The Incredible Charlie Carewe

by Mary Astor

  “I didn’t want to ask what he was talking about, because that would show that I hadn’t been paying attention and I didn’t want to annoy him. He had put his arm over my shoulder casually, and I noticed it had become heavier, tighter. I sort of stiffened, I guess, automatically, and tried to move away. But he said, ‘Hey, don’t do that. I like my arm around you,’ so I let it stay.”

  They walked on silently for a few moments, and then when he spoke his voice was lower, and his breathing had become uneven.

  “Like now,” he had said, “like now, the way you and I are safe now. Nobody would suspect anything—middle-aged brother and sister out for a stroll on the family property; what could be more innocent? And nobody would be the wiser.”

  She had thrown his arm away from her and stopped, furious.

  “It was a bad mistake, I know. I should have laughed at him or something, I suppose. Not ever having been in such a situation, I didn’t realize how provocative anger and flight can be.”

  She had tried to run away from him, back to the house, but he laughed and barred the way. Wheeling, she fled up the path toward the Point.

  He caught her arm, pleading, “Please, Virgie love, don’t be like that. You’d love it, you know you would. How long has it been for you, anyway, you poor baby!”

  Gregg had begun to stride the floor. “You don’t have to tell me any more, Virginia. Of all the witless, stupid, revolting—has he said anything about it since—did he apologize, say he was drunk?”

  “Charlie? Apologize? He was the one who was insulted! He left me in a frustrated fury, and when I finally came back to the house I heard the front door slam and a taxi going down the drive. I didn’t see him again till this afternoon about five. I’m sure he didn’t come home at all or I would have heard him. I—didn’t sleep much. The first I knew he was home was when I heard him yelling at somebody on the phone—something about having cracked up Garry Wynn’s Thunderbird—just a ‘little’ accident.”

  “Is that what he called it? A little accident?” Virginia nodded, and Gregg thought a moment. “I think I saw the car in the ditch coming up here this evening; it was a mess. But of course to Charlie,” he mused, “since he didn’t get hurt, it would be a ‘little’ accident. I wonder what he would call his attack on you—just a ‘little’ attempt at rape?”

  Virginia made a face of disgust, and shuddered a little.

  “Don’t, please—it’s too recent to call it anything. It’s something that happened. It’s done. I didn’t tell you about it for you to do anything or say anything—I simply couldn’t contain the experience alone.”

  Gregg sat down on the hassock again. “Driving up here today, I had the most self-satisfied image of myself as Mr. Fix-it—I was going to pour the oil of understanding on the troubled waters, I had all kinds of sensible, intelligent suggestions about ‘acceptance and adjustment.’ Now I find myself wishing I could go tearing out of the house with a gun in my hand.”

  Virginia touched his cheek. “I know, darling—but remember, if you were that kind of a man—I would never have told you.” Suddenly she let out her breath in an exhausted sigh. “Whoo, I’m so damn tired. I can’t think any more.”

  Quickly, Gregg rose. “Come, I’ll help you downstairs.”

  She was staggering from fatigue, and at the head of the stairs he picked her up bodily and carried her past the Audubon birds and down the hall to her door, which he kicked open.

  “I’m too heavy for you,” she protested.

  “Sure you are, you’re just a great big ox—but I’ve carried you before.”

  “When? I don’t remember,” she murmured sleepily against his neck.

  “Never mind.” He kissed her gently. “Make it all right now?” as he slipped her feet to the floor. She clung to him for a moment.

  “I’m glad you’re home,” she whispered, and this time she meant it.

  Her door closed, and he walked away. Almost as an afterthought, it seemed, the lock clicked softly. Gregg heard it, and turned back, frowning; was she still frightened of Charlie? More likely it was a firm “do not disturb”—ever again. Charlie would never again be able to barge into her room, night or day, finding loyalty and understanding, finding her ready to make excuses, to invent reasons for his no-reasons. Finding forgiveness.

  Gregg felt an odd, personal satisfaction in the idea, wondering why he should be so pleased. He traced it down; of course, it was a matter of “getting even” with the intruder of a little while ago, when Virginia told him she loved him. As he walked thoughtfully up the stairs an irritating trick of the mind offered him a silly association of ideas; the old vaudeville line, “Vas you dere, Charlie?” He almost laughed out loud at the notion, thinking, “He sure as hell was!” He had been there, all right; making a moment of tremendous importance a mere incidental. He had robbed it of its sweetness and passion by making the very thought of passion dirty and ugly.

