Shafer’s face colored slightly. “Fair enough. Anyhow, I don’t want to be a total hypocrite. I’m at his farewell party.”
Time for me to be kind, Marlee thought. “I can see how he’d rankle you, Will. I know you’re one of the more conscientous people around.”
“And I get stuck doing over some of the work he refuses to do right.”
“Well, if the other guys on the city desk worked as hard as you, we might have a more accurate paper.” But still dull, she thought.
“Thanks.” He paused for a gulp of beer. “Do you like him?”
“Oh, I think I’m the wrong person to ask,” she said as smoothly as she could. “I mean, I’m way back in women’s.”
“Well, I envy him in some ways. I envy his balls, excuse the expression. I envy his … selfishness. There!”
I already knew that, Marlee thought.
The guest of honor was returning. He was staring straight ahead, as if he was avoiding eye contact. I wonder, she thought. Damn. Wouldn’t it be something if he was sorry he’d never asked me out? Of course, he never asked any other Gazette girls out either, at least that I know of. Could it be he’s … No.
“Buy you a beer now,” Will said manfully to Grant.
“Thanks. And thanks for … for …” Siebert paused, picking up the fresh stein the bartender slid at him. “Thanks for being such a careful editor.”
“You’re welcome,” Shafer said.
“And good luck from me, too,” Marlee said. “Are you all set to go?”
“No. God, no. My place is a shambles. Lots of packing to do.”
Grant looked so troubled that Marlee had an impulse to kiss him, but she didn’t. The moment passed.
The three glasses touched. Freeze this moment, Marlee thought. I see the envy in Will’s face, I see the arrogance in Grant’s face. And what shows in my face?
The tavern door swung open again. In walked a half dozen reporters in their twenties, smiling, sneering, eager to swallow beer and spew self-righteous wisdom. A lot of the people didn’t like Grant that much, but any excuse for a party was a good one, especially after a tough winter.
The joy can begin now, Marlee thought, half sadly.
She lost count of how many beers she had had. I don’t feel too drunk, Marlee thought. She threaded her way through the crowd and the noise to the food table. She filled a paper plate with meatballs, cold pasta, and coleslaw and sat down near the gifts. She nursed her beer, picked at her food, smiled when eyes met her eyes. She tried to imagine what it would be like if she ever had a farewell party. She would probably cry.
“How’s it going, Marlee?”
“Hi, Arnie! Thanks for squeezing us in.”
“Don’t mention it. I gotta shoot some Chamber of Commerce bullshit later, so this is a nice break.”
Arnie Schwartz was the Gazette’s chief photographer. A widower near sixty, he groused constantly about his workload, yet was never too busy to drop in on farewell parties to take souvenir pictures.
“Things gonna start pretty soon Marlee?” the photographer asked.
“It looks that way.” Marlee took her tape recorder out of her purse and checked the batteries. In a little while, when it was time for the ceremony, she would tape the whole thing.
She had made it a practice to tape-record the ceremonies of the going-away parties, then mail the tape and the pictures to the person who was leaving. Sometimes she kept a copy of the tape. Occasionally, parts of them were funny enough to play again at Christmas parties or union picnics, or wherever people wanted to reminisce. Of course, a lot of things seemed funnier after a few beers.
She had heard that Grant reacted unenthusiastically to the idea of a farewell party, had hemmed and hawed about having it at the Silver Swine. So she had told him, as nicely as she could, that the Silver Swine was the best place because of the back room. Finally, she had had to tell him straight out that people would think it strange—would remember it a long time—if he refused to show up.
The music was turned up loud; someone had put a bunch of quarters in the machine out front so the music from Hair would play nonstop.
Cigarette smoke hung in the room now. Ah, not just cigarette smoke; there was a sweet smell. Someone had brought pot. Marlee had a good, warm, mellow feeling. Even Will Shafer looked as if he was having a good time. He was loosening up a little, talking to people, even though he was standing off in the shadows.
