by James Jones
Edith looked at him levelly. “Well, it’ll take me at least a couple of weeks to break in a new girl at the store—unless you just want to let somebody start from scratch?”
“Well, Agnes said she and Walter were goin to stay out there for a couple of weeks or so,” Frank said. “That would give us time to break somebody in. But do you want to do that?”
“Of course,” Edith said. “The store needs it. I don’t mind.”
“Well, I appreciate it,” Frank said. He had never seen her look so strangely self-possessed. It didn’t seem to really be bothering her at all. “It’s awful nice of you.”
Suddenly, she smiled at him. “And I’ll sign the house back over to you,” she said. “Or,” she added, “to anyone whom you designate. Because I don’t suppose Agnes let any of it get out, did she?”
“No, I don’t think anybody knows a thing about it,” Frank said awkwardly. “But I want you to keep the house, Edith. It’s yours. You paid for it.”
“With your money,” Edith smiled.
“Even so,” Frank said, “I want you to keep the house.” For a moment he thought he was going to get tears in his eyes.
“But I won’t have any use for it,” Edith said simply. “I’m not going to stay in Parkman.”
“You’re not?”
“No. Of course not. I’m beat,” she said. “Agnes whipped me. I might as well admit it, hadn’t I?”
“Well— Where’ll you go?”
“I think I’ll go to Chicago,” Edith said. “I’ve thought about it before, you know, planning ahead. I think Chicago would be the best place for me; there ought to be a lot of openings for the kind of work I can do.” She smiled again, that strange resentmentless smile, that seemed so out of place to him, under the circumstances.
“Well, I want you to keep the house anyway, Edith,” Frank said. “You— You’ve earned it. I want you to keep it. It would make me feel a lot better.”
“But what would I do with it?”
“Why, hell, it’s an investment. Rent it out to somebody.”
“I never thought of that,” Edith said, her eyes widening. “Yes. Yes, I could do that. Would you handle it for me?”
“Well, I can’t,” Frank said awkwardly. “Under the circumstances. But, well— Well— Judge Deacon would handle it for you, and handle it well. I could call him up about it.”
“Yes,” Edith said, and smiled. “That would work out fine. What I want to do is fix it up so that the income from it would be paid to Daddy. That’ll give him a little money so he can afford to keep his housekeeper, that you’ve been paying for.”
“It could be arranged like that,” Frank said awkwardly.
“Yes,” Edith said crisply. And she sat and looked at him levelly. “Well, is there anything else to take care of?”
“No, I guess not,” Frank said. “I’ll send that little girl in my office over to the store tomorrow and you can start breakin her in.” He paused. “I won’t come around the store any myself. In case it would bother you.”
“That wouldn’t bother me at all,” Edith said.
“It wouldn’t?”
“Not at all. You come anytime you want.”
“Well, okay,” Frank said. He still couldn’t understand this sudden, peculiar self-possession she seemed to have. Not after the way she had clung to him so, lately. Damn it. He tossed off the rest of his drink. Edith was still sitting, looking at him levelly.
“I didn’t think you’d take it this way,” he said, “so nicely.”
“In what way should I take it?” Edith said. “You want me to weep and cry? Would you prefer that?”
“Oh no,” Frank said. “No, no. I didn’t mean nothing like that. I’m glad for you. It’s better that it don’t hurt you.”
Edith gazed at him level-eyed. “Yes, it is better,” she said. “Isn’t it?”
“Look, Edith,” he said. “I—I know this is a terrible thing to ask. And you can tell me to go to hell, if you want. But—well, would you go to bed with me one more time? a sort of farewell party?”
“Why, yes,” Edith said, “if you want.”
Frank was startled. He had expected her to demur and not want to do it—only not do so in any nasty way like Geneve Lowe had done—and in fact, he didn’t even know why he asked her. And he found himself suddenly remembering last night again, and the window.
“Well,” he said awkwardly, “maybe it would be better if we didn’t.” He paused. “Don’t you think?” he said.
“Just as you wish,” Edith said.
