Wives and Lovers (27 page)

“Oh.”

“They went away couple hours ago. Fishing. They eat a lotta fish.” He folded his arms on his chest and teetered back and forth on the balls of his feet. He was wearing very long pointed shoes the color of mustard. “I live next door. Name's Jenkins.”

“I'm Miss Kane.”

He tipped his hat briefly. “Pleased to meet you.”

“I—you have no idea when they'll be back?”

“Depends on the fishing.”

“Could I—I wonder if I could leave this parcel here on the porch? It's Mr. Escobar's hedge clipper.”

“Oh, that. I heard them talking about it. The walls are thin,” he added, as if that explained everything. “It fell off his bicycle.”

“No. No, it didn't.”

“Just saying what I heard at supper.”

“He never had it on his bicycle!”

“Yes, ma'am.” Still holding his arms over his chest he took a step back, as if her voice had struck like a spear at his vital organs.

“I know, because I took it. I—”
I
stole it, I committed, a sin. I must expiate. Viva la Fiesta. Out of Order.
She inhaled deeply and the hot dusty air rattled in her throat like gourds. “I took it and put it away in the garage—for safe­keeping.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Tell him—tell him I found it in the back yard, just where he left it.” She propped the clipper up against the front door and turned away, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Tell him he is to be more careful of his tools in the future.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much, Mr. Jenkins.”

She walked back toward the bus stop, feeling extraor­dinarily light and agile without the weight of the hedge clipper. The noises of Quincy Street, the children, the dogs, the passing freight train, mingled with the remem­bered noise of the classroom into a pleasant dissonance she had not heard before.

Sitting on the concrete bench at the bus stop with her eyes closed against the wind and the sun, she breathed a quiet prayer. Thank you, Hazel, for being kind. Thank you, Mr. Escobar, for going fishing. Thank you, Mr. Jenkins. Thank you, God.

14

On Sunday night after church Elaine Foster went to her minister for advice. The minister, a worldly man called Kriger, knew perfectly well that Elaine was incapable of taking advice, so he didn't offer any. Instead, he let her talk. She talked for over an hour, being as truthful as she ever had to anybody, and when she had finished she went home and phoned Ruth.

The following morning about eleven o'clock, Ruth arrived carrying a suitcase and leading Wendy by a leash.

Elaine met her at the door. She looked coldly at the dog but didn't say anything.

She spoke in a stage whisper: “The children are playing in the kitchen. I don't want them to know you're here until we've had a chance to discuss matters. They get so excited.”

“Have you told them yet?”

“Just that Grandma was sick and I have to go to Chicago to look after her for a week or so. They wouldn't understand the truth.”

“Perhaps not.” Ruth hesitated, and then reached down and took off the dog's leash. “I hope you don't mind my bringing Wendy. I thought the children might like—it might take their minds off things.”

“I don't mind in the least.”

“Besides, there's no one at home to look after her. Harold and Josephine are moving today. They found a small house in the canyon.”

“I am very fond of dogs,” Elaine said, and leaned over and patted the little dog firmly on the head.

Leaving the suitcase on the hall stairs the two women walked on tiptoe into the living room. The drapes were drawn so that the morning sun wouldn't fade the carpet and the slipcovers, and the room was twilight dark. From the kitchen came the sounds of the children playing, muffled by closed doors. Everything seemed muted, as if somewhere in the house, a person was about to die and mustn't be disturbed by noise or light or movement.

“I hate to leave,” Elaine said. “But the Reverend Kriger told me it was the best thing to do, go away for a while and gain some perspective, think things out. If I sat around here feeling sorry for myself, I'd go mad.”

“You're holding up wonderfully well.”

“That's what he said, too. Some women would be simply prostrate, he said, having the bottom drop out of their lives like this. But I can't afford to give in to my emotions.” She paused. “I wired Mother last night. Not that she'll be surprised, she's never had much use for Gordon. She was practically heartbroken when I married him. Reverend Kriger didn't actually say so, but he im­plied that perhaps I am being punished for not taking Mother's advice in the first place.”

She began to pace up and down the room, and the little dog, thinking that she might be taking a walk, followed, sniffing, at her heels.

