“And last night when he called us,” Sherry said, “he was what?”
Janet said, “He was rightly amazed and upset that considering the way most people here feel—rightly or wrongly—that you would have a colored person up to your house as overnight guest without consulting anyone else or how they might feel. He couldn’t understand how since we all know each other and live on the same road and have our children in the same school—” She gestured. “It did cost him a very important sale, as he told your husband. You can’t blame him for being upset. After all, it didn’t cost you anything. You don’t have to make your living in this community; your husband works outside. It’s pretty easy for you to take this lightly. I can see it doesn’t affect you a bit; I might as well save my breath.” And, putting the car into gear, she shot off, leaving Sherry standing there.
They’re really mad, Sherry thought. Presently she resumed walking.
One of the difficulties of living in a small community soon proved itself. As she entered Carleton’s Feed Store she found herself once more facing Janet Runcible. Mrs. Runcible stood at the counter while the man weighed out dry dog food. Seeing Sherry, she at once turned her back.
This is going to be the situation from now on, Sherry thought. So she went up to the counter. “I don’t intend to be badly treated by you or anybody else in this town,” she said to Janet, when the man had gone off to get change. “Let’s get this over and done with.”
The man returned, gave Janet Runcible her change, and then went away to unload feed sacks from a dolly. Evidently he assumed that the two women were together.
“There’s nothing to get over,” Janet said. “At no cost to yourself you brought a serious financial misfortune to us, and of course it doesn’t bother you a bit. Why should it? You’re not a part of this community; it’s just a residential suburb to you. But I should think that you’d care enough about the value of your own property to—”
“Nuts to you,” Sherry said. “What Walter said last night to your husband goes double for me. We’ve got nothing to apologize for. If we had to do it over again, we’d do it over again. I agree with Walt one hundred per cent; nobody has the right to tell us who we can and who we can’t have in our home.”
“Leo says—” Janet began.
“I don’t care what Leo says,” Sherry said. “Listen, there’re a lot of people in this town who as far as they’re concerned your husband is after the almighty dollar, and you know what I mean by that.”
“You mean to infer about his race,” Janet said. “I’m proud, and Leo is proud of a sacred heritage.”
“Yes, well your husband is no Baruch Spinoza,” Sherry said. “And it’s pretty ludicrous him taking credit for that, for Mendelssohn and Einstein because they happen to belong to the same race; I might as well take credit for Franklin Roosevelt or Albert Schweitzer.” Lowering her voice she said, “My husband and I have a lot more respect from other people in this community than someone coming in to speculate in real estate and try to make a fast buck by however it is he makes his living—no one seems to know for sure.”
To that, Janet Runcible could find nothing to say. She started to speak, cleared her throat, picked up her sealed package of dry dog food. Her face had become colorless, heavy and not attractive. Her smile had long since gone. At last she shuddered, lowered her head, and pushed past Sherry and out of the feed store.
Going over to the clerk, Sherry said in a level voice, “Say, I want some chicken feed. About five pounds.” It pleased her that she did not sound disturbed. Certainly Janet was not now able to function. I’ll bet she goes back home, Sherry thought. No more errands for her today; she couldn’t stand running into me again, not after that.
What a forlorn little spinster-type-of-woman, she thought as she paid for the chicken feed. That nervous tic around her eyes, the strain showing, and of course the puffy lids from tying one on every night of the week. How little it had taken to shut her up. A few swift returns.
And they are wrong, she thought. They must know it. All that huffing and puffing, last night on the phone and now here…so much hocus pocus. To justify themselves. It’s not us they’re attacking; it’s their own weak guilty consciences.
But then she thought, and look at me. Look at my line of talk. Now she felt guilty, thinking back. Bringing in Runcible’s race.
That was bad, she decided.
And yet, they deserved it. It was justice. And their own sacred writing, the Old Testament, said, “An eye for an eye.” They rejected the Christian “turn the other cheek,” so why should she hold back? Their own code called for what she had done.