“Marlee.” The voice was little more than a whisper. It came from the shadows a few feet behind her. There, Carol Berman, her friend from classified, smiling and beckoning. Marlee went over to her.
“Share, kiddo,” Carol said, handing her the cigarette with the telltale wrinkle and small, bright ember.
I shouldn’t, Marlee thought, not on top of beer. What the hell, one good drag …
Marlee tried not to sense the moisture from other lips, tried only to savor the light, out-of-herself feeling that marijuana gave her.
“Wheel” Marlee said. Impulsively, she kissed her friend on the cheek, then went back to her seat.
Oooooh.… She was feeling a little lighter than she had counted on. Better get the tape recorder ready to go while I still have my coordination, she thought.
The recorder felt thick, heavy like a brick. She put it on the table and concentrated as hard as she could. Yes, just hit “play” and “record” at the right time. That’s all she had to do.
“All right, listen up, goddamn it!”
“Eat it!”
“Fuck off!”
Loud, derisive laughter from everywhere. The party organizers were signaling that it was time for the ceremony. There, Arnie Schwartz was in position to take pictures.
Marlee had a little trouble seeing straight, but she managed to turn on the recorder.
“All right, all right. Grant Siebert, front and center at this time.” The emcee was a reporter whom Marlee knew slightly. “Listen, you people. We are here to say farewell—”
“Good riddance, you mean.”
“Eat it!”
“Kiss my ass!”
“—farewell to—”
“Who gives a shit?”
Laughter, some of it drunken.
“—Grant Siebert!”
A chorus of catcalls, more derisive laughter.
Flashbulbs exploded, one, two, three, and it seemed to Marlee that the light almost had an echo. Marijuana dulled her sense of time.
Grant Siebert sat in a chair near the table of gifts, just a few feet away from Marlee. She thought he looked distant, insolent, and slightly sentimental all at once. Oops, yes, she could see better if she closed one eye.
“Anyone here from management?” the emcee asked.
“Sure as hell hope not.”
“No one who counts.”
In a corner, a beer glass crashed on the floor.
My god, Marlee thought, are these really the good old days?
He had worried about coming back to the tavern where he had met the priest. Finally, though, he had decided he had to come. Now, he felt more at ease than he thought he would. The bartender who had served him and the priest that night, the night of the ice storm, wasn’t here. Besides, the bartender probably wouldn’t recognize him anyhow.
He had not meant it to happen. He had even prayed for the priest the first few nights. The priest should not have unzipped himself like that, sticking out his …
No! He was losing himself in the beer and smoke and babble. He need not think anymore about the night of the ice storm.
But sometimes he did. For one thing, the inside of his mouth had been aching off and on since his fall on the ice that night. Besides, a bloody, terrible deed had a certain lure to it. He knew that. And carrying a great, dark secret filled him with an awe no one could imagine.
He was glad he had come. He knew he could keep his face from showing too much. And a little levity might help his headaches.
“You, Grant Siebert, having elected to leave Bessemer for a lar
ger city on the Hudson, are here in the bosom of your friends—”
“He hasn’t any!”
“Shhh.”
“—to drink, make merry, and get some cheap gifts …”
“Not cheap, I put in a quarter.”
“Shut up, asshole!”
Marlee joined in the laughter. Her head was mellow, all right. It would be interesting to replay the tape and find out how it all really sounded. It was fun to be a fool once in a while.
“… and so, Grant, to aid in your quest for glory in the Holy City of New York, we hereby present you with the following.”
Light from flashbulbs burst in Marlee’s eyes, filled her slow-crawling universe.
The emcee reached into one of the gift bags. “A map of the New York subway system.”
Mild applause as the emcee waved the folded map.
“A copy of Writer’s Market to help you in your free-lance endeavors.”
Mild applause.
“Some food stamps, also to help you in your free-lance endeavors.”
Laughter.
“A booklet listing the public golf courses in the New York metropolitan area.”
