The deck of cards almost dropped from Fergesson’s hands; he grabbed it and began cutting slowly, wrathfully. “That’s right. I remember. Ellen told me.”
“Sure,” White said easily. “Stumblebum’s one of the faithful. Some dame’s been coming in the store after him, one of the Society’s little ladies.”
“A coon?” Fergesson shouted.
“A tall skinny gal. She left off some literature for him.”
Memory came to Fergesson. “A magazine . . . I saw it.” He shook his head, dazed and disconcerted. “It’s terrible; I can’t believe it. But I should have known . . . I saw the goddamn thing myself. He was standing there reading it, on my time.” Convulsively, Fergesson slammed down the deck in front of shy, silent Joe Tampini. “Deal!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. “For God’s sake, let’s get going!”
In the gloomy darkness of the car, Stuart Hadley sat holding a wad of blankets and baby clothing in his lap. Beside him, Pete wailed and twisted; his tiny arms waved futilely as he groped for something, grasped the cold empty air that swirled through the car from the parking lot outside.
Presently it entered Hadley’s mind that he had been in the process of changing the baby’s clothing. He sorted through the soggy, contaminated heap of garments; everything had been soiled at least once. Puzzled, he smoothed them out and started over again, hoping to find something clean, something he could use. Beside him on the seat, Pete shivered and wailed.
In the end, Hadley opened the luggage compartment of the car and rummaged inside. He found a crumpled, greasy automobile blanket and pulled it up front with him. The blanket came apart easily; soon he had a pile of ragged cloth, not clean but at least usable. He wrapped Pete up in one of the squares, closed the giant safety pin, and then wound the blankets around him. The blankets smelled sourly of urine; Pete gazed up at him wretchedly, sick and hungry and helpless.
Getting from the car, Hadley crossed the dark parking lot to the garbage can of a cheap café. He dropped the bundle of contaminated garments into the can and crunched back to the car. For a time he stood undecided; the baby dozed fitfully, breathing through his mouth, his round face pulled together into a tight frown. He should be fed, obviously. And soon.
Making sure the air vents were open, Hadley rolled up the windows of the car and locked the doors. He left the parking lot and stepped up onto the deserted sidewalk. It was becoming evening; the sun was setting. He began to walk, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
When he came to a little square of park among the hulking warehouses and factories, he stopped and threw himself down on a bench, to rest and ponder.
His plan was firm, clear, and completely final. It had emerged as he drove Marsha along the freeway; into his mind the plan had come full-grown, completely developed, as if it had always existed. It was the only solution; all that remained was to put it into effect.
He could not go back to Beckheim because he was not good enough. For him it was too late. He was worthless; he couldn’t be saved. But it was not too late for his son. The plan was as simple as that. Beckheim would take Pete and raise him and Pete would be saved; he would become what Hadley had not become, he would do and be all the things Hadley had not done and not been, reach the things he had failed to reach. For Hadley, everything was over; for his son the world was just beginning.
For an infinite period Hadley sat watching the evening sun lower itself into the hazy rim of the Bay. It wasn’t until the streetlights came on and a chill wind whipped through his trouser legs that he got stiffly to his feet and began to walk.
His clothes were rumpled and dirty from having slept all night in the car. He needed a shave; his chin was an unhealthy gray-blue. As he walked he was conscious of his uneven gait; his bones ached and he had trouble seeing.
He came to a drugstore, entered, and selected a candy bar from the front rack. In his coat pocket he found a dime . . . That was all he had left—a few bits of change in his pockets.
Eating the Hershey’s bar, Stuart Hadley wandered through town, oblivious of the strolling Saturday evening crowds. Gradually he became aware that a different group of people milled around him. He had reached the center of town; he was moving among the Watchmen of Jesus, the faithful on their way to the Society hall. Eagerly, he joined them.
The flow of people carried him along, and presently he found himself facing the familiar squat yellow structure, with its glowing lights and fluttering cloth signs streaming everywhere. He held back for a while and then allowed the surge of murmuring men and women to carry him up the steps and into the barren foyer. The crowd divided and was processed into the hall itself.
