“I wanted to drop by and see how she was.” He looked around the room. “What time did you get in last night?”
“Not too late,” he said evasively. And then he thought to himself how he had gone off with Jim Briskin’s girl. The emotion he felt was pride. He felt a kind of triumph. “Did she used to be married to you?” he said. “She sure is s-s-something.”
“Look, kid,” Jim Briskin said, “don’t ever talk about a girl like that. It’s between you and the girl.”
Flushing, he said, “It was her idea; don’t start yelling at me. She wanted to go down to the liquor store, and then when we got there, then she w-w-wanted to go for a drive.”
“Christ,” Jim Briskin said. “Anyhow—” He glanced into the kitchen. “You don’t know when Rachael will be back? How did she seem to be? Was she angry? Was she upset?”
“She’s okay,” he said.
“What are you going to do next?” Jim said. Then he said, “It doesn’t matter. When Rachael comes in, tell her I was by. If I don’t hear from her, I’ll be around again.”
“You’re pretty sore,” Art said. “Aren’t you?”
“I’m not sore,” he said. “I’m just trying to keep something worse from happening.”
Now he felt embarrassed. “She wanted to go there,” he said.
“Where? To her place?” Jim nodded. “I know. I saw her afterwards; I got the whole story. She must have had a hell of a hangover this morning.”
“I saw her around four,” Art said. “She seemed okay then; she acted like she felt okay.”
“You went by the station?” Opening the door, Jim started up the stairs.
“She’s real cool-looking,” Art said.
“Yes.” He halted. “She’s at least that. What are your plans? You going to give up your wife and baby and start hanging around her?”
“I don’t know,” Art muttered. “I’m supposed to call her, she said for me to.”
“She was pretty damn drunk, last night.”
“I know.”
Jim said, “Let me tell you something. Not for your own good; for mine. I was married to her three years. I’m still in love with her. All you know is that she’s attractive and last night she was available. I doubt if she’ll be available again very soon. Either to you or me or anybody else. That was once in a million. You were handy; It’s your good, fortune.”
He saw the torment on the boy’s face. Coming back into the room, he closed the door after him. It was Rachael that he wanted to talk to, but now he was here and talking to Art. So he said, “Don’t press your luck. Just write it off as a break and be glad. I was walking around the Park today thinking how much I would have given when I was your age for something like that to happen to me. But if you expect it to happen again, you’re just tormenting yourself. Believe me; I’m not kidding you. She can cause you a lot of suffering.”
“Yeah,” Art said, and the expression remained on his face. The acute suffering, more acute than any other kind of pain.
“Be glad,” Jim said.
“S-s-sure,” Art said violently.
“Wait’ll you’re in love with her,” he said, his own pain rising. “You think you’re bad-off now; wait until you’ve known her and lived with her. What do you know about her? All you know is the way she dresses and how she looks, something you saw when she walked in here.”
“I saw her before,” the boy said.
Jim said, “I know everything about her. And I’d do anything for her. So for my sake keep your hands off her. The next time she’s drunk and wants to go to bed with somebody, you turn around and go back to your wife; let her sober up and she’ll forget about it. I’ll tell you one more thing. You try and talk her into it again—you’ll find out what I mean. Nobody ever talked her into anything, and especially that. You’ll wear yourself out, and when you’re finished you’ll feel like the goddamnedest fool that ever lived. She can make you look sillier than any woman you ever met. Get out of it now while you have something good to think about.” Again he opened the door; he had not meant to talk in that direction. “And the next time you think you’ve accomplished something like this, don’t go around with that silly smirk on your face.”
Slamming the door, he went up the steps and along the path to the sidewalk. Getting into his car, he backed out onto Fillmore Street and drove off.
Several blocks away from the house, he saw a figure toiling along the sidewalk. She carried a package and she walked slowly; at a discount clothing store she wandered in to study the window displays. How sad she looked, he thought. How woebegone. Signaling that he was stopping, he double-parked and watched her. When she went on to the next store, he drove ahead, keeping up with her.
Compared with Pat, he thought to himself, she did not dress well. Her coat was brown, without particular color; it dragged shapelessly, a cloth coat whose pockets sagged. Her hair was cut in no fashion whatsoever. She wore no makeup; in fact he had never seen her with makeup. Now, as she wandered along, her eyes were dulled. And the bulge of her middle was gradually distorting her figure; the lines were starting to flow and waver. Under certain conditions, he thought, she might be quite plain. But she was not plain. She had a critical, intent expression; even now she was drawn tight by some attitude, some careful holding of herself. The energy was there. The source of strength that he admired so much. Probably as she walked, she was mulling over everything that had happened. She was not going to do anything until she was certain of what was right.
As yet she had not noticed him.
Holding her package in both arms, she walked step by step, making little progress; she was deflected by each store and each passing thing. Her outward attention wavered and fixed itself on first this and that, without order or sequence. If he had not known her, he would have said that at this point she could be led anywhere; she had no direction. But he knew better. She was out by herself, making her decision. She was still very hard and firm, still rigid.