A murmur of surprise. “I didn’t know he was a golfer,” someone whispered. Marlee had found out and suggested the gift.
“And finally … a copy of The Kingdom and the Power by Gay Talese, so you can daydream about the New York Times if you don’t get a job there.”
“You bastard,” the guest of honor said.
“Hey, Grant. Let’s see some imitations.”
“Why not, Grant? There’s nothing to lose now.”
Marlee saw Grant smile sheepishly for a moment before catching himself. Of course, she thought, his imitations, his whole attitude are what he uses to keep people away.
“In closing, Grant, what else can we say, except break a leg and—”
“Eat shit!” Laughter, more of it drunken than before.
Marlee saw Arnie Schwartz poised to shoot again. This time she closed her eyes.
The ceremony was over, and some of the party quitters were drifting out. The more dedicated celebrants were sliding into booths or gathering around Grant Siebert. A case of cold beer had been brought into the room.
Marlee was able to focus pretty well, and by going slow on the beer she had regained some of her balance.
“You picked out the gifts?” Grant was standing next to her. God, Marlee thought, he looks as if he wants to smile.
“The Talese book,” she said, feeling her heart leap. “Thought you might like it. I didn’t tell him to make that snotty remark, though.” Marlee hoped she sounded all right.
“Hey, it was on the money. I mean, the gift and the remark.”
“Well, you’re welcome.” At least she thought he had said thanks. Say something else, she told herself. “I think what you’re doing takes a lot of guts.”
“I’ve been feeling it was time to leave.” Something flashed on his face, then was gone.
Awkward pause; up to her to fill it, of course. “Do you golf much?”
“Oh, off and on.”
He’s embarrassed, Marlee thought. Must think golf doesn’t go with his image. “I’ve always heard it’s a game you can get hooked on.”
“Yeah, it is. Takes your mind off things. I just haven’t played much lately.”
“Speaking of golf, wasn’t that a gas about that priest getting whacked?” The braying voice belonged to Ed Sperl, a police reporter in his early thirties. He had a reputation for cozying up to the cops and taking their side in any controversy involving the police and students or the police and blacks. Marlee found him amusing in moderate doses. Right now, she had no desire to plumb the depths of his shallowness.
“A real gas, all right,” Marlee said.
“I mean, Jesus, not just killed but … splook!” Sperl said.
“Ed, enough already,” Marlee said. “It’s bad enough you get off on that stuff. We don’t need you to draw a picture.”
“I hear the pictures are pretty good,” Sperl said.
“That’s disgusting, Ed,” Marlee said.
“Hey,” Sperl said, “everyone needs a hobby.”
“Oh, yuk!” Marlee’s friend Carol Berman said.
Marlee realized that a sizable knot of people had gathered near her.
“Maybe we should have followed up on it more,” Ed Sperl said. “What’s your opinion, Will? Should we have followed up on it more?”
“What’s to follow?” Shafer said.
Marlee heard the defensiveness in Will’s voice. She knew he disliked Sperl.
“You spend a lot of time on the city desk, you tell me. I heard a dark rumor at headquarters, on deep background, that the priest wasn’t just golfing down there, if you get my drift.”
“So?” Shafer said. “You’re the one who’s supposed to have the terrific police sources.”
“Best in town,” Sperl said. “But they quit talking on this thing, after the early rumor. Some of my sources pretend they don’t know me.”
“Maybe you should work on your personality, Ed.”
Who said that? Oops, Marlee was really losing her sense of time and place.
“Could it have been a fag deal?”
That last was another voice; yes, Marlee was having trouble keeping the voices separate. They sounded far away.
“Oh, yuk!”
Marlee had no trouble telling Carol’s voice.
“I heard his putter was out of his bag, if you know what I mean.”
Sperl’s voice? Yes, Marlee thought so. Or someone else …?
“You bastard.”
“The guy’s dead, for God’s sake.”