She stepped from the feed store, out onto the platform and then down the steps to the gravel parking lot. There was the Runcible sedan; Janet stood by it, holding her sack of dog food, waiting for her.
“What now?” Sherry said, jolted to find her.
Approaching her, Janet said, “I want to set you straight about something. We’re not bigots. You have us so readily typed. Last night my husband threw a friend of ten years out of his house because that man, Paul Wilby, asked about that Negro friend of yours. He saw him on your porch and wondered if Negroes lived here in town.”
“So?” Sherry said.
“My husband voluntarily gave up an important sale on which he would have made a great deal of money because he wouldn’t tolerate anyone making racist remarks in his home. Leo is an idealist.” Her red-rimmed eyes blazed up; her lips set violently. Sherry decided to make no move to get away or interrupt. “He almost gave his life in the cause of human liberty and equality. He fought in the war against Fascism not because he had to but because he believed in it. He’s a noble, intelligent, sensitive man. If anybody in this community has done more to support good causes than Leo I want to know who that is. You tell me who. Who?”
Sherry said nothing. There’s more, she realized. She groaned inwardly and held her package of chicken feed against her.
“If you had been at our home last night,” Janet said, “you would have seen—”
“If your husband feels that way, then why did he call us?” Sherry broke in. “Why did he say what he said? If he’s so idealistic, how come he was on the phone shouting about our ‘ruining the community by our selfish actions,’ and all that stuff? How do you explain that?”
Opening her car door, Janet paused and said, “Leo wanted you to know the consequences of your act. He wanted you to face the full import. Remember—” She seated herself behind the wheel and slammed the door after her. Starting up the motor she said in a calm, firm voice, “Your inter racial party didn’t cost you people anything. We paid the cost.”
The Runcible sedan, with its gray woman inside, drove off.
Presently Sherry thought, Maybe there’s something to that. I wonder. They’re always so sensitive about racial slights, these Jews. Maybe Runcible took a remark directed towards Negroes as a personal insult. It would be just like him.
How well do we know Runcible? she asked herself. We see him go by in his car; we hear about deals he’s pulled; we see his signs and his office. When we buy we pretty much have to buy through him, and the same applies when we sell. She thought. He’s neatly-groomed, even good-looking. And he certainly holds grudges. He has feuds with half the people in town—or has had. It is a fact that he flares up at almost anything, goes off in a huff. And he does participate in all the civic business, school bonds and roads and right-of-ways.
He really must be quixotic, she thought. If he did that; if he told a client to go to hell because the client started muttering about seeing a Negro in town. And who would ever have thought of Leo Runcible as that?
Last night it had seemed so simple, so cut and dried. Her husband had come home with a Negro in the car, a mechanic whom he had known for years and liked and respected, and this was an all-white community. “Lily-white,” as it was called. Her first reaction had been. What will the neighbors think? And Charley himself had joked, during dinner, about property values goi
ng down. And sure enough, the local Realtor had phoned them that evening, very excited and upset and angry, and had bawled them out. Walt, standing there in the hall with the phone in his hand, had said exactly the right thing; he had told the Realtor to go peddle his papers, that this was man’s right, to invite anyone he wanted to his home, Negro, Jew, or Martian. Had Walter said Jew? She was not sure, now. In any case, he had got his attitude across. Beyond any doubt it had been a clash between human values and cynical property values, with Leo Runcible, hot-shot promoter with a reputation for shady deals and fast profits, representing the latter.
But now…she could picture Runcible throwing the friend out of his house, making his speech and then, as soon as the man was gone, going to the phone, calling up her and Walt, and taking the exact opposite stand. Real weirdos. And, she thought, they’re really sore at us. If it cost them a lot of money—or if they have it in their mind that it did—they’re not going to get over it right away. I know if it were I, a lot of time would go before I stopped nursing a grudge over a lot of money.
If he were rational, she thought, he wouldn’t blame us; he’d hold himself responsible. Did Walt and I make him sound off at his client? Did we force him to? But, she thought, people aren’t rational; they’re emotional.