At a grocery store she disappeared from sight. Behind him a car, honked and he was forced to pull out into traffic. He made a U-turn at the corner, drove back, came around again searching for her. Now there was no sign of her; he had lost her.
He saw a parking slot and quickly drove into it.
On foot he hurried along the sidewalk to the grocery, store. It was a small store, with nothing to offer but vegetables and fruits; he could see at once that she had departed. Two middle-aged women were inspecting potatoes. The proprietor, in the rear, was seated on a stool with his hands folded.
Going on, he peered into a shoe store and then a café, a drugstore, a dry-cleaning shop. She was not in any of them and she was not ahead of him.
“Goddamn,” he said.
The late-afternoon sunlight was white and glaring; it made his head hurt. The drugstore had a soda fountain, and he went in and sat down, his head in his hands. When the waitress appeared, he ordered coffee.
Well, he thought, she had certainly gone on home. He could catch her there.
Resting his elbows on the counter, he drank his coffee; it was weak, hot, tasteless. His run-in with Art had left him in no shape to plan, to cope. A downgrade, he thought, the argument with Art. No point to it, no purpose or hope of improvement. What did he expect? What was he after?
Paying for his coffee, he left the drugstore. Now he did not feel able to go back to the house, to the Emmanuals’ place. Some other time, he thought.
Across the street Rachael was standing before a magazine rack, reading the covers of the pocket books.
He crossed the street. “Rachael,” he said.
Her head turned. “Oh,” she said.
Taking her package he said, “Let me carry it.”
“Did you find them last night?” She fell in beside him and they walked together. “Art came home. He didn’t say anything about seeing you.”
“I got there,” he said, “but Art had gone.”
She nodded.
“Do you care?” he said. “Do
you want to hear about it? Or are you tired of hearing about it?”
“I’m tired,” she said. “You know, I hate to talk. I hate to listen to talk.”
“I do know,” he said.
“So let’s just walk,” she said.
They went on, across another street, onto another block of small shops and stores and bars. Rachael gazed up at a display of television sets; the display seemed to absorb her.
“Did you ever think of going into television?” she said. “Instead of radio?”
“No,” he said.
“I was watching Steve Allen the other night. You ought to be good in a program like that…where you could say what you wanted.”
“He doesn’t say what he wants,” Jim said.
She dropped the subject.
“Can I say one thing about Pat?” he said.
“Why?” Then she was apologetic. It was impossible for her, evidently, to be mean. She could not act out such a petty role. “If you want to say something, go ahead. But—”
“I just want to say this,” he said. “I don’t think she’ll do it again. She was drunk; she saw Art, and there was this tangle with me—”
Rachael said, “I don’t really care. What do I care why she did it or whether she’s going to do it again? I’ve been walking around wondering what I should do. About her, I mean. I don’t care about Art.”
“Have you decided?” he said. “Because as much as I think of you, I think more of her, and if you have anything planned, I wish you’d drop it and forget about it.”
“How far did they go?” Rachael said.
“Don’t talk like a child. I’m ashamed of both of you, both you and Art?”
“I just wanted to know.”
“How the hell far do you think they went?” he said. “If that’s the kind of language you have to put it in. How far do you think a very unhappy woman with too much to drink would go with a good-looking eighteen-year-old kid after they had parked up on Twin Peaks at twelve o’clock at night? Can’t you tell when your own husband has had intercourse with another woman?”
Curiously, she remained unmoved. “I don’t know what to call it. When we were in school we had a lot of words, but they weren’t words you can use. It’s hard, not knowing the words.”
“Go learn them,” he said.
“You’re mad at me,” she said, “because I can’t discuss this with you the way you like to discuss it.” Her chin lifted, and all at once her enormous eyes were fixed on him; she brought the full weight of her contempt onto him. “Did you say once you wanted to help us? We don’t know anything. Nobody ever taught us anything we can use. I’m not going to go over and—cut her head off or something. I’d just like to know people who don’t do things like this to other people.”
“She was drunk,” he said.
“So what? I’d like to ask her how she feels now. I’d like to go up to her and see if she’s sorry or what.”
“She’s sorry.”
“Is she?”
“She called me up last night,” he said. “She was wailing and sobbing; she knew she did something wrong.”
They, had walked almost back to the house. Ahead of them was the fence and gate. Now Rachael stopped.
“What if I didn’t go back?” she said.
“That would be a mistake.”
“I’m not going back.”
“What then?” he said. “Are you going to your family’s and stay there awhile? Get a divorce? Never forgive him?”
“I saw that in a movie,” Rachael said.
“And you know what you think of movies.”
“All right,” she said, “I’ll go back.” She took her package from him. “Would you come inside with me?”
“Sure,” he said.
They walked up the path and down the steps to the basement door. The apartment was empty and on the table was a note from Art. Holding her package, Rachael read the note.