“They held a mass of the resurrection, but it didn’t work.”
Cynical laughter from everyone. Or almost everyone. Even with her focus a little off, Marlee could see the discomfort in Will Shafer’s face. She felt sorry for him; he was in a bad position, both right now and generally. He was too much of a straight arrow to fit in with the crowd of young, smart-ass reporters. Marlee also knew the Gazette was sending Will Shafer to some kind of management-training seminar the coming week-end over in Westchester County, just north of New York City.
Was she too sure of herself, too smug in her confidence about other people’s desires and strengths and weaknesses? No, she didn’t think so. It was a knack she had. Or did the pot make her feel smarter than she was?
Someone bumped the table. Back to earth, Marlee.
“Betcha whoever did it is long gone.”
“Still hacking away.”
“You sick bastard.”
“… yuk …”
Marlee’s world was spinning, spinning, spinning.
“… awful thing …”
Another bump on the table, and beer splashed onto Marlee’s food. No matter; what she really needed was fresh air and coffee.
“… a terrible thing …”
God, get me through this, Marlee prayed.
“You just committed a double mortal sin.”
“Good. Two for the price of one.”
Laughter, but far away. The voices around her were fuzzy. Was that all her fault? No, the voices belonged to people who were beered up. Stoned, some of them.
Marlee’s table shook again. It was her friend Carol Berman who had bumped the table this time. “Marlee, honey, I’m sorry. For offering you that stuff, I mean. You look spaced-out, kiddo. Like me.”
“Oooh … I think I need coffee,” Marlee said.
“Me, too. C’mon, we’ll go out front and grab a table and mellow out.”
“Okay.” Marlee was surprised to see that the crowd around her table had vanished. Not only that, but the crowd in the room had thinned out. She had lost track of time.
She stood up and steadied herself by putting her hands on the table. Her recorder was still there, still going. After a couple of attempts, she managed to shut it off. She got the machine into her purse without knocking over any glasses or bottles, though her sleeve g
ot wet from beer on the table.
Out front, she thought. Carol is waiting for me there. Maybe that sexy bartender is still working.…
The air was better out front, and there was more light. Carol was waving to her from a table. At some other tables and sitting at the bar were some of the others from the party.
Marlee’s head was clearing a little. She craved coffee.
The drizzle had stopped. Walking to his car, he savored the night breezes of spring. It was almost as if a rind of beer sweat and smoke were being washed gently from his face. Even his soul felt lighter. Listening to the jokes about the priest had been cathartic, in an odd way. He had even made some jokes himself; that made him feel lighter, too, though he had no idea why.
He had not had as many dreams lately about the priest. Sometimes he could hardly believe it: the man had wanted him to, to …
“Goddamn dirty bastard!” he hissed. “Your own goddamn fault. Priest faggot.”
Ouch. There was the ache again inside his mouth. He touched the spot with his tongue. Should he see a dentist?
Even if he had called the police that night, it would have done no good. The priest was dead.
“It wasn’t my fault,” he whispered into the night. “It wasn’t.”
He would try not to think about it anymore. It would just give him a headache.
He still had to pack.
Twenty Years Later
Seven
As always, he felt awkward about using the side door so that he could bypass the receptionist and whoever might be in the psychiatrist’s waiting room. Being executive editor of the Bessemer Gazette made him not only privy to other people’s lives but vulnerable in his own.
“Come in, Will.” Dr. Merle Hopkins was a short, rumpled man with thick glasses and curly brown hair that looked like wood shavings.
Shafer went into a small wood-paneled office that smelled of pipe tobacco and sat in a recliner facing the doctor, who took his place in a rocking chair.
“So,” the doctor said.
“So. I was thinking on the way over that I had a hundred things to say. Now I don’t. Why is that?”
The doctor shrugged. “Choose one thing.”
“Oh, God …” Shafer let out a long breath.
The doctor waited, a hint of a cherubic smile on his face.
Night of the Ice Storm Page 6