“But he ought to be able to tell his father,” Ruddy contended. “I’m not only his father. I’m his friend.”
“But he does not want to talk of it,” Agnes insisted. “I know.”
“Why doesn’t he wish to?”
“I don’t know, Ruddy, some people are like that. So one leaves ’em alone. Oh, he’s all right. I’m sure he is.”
“Maybe.” Ruddy sighed.
“Darling, are you really worried about something? About Ruddy?”
“I was planning to pal around with Tommy before this new job came up,” Ruddy said. “Now, I seem further from ’im than ever.”
“Look, honey, now you and he will have so much more in common—you with this new work of yours,” Agnes told him. “Look at it that way.”
“Yeah.”
“You say you want to get close to ’im,” Agnes argued. “Then rely upon him more. Ask him his opinion. He’s very sharp. He’ll feel more confidence in himself. I know how young people feel.”
“You reckon that’ll work?” Ruddy asked.
“I’m sure of it. You’ll see.”
“You might be right.” He sighed.
“I’m glad that you think of him so,” Agnes said. “But do be patient. Take time. He’s so young and sensitive. He’s not self-made like you are. He’ll come around. You’ll see.”
Ruddy stared. Though he had heard his wife, his mind was grappling with something else. Maybe Tommy might have a hunch worth listening to. All the experts had failed. And Tommy had known Charles Heard intimately! By God, yes. He would milk Tommy for every iota of information about that murdered boy. His ideas. His habits. Whom he knew. Strange, but the police had questioned Tommy only casually about Charles Heard. Well, hell, he’d reopen the whole damn case. Maybe the information, the clue he sought was right here under his own roof. His skin tingled. That seemed unreal, too odd. Yet an element of irrational danger seemed to breathe upon him, as though he were watching a strange cloud of drifting poison gas, gray in color, seeping toward him, and he could see one whiff of it straying toward him, with the vast, formless mass of it, the rest of it, following.
“I’ll see,” he said softly.
“You’ll try to sleep now?”
“Yes,” he lied, stretching out on the bed again.
“I’ll see you soon. I’m leaving now. There’s chicken for lunch. You’ll want to eat again before that captain comes, won’t you, darling?”
“Yes,” he said vaguely.
She went out and he was still. He lay a moment with closed eyes. Deep down beyond the reach of his conscious mind was a rising storm of feeling, making him restless. No, he could not sleep. He rose and paced the room in his socked feet. Footsteps sounded in the backyard, and he peered out to see Bertha, the maid, hanging up clothes; then there came to his ears the faintly echoed clang of a pan in the kitchen. Yes, Agnes, giving a hand to Bertha, was starting lunch. But he was not hungry and the mere idea of food was repugnant. Thoughtfully, he scratched his chin, staring into space. Then a third sound floated to his ears: the tapping of Tommy’s typewriter. Yeah, I’m going to talk to that boy now. Yes—that was the decision he had been trying all along to make. And the split second he had made it, he felt better, organized, pointed with purpose. He slipped into his shoes, tied the laces, and went down the hallway. Before Tommy’s door he halted, his knuckles lifted to knock. But ought he? He was on the point of turning back when he caught a pause in the typing. He rapped. There was a long silence.
“Yeah?” came Tommy’s voice, carrying a trace of annoyance.
“It’s me, son,” he said.
There was another silence, then the door was flung abruptly open.
“Come in, Dad,” Tommy invited carelessly. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“No. Just stretched out a bit,” Ruddy said, feeling guilty and foolish. “Terribly busy?”
“Not too,” Tommy pouted, then he smiled.
Yeah, he’s nervous. Goddamnit, he suspects that I want to talk to him. And, by God, I will.
“Mind if I sit down and talk a bit?” Ruddy asked.
“No. Oh no. Take a chair, Dad.”
“Thanks.”
Ruddy took the armchair and stretched out his long legs, crossing them. Suddenly he felt the gun pressing almost painfully against his right hip.
“Hell,” he growled, “this damned gun.” He unbuckled the holster and laid the gun across Tommy’s bed. “Get sick of carrying that damned thing.”