“Well, I guess I better go,” he said and got up.
Edith walked with him to the door, and as he prepared to open it, she smiled. “Goodby, Boss,” she said.
Standing by the door with his hand already on the knob, Frank felt so unhappy that he thought he could not stand it, and he leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek; but he did not touch her in any other way.
“Goodby, Edith,” he said. “And if I’ve caused you any unhappiness, I’m sorry. I never meant to.” Then he opened the door and smiling sadly back at her went out and shut it.
And after he walked back to the Cadillac, he drove past the house twice, slowly. All the lights were still on.
And suddenly, as if making an unexpected decision, but really having known all along that he was going to do it, he drove back home and put the car away and set out to walk back up there. When he arrived the lights in the bedroom were on; but when he approached his vantage point beneath the window, he found the venetian blinds tightly closed this time. He could see nothing. Miserably, frustrated in his attempt at a last farewell, he stood behind the bushes until the bedroom light went off and then went on home. If only he hadn’t knocked his damned knee against that wall!
That night, at home, he got really drunk. He knew he had to work tomorrow, but he just didn’t give a damn. To hell with all of it, he thought. Just what did he have really? A wife who didn’t even love him; a mistress who was perforce leaving him; a son who probably didn’t love him, either; and he was making a lot of money. That was what he had. That—to show for nearly forty-nine years of life. A hell of a lot, wasn’t it?
But he had one more thing—luckily, just by sheer lucky chance—because what if the blinds had been closed last night, too?—luckily, he had a perfect memory of a woman. One woman. That he had possessed once in his lifetime. He knew he oughtn’t to be drinking so much; and he kept telling himself so. But the more he drank, the more he didn’t care. The result, of course, as he himself had really anticipated, was another gastritis attack. And when that hit him, the next day, he cared then. He cared plenty. When he got the heaves, he kicked himself for having gotten drunk and caused it, as he had known—almost—that he would.
Had he maybe done it to himself deliberately? he wondered dimly, as he lay in the bed fighting to keep from retching. And with the sickness, and the rather rickety sobriety that came along with it, all the real terror and fear that he had felt after that wild night in Springfield last year came booming down on him. Night before last, he had been too drunk, and too excited over what he had seen, to really feel it; and most of yesterday he had been too busy. But now it hit him full force. God, what if he had been caught? Or what if she had called the police, and they had caught him? A guy like that son of a bitch Sherm Ruedy. Hell, they might even have put him in jail.
What made him do it? What made him still, even now, still want to do it some more? Women! Damn women. They didn’t any of them ever care for you like you cared for them. None of them ever really allowed themselves to be possessed the way you wanted to possess them, the way a man should possess them. They might play at it a little bit—as long as you didn’t rub them the wrong way. But that was all. Naked women. What made him so hungry, so drawn to naked women? What was wrong with him? Damn that Agnes! Why didn’t women ever have the urge to see naked men the way men wanted to see naked women? Damn them, they ought to have to suffer like he did. It might be good for them. And wha
t if Agnes ever found out? Of course, all the damned advertising agencies were always throwing naked women at you—or near-naked women, anyway. Maybe that was it: They were never really naked. And the movies, too, always throwing big-breasted near-naked women at you. Never really naked, though. That was one reason he hated going to the movies. Hell, even in the nude pictures in magazines they always blocked out the genitals. Maybe that was part of what caused his hunger to see naked women? But what if Agnes should find out? My God! A peeping tom, at forty-eight. Terror would grip him while he lay trying to stop himself from retching. And yet, even then, in the midst of this chilling terror, never did the sense of excitement he had felt that night as he stood there at the window and watched her undress herself, never did it leave him. Well, never would he ever do it again. And anyway, that time it had been his own mistress he was watching.
So he would lie with his terror, trying to keep from gagging, until finally he would have to get up and creep to the bathroom again and heave and retch, while nothing came out. Finally, when it showed no signs of getting any better, he called Doc Cost.
