tarpaulin on the front seat. It wasn’t easy to get grease off slip covers, even when you paid to have it done. There was also the possibility that some of the grease might rub off on Brock’s clothes. Even if his father had remembered to put the tarpaulin there, what if he lent the car to one of the other mechanics at the garage, and
they
forgot; or just didn’t know enough to leave the tarpaulin there? Plenty of times one of the mechanics had to go out on a call, and they didn’t all have cars of their own. He should have let his father take the bus.

The argument did not start until long after dinner, a little past ten o’clock. In the meantime, Brock had spent most of his time polishing his shoes and straightening up his room, but toward ten he felt sorry for Clara. She was alone in the living room, watching television. Brock got a coke from the refrigerator and went in to join her. She was watching another quiz show—Cash-Answer this time. An eight-year-old boy had just named all forty-one signers of the Mayflower Compact. Drums were beating and bells were ringing and the quizmaster was screaming out: “You get cash for your answer, because it is correct!”

“He’s probably a midget,” said Brock, slumping down on the couch beside Clara.

“He’s a genius. Eight years old and he’s won $47,000!”

“He’s probably some kind of nut,” said Brock.

“I’d like to see
you
win that much money.”

“So would I. But then, he’s younger than I am. I’m jaded.”

“Shh, Brock, listen. Jackie Paul’s talking to him.”

“Well, Charles—is that the name your friends call you—Charles?”

“Chuck, sir. I mean, Chuck.”

“No reason to sir me, Chuck. You’re the one with $47,000!”

“Yes. I mean, I know it.”

“Well, Chuck, how does it feel to be a celebrity? I bet you had an exciting day today.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Paul … Very exciting. We had dinner with my father’s boss, head of Sterling Sporting Goods.”

“There’s a nice free plug if I ever heard one. You’ll be a good businessman, Chuck.”

“No, sir, I mean, Mr. Paul. I’m going to be a baseball player.”

“A baseball player, huh?”

“Yes. Probably.”

“I’m sure that if you make up your mind to be a baseball player, that’s what you’ll be, Chuck. I’m not worried about you! Not a bit! What else happened today?”

“My father said we should all talk in words of one syllable.
”

“
Well now, that is a good joke. Words of one syllable, huh? I didn’t know you even knew any one syllable words.”

“Yes. And, and I have a cutlery—a knife collection.”

“A knife collection. Boy oh boy! Whoops—there goes the signal. Time is up, Chuck! Until next week! See you next week, Chuck, and meanwhile, folks, remember if you suffer from nagging backaches …”

“Isn’t that something!” said Clara. “A kid like that!”

“It’s his memory, that’s all.”

“With all he knows, he wants to be a baseball player!”

“Maybe he wants to knife someone too,” said Brock.

“Well, he’s a real boy. He’s not just a little bookworm. That’s something!”

“What does he need knives for?”

“Lots of kids collect knives.”

“I don’t know of any.”

“Oh, sure! Come on, Brock! Lots of boys collect knives. Just like snakes or anything else.”

“If they do, they shouldn’t,” said Brock.

“Why shouldn’t they?”

“They could hurt somebody, for Pete’s sake, Clara!”

“Oh, pssssss!”

“They could! Somebody could get hurt.”

“Brock, honestly!”

“A person could bleed to death.”

“Who would bleed to death? Somebody could apply a tourniquet.”

“A tourniquet! How many people know how to tie a tourniquet!”

It was one of those absurd, pointless arguments that sometimes happen between people, one that starts off in a random, picayune fashion, and then catapults to complete confusion, no longer random but wild and angry.

Clara said, “My father knew how to tie a tourniquet!”

“Almost nobody knows the first thing about tourniquets!”

“It has to be an awfully big wound anyway,” said Clara, “for anyone to bleed to death.”

“It
does not!
One knick of the old jugular and wham-o! Curtains!”

“Who’s going to knife anyone in the head?”

“The head! The jugular is the trunk vein of the neck, in case you ever get on Cash-Answer and they ask you, Clara!”

“You’re plenty brilliant in your own living room, Brock, but you’re not so great in the classroom, are you!”

“The jugular in the
head,
for Pete’s sake!”

“That’s not so crazy, Mr. Know-Everything! You’re the one who’s crazy, if you think people bleed to death in this day and age!”

Brock Brown stumbled to his feet, knocking the bottle of coke off the coffee table. “Don’t you call me crazy!”

“Now, look what you’ve done. Made a mess!”

“You like messes, don’t you? And dirt and grease? Come off it, Clara! You
like
dirt and grease!”

“I won’t mop it up!”

“Leave it!”

Clara Brown looked over her shoulder at the window. She said, “Here comes your father!”

“If you think I’m so crazy, Clara, ask dad if people don’t bleed to death.”

“Calm down, now. Your father’s had a hard day.”

