by James Jones
“Come on in here,” she said. “We’re going away on a visit.”
She packed two bags for herself, and one for Walter. Then she made her phone calls. Six or eight of them, to all her closest friends, and to the people they had dinner engagements with. She had had an emergency call from her sister in Kansas City; yes, her sister was down sick; she just simply had to go to her. Serene, calm-voiced, she handled all of them.
There would be no talk, now. And that left it up to him. If he wanted the whore, let him make the choice. And, in fact, she expected that he would. Except perhaps for Walter. But the whore could probably bear him some brats. Oh, God! she thought suddenly; a whole lifetime down the drain! Just like that! Well, let him choose.
So that he would be sure to know where to reach her, she left a little note, worded carefully so that it would not look like she had left it for that reason:
You didn’t believe me. Walter and I are going to Mary Ellen’s in Kansas City. I don’t ever want to see or hear from you again.
And leaving the house in a mess from the packing—and enjoying angrily the fact that she was doing so—she took Walter out to the little Ford and loaded up the bags.
“Are we getting separated?” Walter said gloomily, as she slid in behind the wheel. “Are we getting a divorce?”
“Did you hear what went on there in the house?” Agnes asked, startled.
“Well, I couldn’t help but hear some of it,” Walter said. “You both talked so loud.”
“Well, you just forget you heard it,” she commanded. “Yes, we probably are getting a divorce. But don’t you worry. You’ll always stay with me, honeybun.” She started up the car.
As she pulled out of the drive, she looked back at the house and tears filled her eyes. Just only a few months ago, they had been talking about selling it and building a fine new home. And now she was leaving it for good. She couldn’t help but cry. But then she shook the thoughts out of her mind and blinked away the tears and squared her shoulders.
What would Dawn think, when she found out? Well, she would write her a long letter as soon as she got out to Mary Ellen’s in Kansas City.
And resolutely, she drove away. But she could not resist driving past the house her husband had bought for his mistress. Something in her, some deliberate self-hurting painfulness, made her drive by and look at it. It was a pretty little green house, with white shutters and a pretty little yard. Once again, tears filled her eyes.
Driving out of her way to pass the other house had put her out of the way so that she had to turn back to get back on North Main that led out to the bypass. Her eyes brimming with tears, she could hardly see where she was driving.
“Turn here,” Walter said, after they had gone a couple of blocks.
Blinking her eyes, Agnes pulled up and stopped at the corner. “Well, I don’t know if I can,” she said. “All of these east-west streets are one-way streets now up here.”
“Can’t you see which way the cars are parked?” Walter said disgustedly.
Blinking again, Agnes looked and saw that the cars parked along the street were all headed east, and suddenly she laughed.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.” Suddenly, she leaned over and hugged the diminutive solemn-faced little boy. “You’re my boy, aren’t you?” she said tenderly. Then she turned the corner and went on down the street, resolutely.
No man in the world was ever going to do something like that to her. Well, at least, she did have little Walter.
Chapter 69
FRANK WAS FEELING pretty chipper, when he left the house that afternoon, after talking to Agnes. For the first time in his life, really, he felt he had finally made Agnes understand just what the difference was, between a wife and a mistress. Naturally, he was elated. And as he drove downtown to the new offices to meet his appointments, with his new elation boosting him up, Frank began to plan ahead how he could get himself another, second mistress. In addition to Edith Barclay.
Hell, he should have talked to Agnes about this long ago. It would have saved them both all kinds of trouble. She was mad now, of course. But she would get over that. In time. It had hurt her vanity a little, to find that men were really polygamous. But he thought he had made her understand it. And once she got over being mad, she would accept it. Agnes had always been one for accepting facts. She was a real realist. And, of course, she wouldn’t leave him. She’d talk like that when she was mad, but as soon as she cooled down and her reasonable nature reasserted itself, she’d forget it. She loved him too much to ever leave him. And anyway, hell, she’d be a fool to just up and leave the kind of setup she had here, with him; and Agnes was no fool. She wasn’t about to leave him, and he knew it.
Hell, maybe he’d even get himself two more. That would make three mistresses in all. He’d be able to afford three, in another year or so. His heart squeezed in him with the joy of possession when he thought about it. Christ, why hadn’t he talked to Agnes about it before? He’d get himself one in Terre Haute first. Some nice young girl about like Edith—only a little older, and more experienced. It was really better to have them unmarried, like Edith. Then you could set them up in a house and just go there whenever you pleased.
It would probably be better, he thought enthusiastically, to set this second one up in Terre Haute, rather than here in Parkman. He didn’t want to make Edith jealous, too, and have to go through a scene like this with her, too. Later on, of course, he could let her know and bring her around. Just like he had Agnes. Then he could maybe set the third one up over in Israel where the Frenches lived. Now there was an idea!
Of course, that third one would have to wait a year or two. Until the shopping center and the rest of the enterprises really began paying off. But that second one! Hell, he could start in on that second one this winter. He’d start looking around for some nice, professional gal, over there in Terre Haute. Christ, he was happy! He didn’t know when he had felt so good! Three mistresses to go to, whenever he wanted. Hell, he felt like Midas!