“Y-you always carry it?”
“Sure. Regulations.”
“How does it feel to walk around with a death-dealing instrument always on you?” Tommy asked in a quiet, confidential voice.
“Oh, you get used to it.”
“You really forget it’s a gun?”
“Kind of. It becomes a part of you.”
“B-but you don’t think of it as something with which you can kill others?” Tommy asked with a forced smile.
Ruddy stared. Here it was again. Those damned tricky questions.
“No. It’s something with which I defend myself,” Ruddy said.
“Others don’t see it like that.”
“How do they see it?”
“You carry something that can kill them instantly,” Tommy stated.
“Not unless they do something,” Ruddy corrected him, modifying his role.
“Only upon policemen has society conferred the right to kill,” Tommy said.
“Aw, hell, Tommy,” Ruddy exploded. “We kill only to protect life and property.”
“Did you ever shoot a man to protect property?” Tommy asked.
Ruddy thought a bit. Then shook his head: “No.”
“To protect life?” Tommy asked.
“Yes. Mine.”
“Never other people’s lives?”
Again Ruddy reflected. “No.”
“Then there is really no need to carry that gun to protect lives and property, other than your own life, is there?”
At last anger flashed full and strong and clear in him.
“Goddamn, Tommy! Where are you getting these crazy ideas from? Who’s been talking to you?”
“Nobody.”
“This stuff you ask…you get it out of those books at the university?”
“Not books at the university.” Tommy smiled. “Just books and books. You can find ’em everywhere.”
“Tommy?”
“Yeah, Dad.”
“Are you against me?”
“What makes you ask a thing like that?” Tommy was shaken.
“I just want to know. Your questions and remarks bother me.”
“No, Dad. Not you. I’m just curious about the system of society in which we live. My questions are not directed to you. It’s the kind of questions we ask at school every day,” Tommy argued.
“Don’t you believe that my profession is respectable?” Ruddy demanded.
“All social functions are respectable. They spring from mutual needs.” Tommy evaded him.
“Tommy, what in hell’s wrong with you?” Ruddy demanded openly.
“Does something seem to be wrong?” Tommy countered.
“Can’t you answer me straight?”
“We just don’t understand each other, Dad,” Tommy sighed.
Shame and guilt choked Ruddy. Hell, this was no way to to talk to one’s son. He was treating Tommy not only as an equal but as a kind of dreaded superior. Yes, he would have to change his tone, attitude, and approach.
“Son?”
“Yeah.”
“I want to ask you some questions.”
“Sure, Dad. I’ll tell you anything I know about Brentwood Park and—”
“No, no. It’s not about that…. It’s about you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“I didn’t want to bring this up now, but something in me keeps hammering at me about it,” Ruddy began nervously. “Son, I don’t want to probe into your
private and personal life. I feel you are a man like me and you’ve got your rights. But I want to know you. After all, I’m your father. You’re my son. Isn’t that right?”
“Sure.”
“Well, Tommy, last year…that girl you were going to marry. It didn’t work out?”
“No. I told you that.”
“What happened?”
“I didn’t want to talk about that.”
“Might be good for you.”
“Ha, ha. You mean, confession is good for the soul. If the criminal unburdens himself, he’ll sleep better.”
“Aw, come off it, Tommy. You know I don’t mean that. Tell me this: Did you break it off or did she?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does. You’re my son. I want to know what’s happening with you.”
“She did nothing. And neither did I.”
“Did the family interfere?”
“No.”
“Then what interfered?”
“Society?”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Dad, I don’t wish to talk of this,” Tommy wailed.
And Ruddy saw pain in his eyes. Yes, goddamnit, there is something wrong. And though he was tempted to desist, he knew he had to go on.
“Tommy, I’m waiting for you to tell me what happened,” Ruddy said.
“Talking about it isn’t going to help!”
“Let me decide that. You said ‘society’ stopped you. How? Why?”
“It’s all crazy,” Tommy muttered.
“Maybe. But tell me about it.”
“No.”
“I’ll find out, then,” Ruddy threatened.