“I told you about the charge accounts at the market and the pharmacy.”

Ruth nodded.

“You'll need some cash too, for the laundry and the paper boy and things like that. I've left fifty dollars for you in the top left-hand drawer of the buffet in the dining room. We haven't discussed your salary yet.”

“There's no hurry.”

“I don't even know how much I'll be able to pay you.”

“You mustn't worry about it.”

“That's what Reverend Kriger said, I mustn't worry about other people so much, I must think of myself.” The Reverend Kriger had done nothing more than nod and make a sympathetic sound, but out of these Elaine had fabricated a whole moral philosophy:
You must be com­pletely selfish, Mrs. Foster.
“He said, what about money, and I said, I don't know, I just don't know how we'll manage. With the house to pay for and three children to feed and clothe we've never been able to put much aside.”

“Dr. Foster certainly won't let you starve.”

“Won't he?” Elaine's mouth twitched with a grim little smile. “How will he make a living?”

“Hazel says he's a wonderful dentist.”

“Really?”

“First-rate, she said.”

“It seems to me Hazel might be a little prejudiced.”

“Why?”

“That's what I wonder, why.” She had stopped pacing and the little dog had stopped too, and was standing at her side looking up into her face, trying to read her expression. “I saw her this morning.”

“Hazel? Where?”

“At the bank. She avoided me.”

“Oh, I'm sure she didn't mean—”

“It was quite intentional.”

“She's nearsighted.”

“Not that nearsighted. She was in line at the very next window.”

“Well.”

“She cashed a check, a large check, judging from the number of bills the teller gave her.”

“They could have been ones.”

“They could have been, but they weren't.
I
am
not
nearsighted. They were twenties.”

“Hazel doesn't keep much money in the bank. I can't understand it.”

“I can. It wasn't her money, it was mine. Half mine, anyway.”

“I don't see—”

“When my turn came I asked the teller to check the joint account I have with Gordon. There was five hun­dred dollars missing. It adds up, doesn't it? She wasn't cashing that check for herself but for Gordon. She knows where he's gone. She must, if she's going to send the money to him. It's laughable, isn't it?—she and Gordon may have planned this whole thing weeks ago.”

“She never said a word about it, not a word.”

“She wouldn't. She and Gordon are hand in glove, always have been.”

The sun had passed the front window. Elaine went over and pulled back the drapes. In the morning light she seemed tired, but every curl was in place and her light shantung traveling suit looked very smart and new. When she was a girl, Elaine had shown few signs of youth, and now that she had reached her middle thirties she showed almost no signs of age.

She said, contemptuously, “How typical of Gordon, to drag other people into his childish schemes. He can't even manage his own love affair. Wait until the girl finds him out. Just wait. He'll come slobbering back to me wanting me to wipe his chin for him and change his bib. Just wait until his dear little Ruby catches on to him.”

“Hello, Judith,” Ruth said in a falsely bright manner.

Elaine turned abruptly. The girl was standing pressed against the door frame with a slice of bread in one hand and a piece of clay in the other.

She looked gravely at Ruth. “I made something. Do you want to see it?”

“I'd love to,” Ruth said. “It looks very interesting.”

“It isn't interesting, it's just a worm. But it's a good worm. Paul screamed at it blue murder.”

“I don't blame him. It's such an excellent worm I feel like screaming myself.”

“Why don't you?”

“Perhaps I will, later on when your mother leaves.”

“It doesn't count if you don't do it right away like Paul did.” For the first time since she entered the room she turned her eyes on her mother. “Who is Ruby?”

“She's just a girl, a woman,” Elaine said. “And how many times have I told you not to go around in your bare feet like that prying into grown-ups' conversations? It's cheating.”

“Linda's mother has ruby earrings.”

“Well, that's nice.”

“They cost a million or two dollars.”

“Now, Judith, you know perfectly well that a pair of earrings doesn't cost a million dollars.”

“Linda's mother's did.”

“All right, all
right.
”

“She got them from her boyfriend.”

“Really now, Judith, you mustn't—” Elaine turned, sighing, to Ruth. “She makes up the weirdest things, honestly.”

Ruth smiled at the girl. “I brought Wendy along.”