  They should have been swept into each other’s arms, saying all the foolish, lovely words, whispering in the ageless wonder at the collapse of the barriers of human separateness; instead he had stood between them, smiling, candid, impudent; lifting his shoulders in the familiar attitude of “What did I do?” Embarrassed, shocked, they could only touch gently, kiss gently.

  In his room, Gregg tugged and pulled his tie loose, grimacing. He went to where his bags still stood as he had dropped them, and hoisting one of them up onto the bed, he unlocked the lid and threw it open. Taking out a pile of shirts, he walked over to the walnut bureau to put them away. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above it as he did so, and had a feeling of astonishment at the impassivity of the image. It was a little pale, and there was a small vein just above the end of his right eyebrow that was busily fluttering under the smooth skin. But the eyes were cool, the mouth firm. There was no outward sign of the turmoil within him. He slammed the drawer shut violently and the mirror quivered and shook the image into mocking, meaningless activity.

  Groaning, he turned away, feeling in his pocket for his pipe and tobacco. He sat down into the big chair and put his feet up onto the hassock, compelling himself to perform the small, familiar rites of the smoker. He tamped the grains of tobacco carefully into the bowl, giving it a little final press with his thumb, when he noticed that, mingled with the rich aroma of the tobacco, there remained a faint odor of Virginia’s perfume. He postponed touching the flame of his lighter to the pipe, loving the fleeting sense of her presence. It made him long for the pleasure of being able to dwell exclusively on dreams and plans for the two of them; his emotions pleaded for release from the churning anger. He settled for simple statements. They would be married quietly at St. Mark’s in the village. They would travel. They would probably spend some time at Fox Fire Lodge in Clarke Falls with Mavis and John. They would have warmth and contentment and peace. Someday. Charlie permitting. Like the phrase, “Weather permitting.”

  He wondered for a moment about others—people he would never know—who had formed some relationship with Charlie. He wondered how they had fared. Most of them, unencumbered by intimate ties, in a very short time had probably dusted their hands and turned their backs on him. Up to now, his own position had been a similar one. Without becoming involved he had watched and listened and all that had weighed on him was the frustration of being unable to help. Now, of course, when he became Virginia’s husband, he would be in a stronger position. To do what? What did rights have to do with it?

  His new strength in the pride of becoming Virginia’s husband must be counted as nothing. It was only an emotion. Authority, legal and moral, were simply words. Ironically, the closer the relationship, the more vulnerable one became. Charlie had a mother and father; one had become a hypochondriacal little doll with a set sweet smile, willing to admit only her own illness; the other was prematurely aged, bitter, disappointed. A sister had watched the torn sails of a little boat, fluttering, sending a message of death. A wife who made the headlines: “Witnesses Say Intoxicated . . .
Falls . . .” And Mavis. And John. And the little, petty things. A whole silly, slippery, exasperating pageant.

  The bowl of his pipe had grown hot in his fingers. What had Larry Payne counseled? “Don’t let him engulf you—it might mean your own destruction—it would be futile, like shaking your fist at a hurricane. . . .” “Correct, Larry; obvious and true.” He spoke aloud. “But how, Larry? How in hell do we keep him from engulfing us all, destroying us, bit by bit?” He got to his feet, hurriedly straightened his tie, saying, “Thanks, Larry, but I’ve got to go out and shake my fist at a hurricane!” Grabbing his coat, he went quietly but swiftly down the stairs.

  Being at least on the move relieved some of his tension. His car protested and choked at the demand for speed. He had turned north out of the driveway, and in a few minutes he was on the bridge over the Ainsford River. A small street lamp, hung high above the road, reflected a patch of the turbulent water, hurrying to get to the sea. Gregg stopped and cut his engine to listen to the tumbling and the rushing. The moody, primitive sound filled his ear and sang in his mind, and vividly he pushed a body over the bridge and watched it swirl and disappear. Swearing, he turned on the ignition and backed the car around. He must get to where there were lights and people and activity. Wishful phantasms were not to be indulged; they were nothing but mental quicksand.

