More Good Old Stuff

by John D. MacDonald

  He had imagined that by reliving that night, memory might return. The doctors had said that in most concussion cases, the direct memory of the events immediately preceding the accident is wiped out, to return gradually over months, or even years. In his case, there had been no return of memory. Maybe if he could remember …

  He was afraid to relive that night. He had seized on Evan’s difficulties as an excuse to keep from reliving that night. Even this visit to Patience Furnivall was an attempt to delay the moment when he would drive up that lonely mountain road toward the scene of death.

  The Furnivall house was Victorian, its unlovely lines concealed by elms. Patience opened the door when he rang the bell. “Matt!” she said, warmth and greeting in her voice. “Evan told me you were in town. It’s so nice to see you again. Come in.”

  She clicked on the lights in the small study. The room was warm and pleasant, and peopled with shadows of long ago when Matthew Otis and his younger brother had been brought to the big house by his parents. He had been twelve, full of scorn for six-year-old Patience, barely aware of the existence of Susan. The study held the same smell of furniture polish and leather bindings. The small pane in the breakfront was still cracked from the time that Pat had thrown the book at him.

  They sat and looked at each other. There was no tension in their silence. Pat had turned into an interesting-looking woman. Rather severe, with her dark hair pulled back so tightly. She had dignity.

  As she grew older she would retain her looks, her quiet eyes, her air of warmth.

  “It’s good to see you, Pat,” he said quietly.

  “You’ve changed a great deal, Matt. You’ve entirely lost that long-legged colty look you had. That Airedale puppy look.”

  “You aren’t exactly in rompers, Pat. Let me see. When I left, you were sixteen. You wore dirty white shoes and ankle socks and your legs were too thin.”

  She excused herself. He sat in the small comfortable room feeling at peace with the world. She came back with martinis and said, “One of the advantages of being famous, Matt. I read in a biographical sketch in a magazine that you like martinis.”

  He lifted his drink, said, “To the Furnivall Company, Pat.”

  She drank with him, said wryly, “That’s about all we can do to help it, Matt. Drink to it. Evan said he gave you the complete picture.”

  He stared down into his drink. “The old order changeth, Pat. If your grandpop were alive, he’d know how to handle it. We’re too soft. Psychopaths like Roy Bedford are inheriting the earth. The age of industrial piracy has begun. It got its start in the black market, gained strength through war surplus and is fattening on shortages.”

  “I want to fight him,” she said.

  He was surprised at the deadly earnestness of her tone.

  She smiled. “I guess I sounded pretty grim then. But it’s the way I feel. I could cheerfully shoot him. Oh, it isn’t that he’s an upstart. I’m not being a snob, Matt. It’s just that he’s a homegrown fascist. If he gained his ends through work, that would be fine. But he’s ruthless and clever and crooked.”

  “I’d like to help, if you can think of a way,” he said.

  She sighed. “There isn’t enough time. With time we might prove that he has interfered with our steel deliveries, that he is financing a nuisance suit against us. It might give us the basis for a damage suit.”

  She tilted her head as the front door slammed. Then Susan walked in, her face flushed from the chill, her eyes bright.

  She saw Matt and said, “Well! You do get around, Mr. Otis! What’s the subject of conversation? How to save the mighty Furnivall interests?”

  “If you thought more of the mighty Furnivall interests, Susan, you might be able to help us,” Patience said quietly.

  “Oh, wake up!” Susan said with annoyance. “You’ve got an industrialist complex. Why don’t you let Roy take over? Maybe he’d make some money for us. All you and Evan do is put us further and further in hock.”

  “Susan!” Patience snapped.

  “Well, it’s true. And brace yourself, sister mine. I’ve got another little shock for you. I’m going upstairs and pack. In half an hour Roy is picking me up. We’re going to fly down to Maryland and be married. He told me to tell you that the plant will get the steel and that some man has dropped some sort of a suit against the company.”