Anyhow, she decided, there’s nothing they can do to us except not wave or not give us lifts in wet weather. Runcible isn’t of much importance in this community. Socially, he’s a pariah. In fact, they have more to lose than we have, by their snubbing us.
What a laugh, she decided. The Runcibles snubbing us!
5
Ahead, Walt Dombrosio saw the red neon sign of a bar. A roadside tavern at the edge of Stinson Beach. Can I drive the rest of the way okay? he asked himself. If I have a couple of belts? I really feel lousy.
He coasted the Alfa from the road onto the gravel shoulder across from the bar. Stopping the car he shut off the lights and then the motor. Getting from the car he walked to the bar, his hands in his pockets.
The old story, he thought as he pushed open the door of the bar and entered. Troubles with my wife; the bartender must have heard from a million mouths the same tale. These red signs along the highway, inviting a man to stop off for moment to suck at the tit, nurse away while spilling out the problems. And yet, he saw that the bartender, a brawny, hairy man smoking a cigar, was involved in his newspaper; he sat hunched over, smoking and reading, paying no attention to the three or four men drinking. He doesn’t care, Dombrosio thought. He’s not going to hear my troubles; he’s busy.
Jews, he thought. I could complain about the Jews. Bar talk. Pole-axing me and at the same time beating the breast and sobbing how ill-used his race has been. Who can tell me? he asked himself. If I did right. Said right to that harangue.
So who do you go to? he asked himself as he sat down on a stool. Minister? Psychoanalyst? Sherry went to a psychoanalyst in San Francisco, now and then. But that was for women, and in addition it cost too much. The minister, he thought. What a joke. There was a minister in Carquinez. If I did go to him, he thought, what would I say? What sort of spiritual problem do I have?
The bartender put down his paper, his cigar, and came over, resting his big flat hands on the counter and waited expectantly.
Dombrosio said, “What’s your bar Scotch?”
“Crawford’s,” the bartender said, glancing behind him.
It was a label that he did not know. But he said, “Fine. Give me a Scotch and water, no ice.”
“I also have Teacher’s,” the bartender said.
“No,” he said. “Crawford’s is okay.” And he thought, What a gas bag I am; I pretend that I know what I’m talking about. And it costs me ten cents a drink more; I pay for being a gas bag, because I have gone and named a brand, even though I don’t know the brand.
“In your opinion,” he said, when the bartender brought the drink, “is Crawford’s a pretty good Scotch?”
The bartender said, “I’m not a Scotch drinker.”
“The best Scotch I know,” Dombrosio said, “is Cutty Sark.” He had never had it but he had seen ads for it in magazines that his wife brought home.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” the bartender said as he rang up the amount on the register. “Guys come in here and specify a brand of Scotch, like Ballantine or what you said, Cutty Sark, or Old Grouse, and on the third drink I give them whatever I have closest, Teacher’s or whatever, and they can’t tell. It don’t make no difference to them.” He grinned as he tossed the change on the counter.
Dombrosio made himself grin back; he made his face respond. “I’ll bet they couldn’t tell the first drink,” he said. “Even on the first one, if you switched.”
The bartender went back to his newspaper. A little later, Dombrosio heard murmuring voices and saw, over his shoulder, the bartender bending close to two men at the bar. They laughed. Are they laughing at me? Dombrosio wondered. He sipped his drink and stared straight forward, feeling his neck and ears become hot and red and then cold. Because I paid more for a label of Scotch and possibly the bartender did switch on me, and I didn’t notice…he waited to see if I said anything, and I didn’t. Maybe I should say something. Say that the drink isn’t too good.
He searched his mind for some broad way to put it, to cover the situation if it really wasn’t Crawford’s that he was drinking. And if it was, if the bartender hadn’t switched, would still leave him okay. But he could not find away.
Turning to the man at his left, not one of those who had been laughing, he said, “Hey, what are you drinking?”