  He looked at the watch on the dashboard—eleven-ten. Still early for Charlie. He wouldn’t be returning home for a while, and Gregg thought, “I’ll get back before he does.” What for? To stand guard at Virginia’s door? He snorted in irritation. Somehow he must rid himself of these melodramatic ideas, and he knew he must reduce Charlie again to the level of reality. If he could see him, observe him at a distance, the anger and rage would die down inside him. Contempt would be cooler, a fitting climate for reason. He would keep watch on him, from now on; he knew how to wait; and something would present itself to his mind. He would not force the result, he would simply be alert to any possibility—a sort of mental judo. What did the kids call it? “Cool”—“loose.”

  The gaudy on-and-off neon of the Tam o’ Shanter blinked into view and he took his foot off the accelerator and moved into position to make a left turn into the parking lot. There was a car coming toward him, which, instead of staying in the right lane, suddenly swerved to the center. Instantly Gregg forced his own wheel over to the right and pulled up to a stop on the soft shoulder. A second later another car zigzagged, and he heard a loud shout from a group near the entrance of the night club on the opposite side. It was Charlie they were cheering, Gregg could see; Charlie, coatless, grinning, standing away from the curb of the strip of sidewalk. He was holding his jacket by the shoulders in front of him, shaking it, calling, “Ha! Toro!” as a car approached, startling the driver with a flash of his coat, which he was using like a bullfighter’s cape.

  Gregg watched, fascinated. One car, a small sports model, coming fast, almost tipped onto two wheels, skidding away with a curse from the driver. The group yelled, “Olé!”

  He held his breath as Charlie stepped out again, executing a veronica, the headlights flashing onto his face. The cars were missing him only because of his own agility and speed, and the quick reflexes of the frightened drivers. There were more shouts of “Olé!” and laughter, and squeals of fright from a couple of girls.

  Gregg looked back over his shoulder, but luckily there was almost no traffic from that direction. He watched the deadly nonsense, thinking, “How does he keep from being killed!” He clenched his fists, admitting to himself that he wished it, that he was hoping, willing that the next driver would see him too late. At that moment the group seemed to lose interest in the game, either from nerves or from boredom, and they broke up, some heading with loud good nights to the parking lot, and others going back into the club, including Charlie with his erstwhile aficionados.

  Inside, the Tam o’ Shanter was packed and dark. The decor was Scotch to the extent of having plaid-trimmed tablecloths, and the cigarette girl was wearing the briefest of kilts and a jaunty tam with a feather in it. Gregg slid onto the end bar stool and ordered a brandy. He looked around at the crowd. It was a transient crowd, a tourist crowd. The people who had pulled into the motels and had been attracted by the “Maine Lobster” sign, and the further inducement of “Dancing—Floor Show—Broadway Entertainment.” The Broadway entertainer was a young man giving an imitation of T. C. Jones imitating Tallulah Bankhead and the crowd thought he was great. He was bluer than T.C. at his bluest, and they loved it, hilariously screaming their approval. The spotlight jiggled a little and moved slightly to one side as the performer shifted, and Gregg’s eyes were carried to where Charlie was seated at a small table with two other men and a girl who were in the smoky shadow. The rainbow edge of the spotlight curved over Charlie’s shoulders. He looked dignified, immaculate, and elegant. The light shone in the smooth silver temples, picked up the highlights in the dark eyes. There was an attentive amused smile on his lips, and as the girl beside him spoke to him, he quickly gave her his full attention; then, turning to the two men, apparently repeated what she had said, and they all laughed loudly. It covered the comedian’s punch line and spoiled the laugh. Gregg was too far away to hear the rest, but there was a fast sally from the floor to the table, the nearest tables applauded and roared and banged knives on the glassware, and it looked as though “Tallulah” were about to punch Charlie in the nose. The spotlight carried “her” as “she” strode over to Charlie’s table, picked up a bottle, and brandished it.

  “Brain him! Kill him!” muttered Gregg behind his teeth. The near brawl was over in a second as Charlie rose and, with outstretched hands, said something apologetic, and apparently funny, because the onlookers laughed, “Tallulah” swished back to the floor and went on with the show.

  Gregg turned away and put his elbows on the bar and contemplated his drink. He swirled the dark fluid gently in the snifter and called himself names. “Virginia would be proud of you! How brave you are! Did you stride out into the night to wish him to death? Why not conjure up a thunderbolt? It’s done every day!” It was strange, he thought, how Charlie seemed to have a special claim on impunity. It was the man who felt guilty, who knew he deserved punishment, who drew the forces of justice upon himself. It has been said that the reason the criminal “always makes a mistake” is a subconscious desire to be caught, liberated from guilt by punishment. But to Charlie guilt was only a notion.