“How?” Tommy’s eyes were truly fearful now.
“I’m an officer,” Ruddy said. “I could find out.”
“Aw, no, Dad,” Tommy pleaded.
Ruddy felt that he was near his quarry. The detective in him urged him not to let up; his feelings as a father spurred him on. It’ll be for his own good if he tells me, he told himself.
“Well, I’ll find out,” Ruddy said. “I’ll not stop until I do.”
“Dad, don’t meddle in this,” Tommy warned.
“Marie was colored,” Ruddy spoke aloud. “So when you say ‘society’ stopped you, it could not be a question of race. Then what was it?”
Tommy’s whole body seemed to grow rigid, and Ruddy saw beads of sweat on his forehead. Jesus Christ, I got to make this boy unburden himself.
“Tell me about it, son?”
“Goddamn, no!” Tommy suddenly screamed.
Ruddy ran to the boy and put his arms about his shoulders.
“You can say anything to me, Tommy.”
“Goddamn this world—and everybody and everything in it,” Tommy sobbed.
“Okay. Okay. Cry a bit. But tell me,” Ruddy insisted.
“Leave me alone,” Tommy begged, speaking, it seemed, more to himself than to his father.
“Give me your burden, son,” Ruddy pleaded quietly, compassionately. “I can understand. Trust me. You’re too much alone.”
“I want to be alone,” Tommy sobbed.
“No. I’m going to be with you—”
“Stop, Dad,” the boy hissed through his teeth.
“I won’t stop until you talk to me,” Ruddy said, squeezing his arm about his son’s shoulder. Experience had taught him that this personal, physical touching was a good art in extracting a confession. It helped to divert the resistance of the overburdened heart. “Talk, Tommy.”
Then Tommy could not speak, for his throat was racked with sobs as he gasped for breath. Ruddy waited, holding him, knowing that he had won but feeling somehow fearful of his victory.
“Dad…”
“Yes, son.”
“It wasn’t her fault, or my fault,” Tommy breathed.
“You loved her?”
“Yes, a lot…more than anything.”
“Who interfered?”
“I-I have to start at the beginning. Dad, I don’t know if I did right or wrong, honestly. But, in the end, I did what I felt I had to do.”
“I see. I’ll understand it, if you tell me.”
“Marie was a good girl, Dad,” Tommy said. “Her father is a carpenter. Her mother keeps house. They’re converted Catholics.”
“I know. John Wiggins is law-abiding. And Marie is beautiful.”
“We’d been going together for quite a bit,” Tommy whispered, his voice still charged with dread. “She is in a class just below mine, and I helped her a lot. We were together night and day—almost all the time. Her family trusted me. She was mine. That is how we felt. Well, you know…It happened one night. We knew we were going to marry, so it was not something terribly serious. But I was careful.” Tommy looked defiantly at his father. “She was not pregnant. I’m Catholic. She’s Catholic. And we knew how to be cautious. Well, this went on for a year. Then we decided to get married. I told you and Mama, and you both said it was a good thing. Marie’s parents said so too. The wedding was all set. Then we went to the doctor to get our blood tested.”
“Yes?”
“I handled all that for her,” Tommy said. “That is, I took her to the doctor with me. And I arranged to go and pick up the blood tests.”
There was silence. From far off came the faint wail of a police siren.
“Yes, son?”
“Well, I went after four days for the blood tests,” Tommy resumed with a weary sigh. “The doctor handed me mine. ‘Yours is okay,’ he told me. I waited. The doctor sat there staring at me. And I said: ‘And where’s Marie’s?’ And he asked me: ‘How well do you know this girl?’ I thought that that was a funny kind of question. I said, ‘I’m going to marry her.’ The doctor stood up and began to pace the floor. He said: ‘I know you want to marry her. That’s why you came to me for these blood tests.’ Then he sat down. ‘There’s something wrong with that girl,’ the doctor said. I kind of froze. I could not imagine what he meant. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘She’s sick, real sick,’ he said. ‘What’s the matter? What has she got?’ I asked him.” Tommy’s head sagged low and his lips hung open. But no words came.