  Matt was looking at Patience. She had been sitting very straight, her cheeks flushed with anger. The flush faded and her shoulders slumped. She buried her face in her hands and whispered, “Oh, Susan! How could you?”

  Susan had the grace to blush. She said, “You’ll get over it.”

  She left the room. Matt heard her running steps on the stairs, the slam of an upstairs door. There was no sound in the study except Patience crying.

  He went over to her and put his hand on her shoulder. She lifted a tear-streaked face and said, “But the man is—ruthless! She’ll—never be happy. Never!”

  Matthew realized that it was an indication of Pat’s character that she was weeping, not over a battle lost, but over the emotional mistake Susan was making.

  He frowned. “Mind if I go up and talk to her, Pat?”

  “It won’t do any good. You don’t know how stubborn she is. Her room is the second one on the left from the head of the stairs.”

  Matt knocked on Susan’s door. “Who is it?” she called.

  “Matt Otis, Sue.”

  “Go away. I’m in a terrible rush.”

  “I want to talk to you. It’s important.”

  After a long silence she said, “Okay.” She opened the door. The pleasant bedroom was brightly lighted. Two open suitcases were on the bed, half packed.

  He offered her a cigarette, lighted it for her. “Make it fast,” she said. “If Pat thinks you can talk me out of this, you’ve both got holes in the head.”

  He smiled. “I wouldn’t think of talking you out of it, Sue. This is a great opportunity for you. Everything you want. Money, position. Everything.”

  “Are you being sarcastic?” she asked, frowning.

  “Not at all. You’re a beautiful girl. I don’t blame Roy for falling in love with you. He always did like nice things.”

  He saw the shadow cross her face. She murmured, “Love is a dandy word.”

  “Isn’t that what it is?”

  She sat on the edge of the bed. “I wish I knew. I don’t think there’s room in his head for love. He’s an element. Like wind or fire or storm.”

  “It’s that stock that bothers you, isn’t it?”

  She looked up quickly. “That’s right. I keep wondering if that’s the only reason he’s going through with this. He says that he wants me, and the stock isn’t important.”

  “Half a million dollars plus control of a good company is a nice dowry, Sue. Do you want to try something?”

  “What kind of a something?”

  “Suppose you sell your shares to your sister for the consideration of one dollar down and the balance within a year. Sell them at the market price. I’ll make out a bill of sale and witness it and we’ll get another witness. Don’t say a word of it to Roy until you get down to Maryland. Then tell him you no longer have the stock and see what happens.”

  “Why not tell him right away?”

  “It won’t be a good laboratory test.”

  She stared up at him, stubbed out the cigarette on an ashtray on the bedside table. Her eyes narrowed. “You think he won’t go through with it.”

  “What do you think?” he asked gently.

  “Why did you tell me this, Matthew Otis? Now I’ve got to do it. I must know.”

  “Sure you have to know, Sue.”

  He went downstairs and told Patience. She brought him the writing materials and he made out a bill of sale, listing the stock certificates. Susan came downstairs and signed it, gravely accepted the dollar from Patience.

  When the doorbell rang, Susan hurried to the hallway. They heard the low, familiar tones of Roy Bedford’s voic
e. A few minutes later a car motor started in front. Matt and Patience stood at the window and watched the car drive away.

  “She won’t tell him until just before the ceremony,” Matt said.

  “He’ll never go through with it.”

  “Susan believes he will.”

  “You know, Matt,” she said, “I can—somehow feel the effect he has on her. He’s completely unprincipled. He has the fascination that high places or snakes or great speed in a car has.”

  Her voice sounded so weary that he was filled with sudden sympathy. He put his arm around her, and kissed her gently on the lips. It was meant to be a kiss which would express his sympathy. But it turned into something else entirely.

  When at last they parted, her eyes were wide and shining and his breathing was shallow.

  “Where—did that come from?” she asked.

  “A special import from China. Always take advantage of a troubled woman.”

  “Fool!” she said softly. “Let’s go tell Evan what’s happened.”