“I know.”

“Don't you want to pet her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I'll pet her later on when my mother leaves.”

She put the clay worm on the table beside Ruth and walked silently out of the room.

“It's always like that,” Elaine said. “Always. The least little thing and she turns against me. You'd think I was an ogre or something. Why does she do it?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, it's no time to be worrying about it. I ordered the cab for eleven-thirty.”

“It's almost that now.”

“I—it's hard to believe I'm really leaving. I haven't been anywhere for so long.” She hesitated. “Do I look all right?-—I mean, not like a country bumpkin?”

“You look very citified.”

“Do I, really? People
dress
in Chicago, you know. Not like out here.”

When the cab came, Ruth gathered the children on the front porch to say goodbye to their mother. Since Elaine never went as far as the corner grocery store without last-minute admonitions, a trip to Chicago was worth a record number: promise not to eat too many sweets, to say your prayers, brush your teeth, stay out of the loquat tree, watch for cars, don't spill anything on the new rug, keep out of the gopher poison in the garage, drink your orange juice, don't catch poison oak; be good, obedient, neat, careful, wise, polite, clean and healthy.

The air was thick as jelly with promises. The baby went to sleep in Ruth's arms, Paul played with the dog, Judith ate three bananas.

Elaine departed in the cab, laughing a little because she had wanted this trip for a long time, and crying a little too, because this wasn't how she had planned it. She had meant to go with Gordon and the children, a happy little family off on a visit to Grandma. “What a beautiful
family
you have,” people would say. Or, “Such lovely, well-mannered children. It isn't often in this day and age—”

No, it wasn't often.

She leaned out of the back window of the cab and waved her lace handkerchief in farewell. But there was no one left on the porch except the little white mongrel scratching its ear.

Elaine put the lace handkerchief back in her pocketbook and dabbed at her eyes with a piece of Kleenex. She must keep the handkerchief clean for the plane trip. Kleenex looked common.

15

On Monday night the wind stopped and fog began to move in from the sea across the city like a giant cataract across an eye.

Mrs. Freeman watched it from her dining-room win­dow. It settled down into the trees and between the houses and crept under the cracks of doors; lights grew hazy, people vanished; the foghorn began to bray from the lighthouse on the Mesa.

Mrs. Freeman closed all the windows and pulled down the blinds and went back to the letter she had received in the morning mail. It was written on cheap hotel stationery and the handwriting was like a child's, hesitant and un­even, and punctuated with blobs of ink.

 

Dear Carrie, I bet you're sore at me not writing before this but you know me “old girl,” I'm no good writing letters and stuff. Anyway here goes.

I am in Vegas where all the “big shots” come here to gamble. Every day you see somebody famous like movie stars and gangsters. I've been working steady for a week now a swell job with tips. I “turn on the charm” for them and the tips really roll in. You have to smile a lot that's the secret, the others haven't got wise to it yet.

It's pretty hot here now in the day but the nights are just right. People come here with azsma and go away cured, also T.B. Well that's about all Carrie. Just wait I'll hit the jackpot yet and then I'll be home and we'll live in “the lap of the gods,” you can buy a whole new outfit. I miss you a lot and would sure love a home cooked meal for a change. I miss the ocean too, they can have the desert, give me a view of the sea any time. Well I guess that's it.

Love,

Robert.

P.S. Happy birthday on the 3rd of Sept. Ha, ha, I bet you thought I forgot!

 

Her birthday was on the fifth, but it was the nicest letter she had ever received from him. When the doorbell rang her heart quickened for an instant in the hope that it might be Robert, that the act of writing to her had made him homesick and he had decided to come back right away for a home-cooked meal and a view of the sea.

She opened the door and saw George, his outlines blurred by fog, his voice muffled.

“Is Ruby here?”

She looked at him dully, as if he had spoken a name she'd never heard before.

He coughed and said, “May I come in?”

“Yes. Yes, come in.” She closed the door behind him, trembling a little. “It's cold, a cold night. I can smell winter in the air and here it isn't even fall yet. But that's Channel City for you, we get some of our best weather in December or January.”

“I suppose so, but—”

“We can talk in the dining room. I have the heater going.”