At first it seemed as if the man was not going to answer; he did not make any sign that he had heard, and Dombrosio felt further horror. But then the man slowly lifted his head and said, “Burgie.”
“Have one on me,” Dombrosio said.
The man lifted his hand in a sign of acknowledgement. “Thanks,” he said, nodding his head up and down.
The bartender came over, unasked, with a fresh bottle of beer and poured it for the man. Dombrosio paid him. Nobody said anything. The man began to drink his new round of beer, and Dombrosio returned to his Scotch.
What is wrong? he asked himself. If he would listen, what would I have to tell him?
Nobody is trying to hurt me. I am not sick or broke. I have a good job. My wife dresses well and has a great figure. But if nothing was wrong, he thought, I would not be here in this dump with these guys; I would be home by now. Home and sitting down to dinner.
Did that Realtor guy take away my home by phoning up? No, he thought. I felt like this before. My troubles are not with Runcible, even though he did make me as mad and upset as I’ve ever been. If my troubles exist at all, they are with—
He thought, With someone who crowds me. Who leans over my shoulder. And yet, I somehow can’t catch her at it; she seems still to be waiting, holding back. The time is not ripe, maybe.
What does she want?
So polite to the guest. Of course. A liberal; she went to a good university, moved in good circles. She could no more insult Chuck Halpin than she could fly. But I know, he thought. Underneath. Her real thoughts, kept hidden. People in her class can’t come out and say it, even if they feel it. They have to want to fraternize with Negroes; they have to detest Faubus, the South in general.
He thought, My God, suppose that upset him so bad he won’t work on my car.
I wouldn’t blame him. The dark, constrained face swam up, visible. Intuition about the call. Not having to ask who or what; knowing. Probably not unique in his experience. From then on saying nothing all evening. Nodding to everything. Agreeing, eating, drinking, but not here; mind far away. Detaching himself, he thought. From the embarrassment.
Then I’ll have to take it elsewhere, he thought. Find another garage. Sooner or later anyhow. Always happens just when you think you have some guy you can count on.
She can start in on me now, he thought. First chance. Really make me pay for showing up with a Negro. She actually agrees with R
uncible. But she’s too smart to come out directly and say anything. I’ll get it indirectly. If I was home now she’d be reaming me out in subtle ways, a dozen. Last night with him still there, she couldn’t talk. Or this morning. But now. Now I’ll get it as soon as I set foot. Hold off if possible; sit here as long.
Me, he thought. I know I genuinely feel it; I’m sincere. I invited him because I like him. I know my own motives. I treated him like I would any man, white or Negro, because with a person like me it comes natural. That’s the difference between her and me.
His glass was empty, so he ordered another Scotch. This time he did not specify, and he did not pay attention to what the bartender charged him; he simply took the fresh drink and drank it.
Not her I’m not. Scared of her to go home. For? For the hell of it; I like to drink sometimes. For? He thought, For—
For Janet Runcible one happy time was the happiest of all.
She could at this time tell in advance what people were going to say.
They only had to open their mouths. At once she knew all the rest. And it delighted her. She got their thoughts at a glance!
And it was not just simple thoughts. She also got the most intellectual discussions. If the conversation at a party got onto David Riesman or West Germany or science she could participate; she threw in bits of ideas herself, sometimes not even needing to finish them. And the other people got her ideas right away, too.
Her drink in her hand, she sat in the deep yellow chair in the living room. The table was set; the dinner was in the oven, cooking. There was nothing to do.
At his desk, in the other room, Leo sat studying papers and making phone calls. He still had on his suit and tie; he had just got home. Now he wrote with his pen. His gray, slightly curly hair made her think of steel. How hard he is, she thought. Narrow, hard wrists. A neat, narrow, hard man.
“Does the suit make you narrow?” she said. “Or do you? The tie.” She started to laugh. Even the stripes, now, had become narrow. All was up and down, especially the lapels. First, the women models in the ads…so thin, with black ravenous eyes. As if they had been after blood. Yes, so bloodless.
The Man Whose Teeth Were All Exactly Alike Page 5