  Evan stood on the sidewalk, and watched Pat’s car drive away, Pat at the wheel and Matthew Otis beside her. Even after the twin red taillights went around the corner and the sound of the motor faded he stood there, his fists so tight his knuckles hurt.

  At last he shook himself like a shaggy animal aroused from sleep and trudged up the stairs to his room. He clicked on the lights and sat down on the edge of the studio couch that served him as a bed.

  He looked around the room as though seeing it for the first time. A drafting table, a couple of framed diplomas, a row of texts and reference books. The wallpaper had a design of faded roses.

  He ran his fingers along the stubble on his jaw. His mouth ached from smiling.

  Oh, it was a gay and happy smile. All evening. See, folks? I’m your friend. I’m Evan Cleveland, the patient beast. I didn’t want to come back here to Cranesbay. I came here because she is here. I went to work in the plant because I would see her more often. I watched her with quiet adoration. As time goes by, as she is twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five—I am glad. She will be mine. I wait in fatuous complacency for her one day to recognize my great love.

  Evan Cleveland, the great lover.

  She is cool and calm and slim and lovely—and I thought that I was the only one who could see the fire burning brightly under that placid surface. Susan burns brightly on the surface.

  And then tonight the two of them come to me and she has at last awakened. I can barely hear what they are telling me! Something about Susan and a sale of Susan’s stock. She is vivid and lovely. And then I see the way she looks at Matthew Otis. It is hard to realize that I hate Matthew Otis. But he has stolen her from me. He doesn’t know it and neither does she.

  He stood up, walked to the closet and took the bottle from the top shelf. As he walked woodenly back to the couch he tore the paper wrapping from the metal top. He sat down, tilted the bottle and swallowed. The liquor burned his stomach. He tilted the bottle again. When he set it clumsily on the floor it was half full.

  He put his elbows on his knees, his square hands hanging limply from his wrists. After a bit he began to rock from side to side, making a low, moaning sound.

  He fell heavily to the floor. He tried to get up, then cradled his head in his arms and wept. After a long time he fell asleep …

  The cockpit of the little plane was finished in blue leather. Susan sat beside Roy Bedford, the palms of her hands cold and sweaty. Roy took the small mike from the clip and talked to the tower as he circled the small field.

  The lights along the runway clicked on. The little plane settled down at last, the tires making one furtive squeal as they touched the concrete.

  “Four hours,” Roy said. “Not bad.”

  He taxied over to the hangars. She stood off to one side, her suitcase by her feet, as he talked with a man who had appeared out of the darkness. Within minutes a car appeared. Roy climbed in beside her, groped for her hand and held it tightly as the car hurried off into the night …

  The beach house had been built so that at high tide the waves crashed against the rocks ten feet below the sill of the twelve-foot pane of flawless glass that faced the sea.

  During early evening the waves had grown bigger. At midnight, the big swells punched the rocks with solid force, sending spray up to run down the huge window. With an impulse that she but vaguely understood, Rose Carney had put on a white strapless evening gown. Her bare white shoulders were perfect.

  The Capehart thundered the bass in the Debussy La Mer. She had it turned too high. Tall candles shone with motionless flames. The wine was the deep color of blood.

  A song of the sea. A minor chant to sadness and to the sea.

  She thought of Rosie Carney of nine years back. Rosie Carney in love with Roy Bedford. Rosie Carney who had seen the strength of his incredible will, who had sensed his enormous drive. Rosie Carney who had loved him.

  But this was Rose Carney. A slim woman who drank wine by candlelight while the sea touched the rocks below her window.

  He had taken everything she had from the beginning. Her individuality.

  My soul, she thought, if there is such a thing. He has made me over in the image of what he has wanted. A modern-day courtesan. A woman to say the right things, do the right things, cater to the right tastes.

  Somewhere along the line she had lost the essence of Rose Carney. She had become a creation of Roy Bedford. Music and words by Roy Bedford. Gowns by Bedford. Sets by Bedford. Produced by Roy Bedford, from a script by Roy Bedford, from a play by Roy Bedford, from a cheap novel by a garage mechanic named Bedford.