At the inner door, Hadley was stopped by a towering Negro wearing a shiny black suit and an armband. “Your card, sir,” the Negro repeated, his hand out. “Your membership card, sir. This is for members of the Watchmen of Jesus Society, sir.”
“What?” Hadley said stupidly.
One massive hand was clapped over his arm; he was stopped dead in his tracks. “This is not an open lecture, sir,” the Negro repeated, firmly and insistently. Behind Hadley people pushed impatiently, wanting to get past and find seats: there weren’t many left. “Do you have a card, sir? You have to have either a white or a blue card, sir.”
Stunned, Hadley turned and shoved his way out again, down the steps and onto the sidewalk. The murmuring voices faded away as the people around him filed up the steps and into the hall. Those who were turned back gradually dispersed; in a short while Hadley was alone.
He sat down on a square metal trash box and waited. For a time he considered going back for the car; he had parked in a twenty-four-hour lot and in a few hours somebody might start checking around. Vaguely, he wondered if it was time to feed Pete again. He had lost track of time completely; had he been going to feed him, or had he already fed him? Searching his pockets he brought out twenty-three cents in change. Enough for a quart of milk. But that wouldn’t do. And he needed to buy clean diapers for him; cereal, diapers, another blanket . . . Hadley’s mind blurred off in a chaotic swirl, and he gave up trying to think. Instead, he sat blankly waiting.
The next thing he knew, the lecture was over. People swarmed everywhere; he was surrounded by people. The night was colder; it was much later. He got awkwardly to his feet and began to push among them; in his mind there was nothing but the need of getting into the hall, an insistent desire to make his way past the door to Theodore Beckheim. He knew that if he could reach him, the great black man would accept Pete; of that Hadley was certain. If he could once get to Beckheim everything would be all right. The hall, of course, was empty; the crowd had left it. He stood gazing in as people edged past him, bemused by the vacant stage and podium on which Beckheim had certainly just now stood.
“Where’s Beckheim?” he said to a large middle-aged woman passing with an armload of pamphlets.
She shook her head. “I really don’t know.”
Hadley hurried urgently back down the steps; suddenly he was sure that Beckheim had already left. He reached the sidewalk and peered everywhere, searching desperately, moving this way and that, unconscious of the dense crowd around him.
At the curb waited a long oyster-yellow Chrysler four-door sedan. As soon as he saw it he knew it was Beckheim’s: excitement stirred him and he raced toward it. A knot of people, white and Negro, was making its way toward the car; one of the doors was opened, and an elderly woman in a heavy fur coat climbed in.
Behind the woman came Beckheim.
People pushed and shoved around Hadley, but he didn’t notice; hunching his shoulders he forced his way among them, toward the curb and the long yellow Chrysler. Terror filled him; the motor was on and the car was going to start. A white man got behind the wheel; he honked the horn and waved the people from the street, out of the way. The headlights came on in a blinding clap of brilliance; Hadley winced, ducked his head, and shouldered his way forward.
A figure directly in front of him refused to move. Hands clutched at him; in
his ear shrill voices screamed and yelled. He shook the hands away; tearing himself loose he shoved against the figure. It refused to budge.
“Stuart!” it shrilled. It was Laura Gold. Her face wild, hair disheveled, she blocked his way, arms raised, lumpy body planted against him. “Stuart, what are you doing here? Ellen’s looking everywhere for you—we knew we’d find you here!”
From behind Laura, Dave Gold came scurrying. He grabbed hold of Hadley’s coat and dragged him away from the curb, back toward the building, out of the conglomeration of people clustered around the Chrysler. “Where the hell have you been?” he was saying. “Hadley, you’re out of your mind—what’s wrong with you? Where’s the baby—is he all right? What the hell are you doing?”
Hadley tore away. “Let go of me,” he said thickly.
Dave Gold kept tugging impatiently at him. People were yelling and stepping on each other; they were shoving angrily. Cars had begun to start up on all sides. Horns honked as they drove through the throngs that milled out into the street. The darkness was slashed violently by shafts of headlights. Over the murmur and shouting rumbled the motors and the swish of tires.