The big man came out right away, and gave him an injection of morphine, then made him swallow a powder that he mixed with water. He was not, Doc said, to get up any more that day. Tomorrow when he felt a little better he could start out on some liquids and a few light solids. Feeling the morphine beginning to take hold of him, he watched the big man grow wavery, and finally he went to sleep.
The next day, he did exactly as he had been told; and by mid-afternoon he was able to go back down town to the office. Even though he had not shown up, Edith Barclay had taken care of everything: She had transferred the little blonde girl from the new offices over to the store, and had even hired a new girl for him: a brunette this time, but just as green. God, they were all going to miss her, miss Edith. Shakily, Frank explained to the new girl what her duties were. Afterwards, he went by the store to see how Edith was making out, and found her her same self-contained, quiet, efficient self. Al Lowe complained to him about Edith quitting and pleaded with Frank to get her to not leave. Frank, of course, said he could do nothing. If she wanted to leave, it was her business. Looking back at her once longingly, he walked out past the crotchety old repairman, and went home. He did not drink anything at all that night, and because he could not sleep took one of the sedatives Doc had thoughtfully provided for him. Next day, he felt pretty much like himself again.
During the next two weeks before Agnes and little Walter returned, while Edith was training her little successor, Frank threw himself frenziedly into his work. He had never worked so hard, or so well. They were wanting to get all the leases wound up anyway, so that the lessees could get moved in for the big opening before cold weather. With this in mind, and with that other secret part of himself driving him also, he finished all the leases, and consulted with the lessees about their store layouts, and also made plans and purchases (while consulting with Al Lowe) for his own new jewelry store. Because he had to be over at both the old store and out at the new one, he saw Edith a number of times. Never once, though, in any way, was there any sign from her that they had ever known each other in any way other than their official capacities there at the store. The new little blonde girl obviously looked up to Frank. But it was Edith that he watched. He could not understand her. He himself could not let go that easily, though he wished he could. And every time he looked at her, he would see her in his mind as she had looked that night, when he had stood and, secretly, silently, and watched her undress.
During those two weeks of hard hectic work, he only went out “walking” three times. That was what he always called it now to himself: go out “walking.” He could always feel it coming on him beforehand. As early as mid-afternoon, he would begin to get that excited feeling. It seemed to come on him almost rhythmically, the same way the desire to sleep with a woman used to hit him. He could go for a week without sex, sometimes even longer, before the desire would build up in him. And it was the same way with going out “walking.” He could feel it gradually coming on him, day by day almost, until he knew on the day it reached its peak that he would not be able to stop it. And that evening he would go home and mix himself his manhattans and get good and half drunk—though he was very careful now not to drink more than that—and sit and savor what was coming until after it was good and dark, and then he would go and change his clothes to darker ones and go out, that tremendous feeling of excitement and adventure—and of possible danger—rising in him powerfully. He would feel terror the next day, of course, every time; and he would promise himself never again; but the terror was never strong enough to completely offset the excitement; and he knew, even when he promised himself never again, that it would not—when the cycle came to peak intensity—make any difference. He would go. It was something he had no control over.
He knew, too, dimly, that in some strange way it was his way of getting even with Agnes. And for that matter, with all women. For the fact that they would never allow themselves to be possessed. This way he could possess them anyway, and they couldn’t do anything about it because they didn’t even know about it. Because never again would he make a mistake like knocking his knee against the wall. And, in fact, as time went on, he became very accomplished in his new art. Because it was an art, just like business or anything else.
He learned something else about this new art, too: Every night he went out was not going to be a spectacular, or even successful, evening. In fact, if he was any judge as he grew more practiced, it would only average out about one in ten nights that he would have any luck at all; even see anything. Long odds, for the risk involved, but he was willing to accept them. Because every night might be the one. But as far as that went, there wasn’t really much risk involved. Nobody ever saw him. Unless they happened to see him sauntering along the sidewalks taking a respectable evening “constitutional.” There was really very little risk. And always, tantalizingly, before his mind’s eye, was that one night at Edith’s.