“Ask him,” said Brock Brown, “because he can tell you! My mother bled to death, for your information!”

“That was childbirth. Now, calm down.”

“Child
death,
you mean.”

“All right, Brock. Okay, dear.”

“And don’t dear
me,”
said Brock Brown. “I’m not the one you want babies with!”

• • •

That evening in May when Robert Brown returned home, his mind was on getting away from Sykes over the Memorial Day weekend. It wasn’t just because of what had happened earlier in the day. By now, he and Clara should know that any form of spontaneous love-making was a decided risk, with Brock in and out of the house all day. But it had been too long since the two of them had been alone together, somewhere away from Sykes. It would be good for both of them. It would even be good for Brock to be on his own for a couple of days. It wouldn’t be very expensive, if they were to go somewhere near, like the Adirondacks, and maybe had a little more time to themselves and a more relaxed pattern of life, Clara might even get pregnant.

For himself, Robert Brown was not particularly anxious to have another child, but it would mean a great deal to

Clara. He supposed every woman (with the possible exception of Edith Brock) had a natural desire to be a mother. In a few years Brock would be going off to college, and it might even be fun to have a youngster in the house again. He was coming up the walk of his house that evening, thinking that he hoped it would be a girl this time—just to even things out—and thinking that the Adirondacks would be a perfect place for a vacation. He was totally unprepared for the collision with his son. Brock was running, and the pair collided head-on.

“Here, here!” Robert Brown laughed. “What’s the rush?”

But his son did not laugh, nor did he smile or stop to talk. He shouted: “I just hope you didn’t get the seat covers dirty!”

“I put the tarpaulin down,” his father said smiling. “Besides I’m not hot out of the sewers or anything.”

He thought of saying something more. Something less pleasant—perhaps:
“Where are you going at this hour?”
or
“Now, just wait a damn minute!”
but he could tell Brock was in one of his fits of temper. It happened now and then—not often, really, and it always blew over. Brock was a good kid. Sometimes Robert Brown even worried that Brock was too good, and that was a fool way for any father to feel about his son. No, Brock was one kid Robert Brown could be proud of. If a bad temper was the only flaw a boy had, a man might as well count his blessings. Robert Brown did—daily.

The first thing he saw when he entered the house was Clara on her hands and knees, wiping up something that had spilled on the floor.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“What’s up?” he said.

“Brock knocked over some coke.”

“Well, why isn’t Brock mopping it up?”

“Oh, you know him, Bob. Flew off the handle.”

“There’s no reason for you to clean up after him, honey.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Did you two have a quarrel or something?”

“Not much of a quarrel,” she smiled. “How was your day?”

The argument with Brock had upset Clara, but even in the few moments between his storming out of the house and Robert Brown’s entrance, she had been able to forgive Brock. It was her own fault, she believed, and she had figured the whole thing out in the two minutes it had taken her to walk to the kitchen, get a rag, and walk back. The trouble was, she decided, that she had praised that quiz kid on the television. Brock had an inferiority complex, Clara reasoned, and it hadn’t helped when she had said that the eight-year-old was a genius. Added to that, she had brought up Brock’s marks at school. Sometimes Clara Brown could bite off her tongue. She knew all about the way Brock’s mother had neglected him when he was a child—Robert had gone into that time and time again with her—and she still couldn’t think before she spoke around the boy.

She supposed, too, that she had started him off earlier in the kitchen, when she had said that she didn’t like housework. That probably made him feel this big! It probably made him feel as though she was tired of cleaning up after him, and that in itself was preposterous, because there wasn’t a cleaner, more orderly boy than Robert Brown’s son.

Actually, Clara was disgusted with herself. It made her feel a little better that she had lent Brock the ten dollars that day. She just hoped he’d remember that, once he cooled down, and she also hoped—much more—that Brock would not repeat to his father the things she had said that evening. Clara could not bear to disappoint Robert Brown. Most of all she wanted him to keep on thinking that she was a good wife, and that she would be an even better mother.

“Are you sure Brock wasn’t too hot-headed?” said Robert Brown, “because sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t need a little discipline.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Clara.

And they both laughed then. Brock might need love, and he might need reassurance; he might even need an occasional ten dollars slipped to him on the sly, but where could you find a better kid?

• • •

Brock Brown sat outside his house in the back seat of the Chevy. He held the flashlight limply in his hand. He had gone over the whole car, searching for grease marks or stains, but there were none. He knew he would not stay there long, only as long as he could. It wasn’t fair that it was happening to him again, twice in the same day. It could be easy to stop it, this slow pain beginning in his head, even easier than it had been that afternoon. At night, there were more cars parked in the streets, and there was less chance that anyone would see him take one. Yet he knew there was no easy out this time. His Junior Operator’s license was not good after six o’clock. He knew plenty of guys his own age who drove after dark anyway, but Brock wasn’t that kind.