“What’s the matter with you?” Dave Gold shouted at Hadley. “You damn fool—stop acting this way!”
Laura was trembling with apprehension. “Let go of him,” she chattered, glassy-eyed. “Be careful, Dave. Something’s going to happen.”
“Shut up,” Gold grunted at her. “What’s eating you, Hadley? Are you coming with us or not?” He yanked at Hadley’s sleeve. “Let’s get where we can breathe. I want to talk to you.”
“Get your kike hands off me,” Hadley said, in a voice not his own.
Gold’s face dissolved and then slowly re-formed. “Are you under the spell of that shithead?” he said.
Hadley hit him blindly. Laura screamed as Gold’s glasses flew off and he stumbled backward, arms flailing. “Get out of here, Dave!” she shrieked.
Gold fell, rolled, then scrambled up. He charged bull-like directly at Hadley, head down. His wiry body smashed into Hadley and for an interval the two of them struggled together. Gold’s hot, slobbering breath panted in Hadley’s face; he struck out wildly at whatever he could reach. Hadley was choked, buried under the struggling infuriated body. He kicked, rolled away, fought desperately. He saw nothing. There were only billowing shapes, massed shadows around him . . . His breath ached in his throat and lungs.
Hands plucked. Somewhere far off sirens wailed. Hadley stumbled back and was dragged down to the moist pavement. His head struck something hard; sparks flew as from an anvil. A numbing clang echoed and reechoed through his mind; for a limitless period blackness dropped over him and he was only dimly aware of remote shapes and sensations. A foot kicked him; an arm punched into his face. He caught at it, managed to get halfway up. Blinded, blood running down his cheeks, his hands cut and damaged, he staggered away, hit against something, and then broke through the circle of forms.
After that came a vague period of running and stopping to gasp for breath and listen. There were no more people around him. Dark streets, stars overhead. Silent houses and stores. A few cars. He sat down on a curb and got out his handkerchief to wipe the blood from his smashed nose.
He was a mess. His head still rang, and his right side ached violently. A broken rib, probably.
He came to a filling station and got himself into the men’s room. Taking off his coat he washed his face in the shiny bowl. He blotted at his hands and arms with paper towels, then sat down on one of the toilets to rest and collect himself.
When he had regained sufficient energy he dried his face and pushed his damp hair back. He crawled into his dirty, torn coat, smoothed down his shirt as much as possible, and left the men’s room.
Cold night air knifed at him as he made his way along Freemont Avenue. Ten minutes later he unlocked the front door of Modern TV Sales and Service and headed for the basement stairs.
The six men playing poker peered around in shocked amazement as Hadley appeared. Fergesson lowered his hand of cards and got to his feet. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, taking in the sight of Hadley’s ruined face and clothing.
Hadley held on tight to the doorjamb. “I want my money.”
Fergesson pushed through the gray-fogged room up to Hadley. “Are you drunk?” He blanched as he saw blood leak from Hadley’s demolished nose, down his jaw and onto his collar. “Good God, what happened?”
“Somebody must have rolled him,” Jack White said softly. They all got up and came quietly over.
“Give me my money,” Hadley repeated. He started back upstairs. “I earned it. It’s mine.”
“He means his check,” Jack White said.
Fergesson followed Hadley up the stairs. “Look here, Hadley—you can’t come in here like this. Get out of here and go home. If you have any sense you’ll go sober up and stay out of trouble. I ought to fire you for not coming in today, but in view of what’s happened to you I’m willing to give you—”
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Hadley said, heading toward the cash register. “Get this thing open.”
Fergesson blinked. For a moment emotion swept across his face, a tide of dismay and pain, as if he were going to weep. Then his face closed hard and mean, without feeling, an impassive wall. “You stupid lush,” he said. “I’ll give you one more chance to get out of this store.”
“Fuck you.” Hadley tore and punched at the cash register until it finally wheezed open. He pawed at the bills.