They sat down at the round oak table under the beaded chandelier. In spite of the gas heater hissing in the corner, the room was chilly, as if the old walls had absorbed one too many fogs.

“Ruby,” Mrs. Freeman said. “She didn't call you?”

“No.”

“I asked her to. I said you must be sure and tell Mr. Anderson before you leave. He'll want to know, I said, he'll be around asking for you.”

“She's gone, then?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Yesterday morning. It was very sudden.”

“It must have been.”

“Even so she ought to have told you. It's not fair leaving it to me. She could have called you.”

“Maybe she tried. Maybe the line was busy.”

“I'll bet you that's what happened.”

He leaned across the table. “But you wouldn't bet much, would you?”

“No,” she said, turning away. “Not much. She was—I tried to talk to her. She was a headstrong girl. Nothing mattered to her except what she wanted at the moment.”

“And what did she want?”

“Him,” Mrs. Freeman said quietly. “Just him. No­body else counted. Some women are like that.”

Not many
, she thought.
But some. The unlucky ones. And the men they love are unlucky too. Like Robert.

She looked at the bowl of wax fruit in the center of the table. The fruit came from the dime store but Robert had made the bowl himself out of a cracked phonograph record according to directions he'd found in an old magazine, steaming the record over the teakettle and when it was soft shaping it into a scalloped bowl. “Why, Robert, it's beautiful!” “It's not bad, is it?” “It's just beautiful.” “Maybe I can get hold of a bunch of old records and start a whole new business.” “That's a wonderful idea.” “Honest to God, I think we got something here. I think we're going to hit the jackpot, Carrie, old girl.” “Of course, of course we are, dear.”

Of course.
Because she couldn't bear to hurt him, she had encouraged him beyond all reason and reality. The hurt came anyway, and it was shattering and final. He tried to sell one of the bowls to Mrs. Haggerty next door and Mrs. Haggerty said her kids had been making bowls like that for years at the Y.M.C.A. crafts club.

“I'm sorry,” Mrs. Freeman said, but it wasn't clear from her tone whom she was sorry for, George or Robert or Ruby or herself.

George lit a cigarette and the smoke curled up into the beaded chandelier and softened its glare.

“Where did she go?”

“I don't know. I wouldn't be any use anyway, trying to find her.”

“But you know she went with him—with the man?”

“I saw them leave in his car. A nice-looking car. Green. When she said goodbye to me she put her arms around me, can you beat it?” Mrs. Freeman's mouth tightened. “You'd think we'd been friends or something, the way she said goodbye to me like that, as if she was kind of sorry she had to leave. Well, I can't be responsible for all the girls that cross my path. It's just—I took kind of a personal interest in Ruby. She reminds me of someone I knew years ago. Ruby's a little harder than this other girl I knew. Maybe she'll have better luck. She's not a bad girl.”

“Ruby,” George said carefully, “is a liar and a thief and a cheat.”

She shook her head. “It might seem that way to you, you've been hurt. She lies, yes. People lie when the truth is too hard to bear.”

“She didn't tell me she was interested in someone else, never even hinted at it.”

“She didn't tell me either. No one ever came here for her or called her except you. It was a shock to me when he turned up on Saturday night looking for her. I thought it was just a common drunk making all that noise outside. When I went out to quiet him down he asked for Ruby. That was the first I knew about it.”

“Saturday night,” George repeated.

“Early Sunday morning, more like it. He'd been to one of those Fiesta parties and was all dressed up like a caballero or whatever you call them. I couldn't let him wander around in that condition and not even dressed proper, so I went upstairs and woke Ruby and between the two of us, we got him in here on the couch. He fell asleep right away.”

“What was he like?”

“Like?” Mrs. Freeman blinked. “Well, sometimes it's kind of hard to tell when a man's drunk, but he seemed nice enough. Nothing special that I could see except he had lovely manners. I guess you'd say he was a gentleman.”

“Would I?”

“It takes a gentleman not to forget his manners when he's had a few too many. I asked Ruby, is he a drunk, I asked her. And she said, no, he hardly ever touched the stuff, this was an unusual occasion. I can't tell you much more, Mr. Anderson, I don't know any more. It all happened so fast and unexpected. Maybe I should have phoned you just as soon as—”

“No,” George said sharply. “No. I'm glad you didn't.”