“Yes, son? What was it?”
“Dad, the doctor told me, ‘Son, this girl has four-plus syphilis!’”
Tommy’s body shuddered and Ruddy felt the boy’s skin grow ice cold. Ruddy felt for a second that he could not breathe. Good Lord.
“Jesus, Tommy…What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Tommy murmured.
“Was…s-she a virgin?”
“That’s the odd part. She was. There was nothing that she did and nothing that happened to her that gave her that disease.”
“Then how did she get it? Oh, this is horrible…oh, Tommy, I’m so sorry…”
“I asked the doctor and he said that he would talk to Marie,” Tommy related. “Dad, I left that doctor’s office a blind man. The sun was shining, but I could not see it. I don’t think the world will ever look or seem the same to me. Well, I waited for the doctor to call me. He did; he asked me to come in. I went. He told me, ‘Son, this is tragic. Your girl has congenital syphilis. She inherited it. This is the first case of this kind I’ve ever had.’ Then, Dad, I knew that it was true. You see, the doctor had the report checked, had the test done over again, just to make sure that there would be no mistake. I hadn’t eaten for four days, practically. And now I knew the worst. I felt a kind of cold night come down over me. Then the doctor asked me, ‘What are you going to do?’ Strangely, Dad, I hadn’t until that moment thought of what I was going to do. I was numb. Yet—” Tommy paused, then continued, whispering. “I knew what I was going to do. I had already done it. I was going to ditch that girl. I couldn’t marry her. One night I even dreamed that I killed her. I couldn’t blame her for what had happened, but I was hurt, hurt as I had never been hurt in all my life. I asked the doctor, ‘What can I do?’ I asked him that just to make sure that he had told me the truth. ‘We could cure her,’ he said. ‘How lo
ng would that take?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘And I would have to wait while that happened, wouldn’t I?’ I asked. ‘You can’t, under the law, marry this girl while she is ill,’ he said. ‘You slept with her, didn’t you?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. Then a new fear—one I had until then not allowed myself to think of—swept down over me. The first fear had been a cold one. This second one was as hot as fire. Had I caught syphilis?” Tommy’s body gave a long shudder. “I asked the doctor and he said, ‘I don’t know. We’ll test you.’ I sat and sat. Dad, I could not move. Then I asked the doctor, ‘How did she take it?’ He said, ‘She collapsed. She was hysterical. I’ve never seen a girl go to pieces so absolutely. She tried to get drunk but could not. She wept for three days. Haven’t you seen her?’ I told the doctor that I had not, that I could not. ‘What are you going to do?’ the doctor asked me again. Then I blurted out what I knew I had to say: ‘Can’t marry her!’ Oh, Dad, I didn’t decide. Something in me decided. It was moral. I felt unclean. Polluted, contaminated, poisoned. I swear to God. Oh, you’ll never know. Each time I walked the streets, I trembled with each step. I felt the world would dissolve, melt, fade away before my eyes.” Tommy bent forward, his body shaking, and he sobbed. “Dad, I did wrong. But I couldn’t help it. I went back and asked the doctor: ‘I don’t have to marry her, do I?’ He said, ‘No, of course not. But I can cure her.’ I said, ‘No, I don’t want her now.’ It was true, Dad. I couldn’t ever have slept with that girl again, no matter what.”
“Did the doctor ever find out how she got it?”
“No. It was congenital, he said,” Tommy related.
“What’s happened to Marie?”
“Dad, I don’t know,” Tommy cried. “I’ve never seen her. I know you’re going to say I’m wrong, hard-hearted. But I can’t see her. That she was sick, wasn’t my fault. The doctor said so.”
“Good God,” Ruddy murmured. “And you lived with this all to yourself?”
“Yes.”
“And you? Did you have tests to find out if you had been contaminated?”
“Yeah, hundreds of ’em,” Tommy confessed. “I went crazy for a while, I guess. I went for a Wassermann each month, until the doctor said he would send me to a mental clinic if I could not believe that I had nothing, that I was clean. Oh, Dad, you’ll never know. I sent Marie my savings, told her she could sell the ring.”
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