  Aloud she said, “What will become of me?”

  She knew that he had enjoyed coming to her, telling her that it was all over. She had met him at the door, had lifted her lips to be kissed.

  “Not this time, Rose,” he had said, grinning at her.

  She had frowned. “What do you mean, Roy?”

  “Baby, you’re talking to a man about to be married. About time, don’t you think?”

  For one incredible moment of joy she had thought he meant her, then had seen the look in his eyes.

  “A nice young article, Rosie. Cheeks like apples and smells like a load of hay. Miss Susan Furnivall will be married tonight to Mr. Roy Bedford, and you are not cordially invited to attend the ceremony.”

  “But us, Roy!”

  “No problem, Rosie. You must have a nice little nest egg saved. You’re good-looking and you’ve learned a lot. Tomorrow when I get back, I’ll put this place up for sale. By then you can be at the hotel. As soon as I get a buyer, I’ll give you cash in the amount of the sale. Then you can go anywhere you please, just so long as it isn’t Cranesbay.”

  It was as though she were dreaming the words. It didn’t seem possible he could be saying them. She had always thought that one day he would marry her.

  “You can’t do this to me!” she had screamed. “I won’t go!”

  Still smiling, he had slapped her across the mouth. She had staggered back against the wall.

  “Pretty please, Rosie? Pretty please?”

  When he had stepped toward her again, she had cowered back and said, “I’ll go away, Roy.”

  Her answer had been the door slamming behind him, the high whine of the motor and skid of gravel as he turned out of the drive.

  She lifted the glass to her puffed lips and drank deeply of the tart red wine. Holding her arms out, she turned slowly in ritual dance to the tempo of the music and the sound of the sea.

  She laughed. She laughed until there was salt on her lips mingling with the taste of the wine.

  Long after Matthew had left Patience Furnivall, he walked down past the hotel to the docks. Clouds hurried across the slim face of the new moon. The wind was rising and he could taste the sea on his lips. He stood with his hands shoved deep in his topcoat pockets, his head tilted, listening—to voices of long ago.

  With sudden resolution, he turned away from the s
ea and walked back through the silent heart of the city, back toward the distant hill. It was an hour before he arrived at the cemetery. The iron gate was chained. He stepped over the low stone wall. The moon was just bright enough so that he could make out the shadowy names on the headstones.

  The family of Crane had the place of honor, directly opposite the gates. The third match he lit showed him the headstone. “Alicia Belle Crane 1919—1939.” The earth was damp. He walked over to the family stone, sat on the edge of it and lit a cigarette.

  Below the surface was the body of the girl who had haunted his dreams for nine years. Through all his dreams she had called to him, and it was as though she were trying to tell him something.

  “What have you been trying to tell me, darling?” he asked softly.

  There was no answer but the sigh of wind in the pines, the far-off whisper of the surf.

  He had been afraid to come to that spot and yet, sitting there, he felt a sense of peace.

  He flipped the cigarette away and stood up, enormously tired. He stepped over the wall, and walked down the hill toward the city.

  Back in the hotel he took a shower and climbed into bed. He lay in the darkness, listening to the sea, thinking of Alicia …

  He was back on the stone and in the silent air was the echo of his voice. He stared at the ground where she was buried.

  Suddenly there was a call, a distant call—her clear, thin voice in a vast place of echoes. He jumped up, and turned. She was walking through the silent stones, with a radiance about her. She wore the white dress that she had worn at high school graduation. Her face was younger than he had remembered it.

  “Matthew, darling! Matthew Otis!”

  “Alicia!” he called, but as in other dreams, his voice was frozen in his throat. He turned and began to run toward her.

  “What have you been trying to tell me?”

  His voice was loud and clear. They were no longer in the cemetery. They were in a huge room like a railroad station. The floor felt odd and he looked down and saw that he was running on the moving belt of a treadmill. She was also on a treadmill, running in the opposite direction. They moved ever steadily apart.