  Gregg leaned down to brush some fallen ash from his trouser cuff. “Hey, buddy—watch it, huh?” He had bumped an elbow as he raised up. “I’m very sorry,” Gregg apologized. “Oh, I am sorry!” His neighbor’s glass had been jostled out of his hand, and the drink was sloshing over the bar; the bartender appeared with a towel, and the man’s lady friend was glaring at Gregg, holding her own drink high out of harm’s way in case he made another attack.

  “What’n hell were you doin’? Lookin’ for loose change?” The man was rubbing the lapel of his jacket with his handkerchief.

  The last thing Gregg wanted to do was to attract attention, although it was hardly likely in the din around him. Hastily, he said to the bartender, “Please, will you bring another drink for the gentleman?”

  The man was mollified. “Well now, thanks, that’s real nice—sorry I blew up. You alone? We been sittin’ here waitin’ for a table for an hour—oughtta get one soon’s th’ show’s over. Whyn’t you join us? This here’s my bride—ha-ha! Married seventeen years—Marie, meet—wha’d you say your name was?”

  “Nicholson,” said Gregg unsociably.

  “Mr. Nicholson, and I’m Joe Webb—— Hey, Andy!” He leaned over the bar to speak to a couple still farther down. “Andy! Bella! Wantcha t’meet a frienda mine, Mr. Nicholson,” he yelled. The two yelled back greetings and Gregg inwardly shrank from their boozy camaraderie.

  The spotlight had spread for the comedian’s exit, and a burst of music and applause drowned out the possibility of further conversation. The master of ceremonies cam
e out from between the curtains and collared the mike, buttonholing the crowd’s attention. “And now, ladies and gentlemen . . .” There were still three men and a girl at Charlie’s table but Charlie was no longer sitting there. Gregg looked, dumfounded; it had been only a matter of seconds since he’d taken his eyes off the table. It was like a vanishing act. He shifted sideways and craned his neck as a waiter blocked the view, and then a couple got up from the table in front of him. Perhaps he’d gone to the men’s room. But the men’s room was directly behind him; he would have seen him, and besides there hadn’t been time for him to get clear around through the crush so quickly. Obviously he had just left, and someone slipped into the chair he had vacated.

  He murmured “Excuse me” to Joe Webb, who was taking advantage of a lull in the noise to talk about the fine vacation he and “th’ bride” were having. Gregg slid off the stool. “I have to—uh——”

  “What? Oh, sure, sure. Go ahead.” And then as Gregg headed for the exit, “Hey—it’s over here!”

  Gregg gulped in a lungful of clean air, distastefully blowing out the combined odor of stale tobacco, steamed lobster, alcohol, and mixed perfume. He looked around the jammed parking area but Charlie’s pale yellow Mercury was nowhere to be seen.

  Even as he hurriedly made his way, zigzagging around the parked cars to where his own was standing, he wondered at his obsession to follow Charlie, to keep him in sight. He realized that partially he was deliberately tiring out his own emotions, anxious to achieve the inevitable blunting, the satiety that would permit him to think “cool.” But more immediately, it was the same urge that makes people crowd a courtroom, gaping at a murderer, or line the sidewalks to get a look at someone who has done something extraordinary. If Charlie had remained, Gregg knew he would have become bored and sleepy and gone home, but the very fact that he had disappeared excited him to follow.

  He turned the switch and hurriedly backed his car out into the narrow exit passage. It was ridiculous. He had no idea where Charlie might be going. He might be hitting the bars, of which there were several along the highway, mostly little smelly dark appendages to the motels, with a juke box and a TV going simultaneously. Or perhaps he would be heading for Mrs. Mackenzie’s boardinghouse, an establishment literally on the other side of the tracks near the railroad station; a place that catered to the drifter, the track worker, and the gentleman slummer. Gentleman—as in Carewe. Gentlemen who treated all women like whores. Gregg’s mouth felt dry and bitter and his way was blocked by another car. It was facing in, its headlights shining in his eyes. He could see the attendant gabbing with the driver; he was about to lean on the horn, but just then the car backed out; as it turned, he saw it was a state patrol car. He heard one of the officers say, “Thanks, Elmer! Good night!” and the car swung around and headed north.