“He went out,” she said. “He says Grimmelman called and they’re over at the loft. I guess you don’t know Grimmelman.”
“Do you believe him?” he said. “You suppose it’s true?”
She tossed her package onto the couch. “No. I’m going to fix dinner. You can stay if you want.” She went into the kitchen, and soon he heard the sounds of water running in the sink, the clatter of pans.
“Can I help?” he said.
On her face was a hopeless look. “I didn’t get any meat.”
“Let me get it.” He led her to a chair and sat her down. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He left the apartment and went up the street to a meat market. The market was about to close and nobody was waiting at the counter; he bought a New York-cut steak, fidgeted while the butcher wrapped it, and then carried it back to the apartment.
“How’s this?” he said, unwrapping the steak before her.
She accepted it gingerly. “I never saw this cut before. It isn’t sirloin, is it?”
“No,” he said. “I thought it might cheer you up. You ought to eat more.”
Going into the kitchen with the steak, she started to take down the frying pan. “Should I fry it?”
“Broil it,” he said. “It’s too tender to fry.”
“Will you stay with me?” she said.
“I’d like to,” he said.
“What about afterwards?” she said. “After dinner?”
“He ought to be back.”
“Suppose he isn’t. Would you stay until he comes back?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t see how I can.”
Rachael said, “I lived with my family until we—Art and I—ran off to Santa Rosa. Last night when you left here, I felt very bad. I’m not used to being alone.”
“You always struck me as being independent.”
“Maybe we could go to a show.”
“No,” he said, “I can’t take you to a show, Rachael. I’ll eat dinner with you and then I have to leave.”
“What’ll I do?” she said.
He said, “I’ve been in this spot for years. When Pat and I separated, I thought I’d go crazy. For a couple of weeks I didn’t know what I was doing. It’s something you have to live through. And you probably won’t have to; I think he’ll be back. But if he doesn’t come back, you’ll have to stand it alone. Isn’t that right? You’re about the only person I’d say this to outright.”
“It’s the idea of him over there,” she said.
“I know it is. But for a year now she’s been going around with Bob Posin, and I’ve gone to bed every night with that on my mind.”
“Is this the way it turns out?”
“Not always.”
Putting on the burners in the oven, she set the steak under them.
“Rachael,” he said, “if he is there, and I went over and got him, that wouldn’t solve it. And you were the one last night who saw that. You were the first one to see that.”
She said, “I want to go to the show. If you won’t take me, I’ll go alone. Or I’ll go up to Dodo’s, and when I see one of the kids or even somebody I don’t know I’ll get him to take me.” With her back to him she said, “So please take me.”
“Would you do that?” he said. He knew she would.
“Take me to that movie about the whale. We have a jar full of nickels and dimes; we’re saving up. What’s it called?”
“Moby Dick.”
“It’s from some book. I read it in an English class. We read a lot of old books. It’s supposed to be a pretty good movie, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And then maybe we could go somewhere else.” She put on water for the vegetables. “I want you to stay with me,” she said. “In January I’m going to have my baby, and I have to be able to count on something. You brought her here and you know you’re in this. I’ve been thinking it over and I’m not kidding. If he’s gone, you have to take care of me. Have you ever heard of a thing like that? But it doesn’t make any difference; you have
to. I have a lot of respect for you. I don’t even feel bad about this. There isn’t anything else I can do. What would you do if you were me?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“This will be very practical,” she said. “You came here originally and said you wanted to help me.”
“I meant both of you,” he said.
“All right.” Her voice was reasonable, measured. “You helped Art. Now you can help me. You gave him what he wanted; now see to it that I have enough money and a place to live and something to do. Maybe this sounds—wrong.”
“No,” he said, “just ruthless.”
“You got yourself into this,” she said.
He could not help admiring her. She was certainly brave; she had worked out the best solution she could think of. She did not give up or break down into self-pity or sentimentality. This was something out of her own mind, from her own system.
“I’ll think it over,” he said.
She continued fixing dinner.
14
The front door of the apartment building was locked, and he knew that this was the policy of the big apartment houses. He also knew that there was a back entrance by which the women took wash down to the lines. Going around to the rear of the building, he saw the lines, the recessed garages. A flight of spindly wooden stairs led up to a door, and as he had expected the door was not locked; a housewife had blocked it open with a rolled-up copy of Life magazine.
He entered the building and went along the carpeted halls until he came to her door. Without hesitation he knocked.
“Who is it?” Patricia said from inside the apartment. “Just a minute.”
“It’s Art,” he said.
The door flew open. “What?” she said. She had on a heavy cord robe; she had been taking a bath. Her hair was tied up in a turban, and her cheeks were dark, glowing. Tightening the sash of her robe, she said, “I didn’t expect you; I thought you were going to call.” She was indecisive, and while she tried to make up her mind, he entered her apartment.
“I called,” he said. “I didn’t get any answer.”
“What about Rachael?” In consternation she moved away from him.
“She went out,” he said.
The Broken Bubble Page 15