Fergesson grabbed the calendar and located the date. Fingers flying, he counted out a hundred dollars, slammed in the register drawer, pushed Hadley away from it, and threw down the bills on the counter. “All right, Hadley; here’s your money. I’m paying you for two weeks. You’re fired. I’ll mail your bottle of celery extract to your house.”
Hadley took the money and stuffed it in his coat pocket. “Fuck you, Fergesson,” he repeated, opening the front door and stepping out on the sidewalk. “And all your friends and relatives and your stores and all your TV sets and your poker game.” The door slammed and he was gone.
A moment later he entered the neon-lit bar around the corner and threw himself down on a stool. “Scotch and water,” he said as the bartender turned from dice shaking and came slowly over. “No ice.”
“Sure, Stu,” the bartender said. He began to fix the drink, eyeing Hadley nervously. “How’s the kid? Everything all right?”
“Fine,” Hadley said.
“You look kinda knocked around.” The bartender served his drink and took a twenty-dollar bill from Hadley’s crabbed fingers. “You sure you’re okay? Your nose is bleeding bad.”
“I’m okay.”
The bartender rang up change and came slowly back with it. A couple of the patrons were gazing at Hadley with horrified curiosity. “You really got banged around,” the bartender repeated. “What’s the other guy look like?”
Hadley gulped down his drink and didn’t answer. As the bartender moved off, Hadley dragged the rest of his money out and began arranging it in careful, even piles. Trying to assemble, on a microscopic scale, some fragments of his shattered plan.
It was dark. But not completely. Sound and motion all around him. He was moving. A great shape loomed up ahead; its blinding orbs bored into him and he ducked his head. The shape came nearer, then turned off to one side. A wave of sickening stench billowed around him. He began to choke; he floundered and twisted and spat.
Another beast loomed, studied him balefully with yellow, unwinking eyes, roared and boomed loudly, and then swept past him. Again he gasped and choked in the cloud of foul-smelling wind it had released from its great behind.
A hand pulled at him. He tugged away; Dave Gold was trying to hold on to him. The hand returned. Voices. Close and loud in his ear. Lights winked overhead, evenly spaced circles of yellow set in the darkness. The fumes were gone; but new shapes loomed in place of the old.
“The poor bastard,” a voice said. A
man’s voice, close to him. He tried to make out the speaker, but he couldn’t. He groped in the gloom; shapes flickered and winked around him. They dodged and shifted cunningly; they operated with incredible swiftness and intelligence. He moved a few steps, stumbled, and half fell.
“Look at him.” A woman’s voice.
“Would you, if you were a man?”
“No.”
Hadley peered. Squinted. Circles of light, even-spaced above . . . stars at last in order, pattern and design. Darkness all around, black and thick. Dim shapes less dark that moved as he came near them. Keeping away from him. Cold air licked at his clothing; he shivered violently.
“Come here,” he grunted, holding out his arms to catch a shape. But it retreated warily. It was like a game; he was within a circle, blindfolded, trying to catch someone. Anyone. To pass the blindfold on. So he wouldn’t have to keep wearing it. He was tired of wearing it. All at once he couldn’t stand wearing it any longer.
“Come here!” he shouted. His voice rolled off and was gone in echoing shadows. Dim metallic peals that vibrated and danced around him. He was shocked by the continuing racket; he set his teeth and tensed his body, but still the racket boomed. And still the shapes kept their distance.
“Look at him. Look at his clothes.”
“You see very many of them?”
“Once in a while. Saturday night, especially.”
“What’ll happen to him?”
“Hard to say.”
“You think maybe somebody should—”
“No. He’ll be all right.”
“He better get out of here.” A new voice. Hard and ominous. Hadley stopped moving and became rigid. Fear shivered through him. He turned clumsily and began to hobble through the darkness. The circles of light passed obediently by overhead.
“Look at him go.”
“The poor bastard.”
“Maybe we better—”
“No. Let him go. His own fault. Look at his clothes. Look at him. Look.”
Voices from the Street Page 34