Enthusiastically, he parked the car and went upstairs to the office. He bounced through his work with all the flair and energy Frank Hirsh was becoming noted for, anxious to get home to his wife. When he did get home that night, and found the note and the house messed up from the packing of the suitcases, he collapsed: stunned. Completely stunned, into a state of shock; like an ox is stunned with a hammerblow between the eyes, before they slice his neck.
It took him fifteen minutes to really realize it, in the numbed state he was in. And eight seconds after that, he fell completely apart.
He had seen the note, of course, first thing after he had noticed all the clothes strewn around. The usually immaculate, spotless house was in a terrible state. Frank pushed some clothes off a chair in the living room and sat down with the note and read it over and over. He knew what it said, but the meaning did not register on him with its full import. Along toward the end of the fifteen minutes, when his mind began to work again a little, he grasped craftily at the straw that she was only doing this to devil him, and had not left at all.
And with this in mind, he searched the house. He went upstairs, then down and into the laundry room, he even looked in the basement. Then, finally, he went out to the garage and checked to see if her car was gone.
It was when he came back inside from the garage, and saw again the clothes-strewn rooms and went and got the note and read it through again that the full import of it all hit down on him. She had really left him. His own wife, whom he had done more for and loved more than anybody else in the world, and needed, had actually left him. It made him come completely unstrung, and sitting in the clothes-strewn living room, the note dangling from his hand, he began to cry. That she could do this to him. Frank did not cry easily, had not cried for years. He had always believed men ought never to cry, and it was a broken, convulsive, shoulder-shaking kind of crying that came out of him. The tears ran down his face and splashed on his dangling hands, and he held his mouth and nos
e tightened up against it, except when the convulsive little gasps for breath would shake him.
Still crying, he went about and aimlessly began to gather up the clothes. It seemed an endless; there were so many of them. Finally, he kicked them all together in a couple of piles and bent and picked them up and carried them in and dumped them all on her—on Agnes’s; Agnes his wife’s—bed. That she would do this to him, deliberately. And not only that: his son! Walter! She had taken him, too! And after he had already had the signs changed on the store windows! That would make him look like an ass, wouldn’t it! At least, she could have left him Walter. But that she could do it at all, such a horribly cruel thing, to him, who had always loved her—that was the worst of all! And he began to cry again.
It was, in the end, the panic that finally made him stop the crying. It had been growing in him steadily all this time: the nameless, frightened panic—at the thought of living here all alone the rest of his life; at the thought of having to clean this house up himself; at the thought of eating meals in restaurants, greasy spoons, all the rest of his life; at the thought of the laundry room and of trying to run the mangle: but most of all at the thought of walking echoingly back and forth all through this house, alone, all the rest of his life. No Agnes. No Walter: no son! The panic grew until finally it was so strong that it superseded the crying and the feeling of self-sorrow and forced them both out of him.
Well, he would have to get her back, that was all! And suddenly, he jumped up, filled with a frantic energy to do something, an energy which, of course, was only frustrated leaving him just that much more unstrung—because, he realized, there wasn’t anything he could start to do. At least, not now. If she was going to her sister Mary Ellen’s in Kansas City, they would not arrive there until some time tomorrow. He could not even call her, on the phone, until then. A wire would mean a long wait for an answer. And he couldn’t send a wire anyway, not publicly in Parkman. For a moment, the frustrated energy to do something tormenting him, he thought of getting in the Cadillac and following them. Sure. That was what he could do. Maybe he could catch them. But then, what if he passed them, and missed them? And for that matter, how could he be sure which route she took? And, he thought craftily, how did he even know she was going to Mary Ellen’s in Kansas City? Maybe she only told him that as a red herring to throw him off, while she was, in fact, going someplace else?
No, there was nothing for it except to wait until tomorrow. And then call. It would mean waiting until almost tomorrow noon. The very thought was so agonizing that he could hardly stand it. To relieve himself, he went to the bar and shakily got out a full bottle of whiskey. He did not even bother with the pretense of mixing a drink, but took the bottle into the bedroom with him and lay down with it on the bed. But he could not stand the bedroom, with all those clothes there, on Agnes’s bed; and he got back up and went back out to sit in the living room. And there he sat, drinking the whiskey and peering at his watch every few minutes to see how much time had passed. He promised himself that he would agree to anything she asked to get her to come back. He would give up Edith. He hadn’t known it meant that much to her, to Agnes. Sure, he’d give up Edith and he’d never take another mistress. If that was what she wanted. My God, she was destroying his whole life! But if that was what she wanted, okay, he’d give it to her: Let her destroy his life. Finally, he managed to get drunk enough to sleep. Anything. Anything she wanted. Agnes. Agnes.
He woke up, feeling dirty and greasy and still in his now-rumpled business suit, just shortly after daylight. His watch, which he looked at immediately, said it was five o’clock. My God! that meant seven more hours he would have to wait! He didn’t think he could stand it. Could stand to wait. Because how did he even know they were going there? And he would have to wait seven more hours just to find out, even. What if they didn’t go to Mary Ellen’s? What would he do then? How would he ever find them?