On the three nights he did go out “walking” before Agnes returned, one time he walked down past Edith’s again; that was the first time. But the lights were already out, when he got there. Either she wasn’t home, or else had gone to bed. Damn! if he just hadn’t knocked his knee against the wall that first time.
And then, on that same evening, with a sudden inspiration, he walked over east past Al and Geneve Lowe’s house. He knew that house like the back of his hand, too. And this time he had luck. As he stood screened by some bushes, peering into the side window of the long living room, where he could see Al sitting reading, Geneve came out of the hallway at the far end. And Geneve was stark, mother naked. Lithely, she walked down the length of the long room to where Al sat about a quarter of the way up; looking just exactly as she had when he had seen her so many other times. As he watched breathlessly, Geneve sat down on the arm of her husband’s chair and kissed him. It didn’t take her long. In a moment, she was up and going back toward the hall, and Al was following her, his book lying forgotten on the floor. Cautiously, Frank slipped around to the back to where the bedroom window was, but it was dark. They had turned the lights off. Unhappily, Frank stood for quite a while and looked at it. Then he went home, to his own empty house and bed, and self. Even so, though, he had had plenty of time to drink her all in as she walked down the long room. That made two women now that he had completely possessed. He ought to start himself a score sheet. Someday, after they got home, he was going to spy on Agnes herself, by God!
But after that one, he didn’t have much more luck. It was—as he progressed in his new hobby—becoming increasingly apparent that it was going to take a lot of nights of “walking” to get one even halfway decent result. But he was willing to accept the odds. Besides, his evening constitutionals were good exercise. He felt better than he had in years, in spite of the drinking. But then, of course, he had been playing golf all summer at the Country Club, too.
But if the results of “walking” were so
few, he was quite willing to accept that. Every time he did get to see one, fully see one, it would be another woman he had possessed. And that was what he had always wanted: to possess women. Who would never allow themselves to be possessed. God, how he hated women sometimes! He had never realized how much he really did hate them. All except his mother, of course. He didn’t hate her. And, in fact, he had been visiting her a lot more often, since the Old Man died in July. In spite of his heavy work schedule, he was visiting with her twice a week now, instead of just once. Which, of course, naturally pleased her.
But as for the rest of them: to hell with them. It was strange—anymore he saw almost every woman as a kind of double person—as mother, and as woman. When he saw them as mothers, he admired and respected them. And would do almost anything for them. But then his mind would sort of shift gears—unless the woman in question was too old to see that way—and he would see them as women, instead of mothers, and he would hate their guts. And if they were someone he knew, he would secretly place them on his growing list for future possession.
But when Agnes and Walter finally came home, and he had them around the house there once again, he found it eased him. It changed things, and the absolutely uncontrollable urge to go out “walking” reached its peak less frequently—though still just as irrepressibly, when it did come. And he was glad, too; because he didn’t want to get himself to going out too often. That might increase his chances of getting caught. And as long as he stayed at home, he was safe.
It wasn’t much of a home anymore, he had to admit—except for little Walter—but at least it was better than it had been living there wholly alone. One thing Agnes made plain as soon as she got home, and that was that she had no intention of taking up “relations” with him again. She had told him over the phone from Kansas City that it was to be “strictly a business arrangement”—for the good of little Walter—and he had said yes, yes, anything, without even thinking about it one way or the other; but when she got home, it became plain that she had meant it. As soon as she got home, the very first thing she did was to move herself out of their joint bedroom. Immediately upon arrival—with little Walter helping her—she moved all her clothes out of the closet and took all her things from the dresser, and moved them all upstairs to Dawnie’s old room. And immediately she had done so, she went to bed sick. It was her gall bladder. She had a constant nagging driving pain in her right side from it; and had had, she said, for some time before she went on that exhausting trip to Kansas City. It was a miracle that she had even been able to make the drive both ways. There was a hint, unspoken, of a deep accusation of Frank for having forced her to do so when she was ill. She had, she said, gone to a specialist in Kansas City who told her she ought to have her gall bladder out. She had not done so, because it was more than just a minor operation, but she might have to do so yet.