“I'd like to feel I did my best. I tried to talk to her, reason with her. But girls that age, they know everything, they know the score before they even find out what game they're playing.”

She rose, and George rose too, and followed her down the long drafty hall to the front door. They shook hands soberly and formally, like mourners at a funeral.

“Thank you for your trouble,” George said and tried to smile but his mouth felt dry and stiff. “You've been very kind.”

“I tried, I wanted to help the girl. I wanted her to get interested in someone steady and dependable, well, like you, Mr. Anderson, no flattery intended. A girl like that needs a firm hand, a good strong marriage.”

“Maybe she'll have it.”

“How can she? He's already married, this man, married and with three kids.”

George looked at her in silence for a long time, then he turned and opened the door and stepped out on the porch.

“Mr. Anderson?”

“It's getting late. I'd better—”

“I didn't mean to tell you that. It just popped out.”

He didn't answer.

“You're not thinking of doing anything drastic, Mr. Anderson? I mean, it wouldn't be any use trying to find her. She's gone. She made that clear, she's gone for good.”

“For good. Yes, I guess you're right.”

They stood facing each other on the porch. The fog had shut everything else out, and it was as if they were alone together in a cold gray little world of their own.

Moisture condensed on Mrs. Freeman's home perma­nent and wiry curls began to spring up all over her head. “I'm sorry, Mr. Anderson. She should have told you her­self.”

“What's the man's name?”

“I don't—I can't remember.”

“You've remembered everything else.”

“Even so. Even so, I don't think I ought to—”

“Tell me.”

“Gordon,” Mrs. Freeman said. “She called him Gor­don.”

By ten o'clock the fog had covered the city. It hung from the old oak behind Hazel's house like angel hair on a Christmas tree.

There were no lights on in Hazel's house and when George knocked on the front door no one answered. He walked around to the back, found the key where Hazel always left it, under the doormat, and let himself into the kitchen.

He switched on the ceiling light and went over to the sink and poured himself a glass of water. The water left a long cold trail all the way down to his stomach. The rest of his body felt like fire.

Hazel came in from the dining room, heavy-eyed and yawning. “I thought I heard some one.”

He stared at her without speaking.

“What do you want at this time of night?”

“I think you know.”

“How should I know? What's the matter with you, are you drunk or something?”

“Come here, Hazel.”

“What for?”

“Come here. I want to look at you.”

“You can see me from there.”

“Not well enough.”

“Say, what's wrong with you, anyway? Are you losing your mind?”

“Hazel.” He went over and took hold of both her wrists. “Tell me about the money, Hazel.”

“What money?”

“You bitch. You creeping little bitch. I'd like to kill you.”

She was afraid of him but she made no attempt to free herself or to scream for help. Letting her wrists dangle limply from his hands, she thought, it wouldn't really matter so much anyway; Ruth is settled, Harold and Josephine have a place of their own, Gordon is gone.

“Let go of me, George.”

“Why? You've got something important to do, maybe? You want to cook up another of your fancy schemes?”

“Oh, stop it. I didn't—it wasn't a scheme. Gordon had to have the money. I got it for him the best way I could.”

“There was no scheme, eh?”

“None.”

“No idea of getting rid of Ruby because you couldn't stand the thought of me getting married again?”

“No.”

“You're a liar.”

“Maybe, in a way.”

“Maybe, what is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, the idea might have been in the back of my mind at the time, but I didn't know it was there.”

He let go of her wrists and took a step back as if to see her in a new perspective. “You don't want me to get married again, do you?”

“Not to someone like Ruby.”

“To someone like who, then?”

“We've talked about it before.”

“Oh yes. The nice sensible widow my own age with a little cash and some real estate.”

“There must be lots of women like that.”

“In my business I don't meet them. Most of the ones I see are already married again, to a bottle.”

“Well, I keep looking around.”

“Do you?”

“Naturally I do. I'd like to see you settled down. It would be a load off my mind, in fact. I can't seem to—well, to get interested in anyone myself until I see you settled.”