Getting a grip on himself, he made himself get up to go shower and shave. And it was then he saw the whiskey bottle on the floor, where it had slipped out of his hand last night when he fell asleep; and as soon as he saw it he smelled the whiskey. Capless, the bottle had fallen over and most of its remaining contents had run out on the rug. Staring at it, the deep unnameable, unbearable panic seized him again. Frantically, he ran out to the kitchen and got the dishrag at the sink and grabbed some dishtowels and ran back in to try and clean it up. The raw whiskey smell was strong in his nose as he knelt and rubbed ineffectually. It was a very poor effort at cleaning, and it did not even assuage his conscience. Here he was, ruining his and Agnes’s house, almost before she had even left it. Guilt of a strength unknown to him before gripped him as he tried to clean it up. My God! what would he do if she didn’t come back? The whole place would sink into ruin and decay; and he himself would descend into sloth and dirt and stagnation. A bum. She just had to come back!
When he had cleaned it up as best he could—which was very poorly—he took the fine expensive dishtowels, soaked with whiskey and water now and dirt rubbed into them from the rug, into the laundry and threw them in a bunch on the floor, and looked down at them guiltily. Even his attempts at cleaning up had resulted in more destruction than good. Miserably, he forced himself to go shave and shower.
Afterwards, he felt a little better. But it was still not yet six o’clock! Dejectedly, he ambled out in the kitchen and put some bread in the automatic toaster and made some coffee. But after he had made it, hopelessness made him unable to eat any of it, and he only sat and stared at it emptily. Agnes always made him such good breakfasts.
Finally, unable to think of anything else to do, he got up and got another bottle of whiskey and took it back to the kitchen table with him. He would have to be careful. He didn’t want to be drunk when he called. And so, sparingly, he drank whiskey and sat at the table and looked at his watch every few minutes to see how much time had passed.
Finally, he called Mary Ellen’s at ten o’clock. Desperately, he tried to make his voice sound calm. No, she hadn’t seen Agnes; she hadn’t even known she was coming.
“Well, when she gets there, you tell her I called,” Frank said, striving to sound calm. “And that I’ll call back.”
He went back to his whiskey and his watch.
He called again at eleven. Still no word.
Then, at a quarter to twelve, he called again; and she was there.
“Just a minute,” Mary Ellen said. “They just got in.”
Frank waited, half tight, filled with a hopeful despairfulness, and then Agnes’s voice came on the phone.
“Hello?” she said.
“You’ve got to come back,” Frank babbled. “You’ve got to come back right away.”
“I told you I didn’t ever want to see or hear from you again,” Agnes said sharply.
“I don’t care,” Frank said. “You’ve got to come back.”
There was a silence on the other end.
“Agnes?” he cried. “Agnes! Are you there? We’ve been cut off!”
“No; I’m here,” she said.
“Oh,” Frank said with relief. “Look: I’ll do anything you say. Anything. I’ll tell her we’re through, all washed up. And I’ll never have another—”
“Don’t talk over the phone!” Agnes said.
“All right,” he said eagerly, “all right. But anything. Anything you say. Look, I haven’t been to work. You’ve got to come back, or we’ll lose everything. And anyway I think I’m sick,” he said. “I’ve got a fever, I think. And I haven’t got anybody to take care of me. I need you. I can’t afford to get down sick now, with things going like they are. I got to be able to work. You’ve got to come back!”
There was another silence on the other end.
“Hello?” he said.
“All right,” Agnes said crisply, “I’ll come back. But you know what the conditions are.”
“All right,” Frank said eagerly. “Anything. Anything. I’ll tell her—”
“Don’t tal
k over the phone!” Agnes said. “Now, listen: I’m willing to come back for little Walter’s sake. He needs both his parents. But that’s all, understand? It’ll be just a simple business arrangement.”
“Anything,” Frank said hopefully, “anything.”
“But I’m only doing it on account of little Walter,” Agnes said. “Now listen: It’s going to take you some time to get everything,” she said, “arranged back there. You know what I mean. And since we’re already out here, I think we’ll just stay for a while.”
“Stay!” Frank said. “For how long?”
“For two weeks anyway,” Agnes said. “Walter’s never seen this part of the country. And anyway,” she said, suddenly, in an almost wailful tone, “I don’t think I’m equal to the drive back right now yet.” Then her voice sharpened again. “So you get everything arranged back there, and we’ll stay here and have ourselves a vacation. God knows we both need one.”
“Well,” Frank said miserably, “if you want to stay that long. But I can fix up everything here quicker than that. And I need you.”
“Mrs Davis,” Agnes said firmly, referring to the new cleaning woman who had replaced Old Janie, “will take care of you. Have her come clean up the house.”
“All right,” Frank said. Why the hell hadn’t he thought of that himself?
“She’ll probably even cook for you if you want her to,” Agnes said. “But I want Walter to see some of this country, and get to know his cousins. And I want a rest myself.”
“How is little Walter?” Frank said. “Is he all right?”
“Of course, he’s all right.”
“Does he miss his daddy?” Frank asked.
“Of course, he misses you,” Agnes said. “You’re his father, aren’t you?”
“Yeh,” Frank said unhappily.