“I guess,” Ellen said wistfully, “it’s a sort of dungeon.”
“It’s fine,” Hadley said. “And let’s not talk about dungeons.”
Ellen flushed guiltily. “I’m sorry. I mean, you don’t think of it that way, do you? This isn’t really so barren; we can fix it all up.”
“I think we can,” Hadley said. He roamed about, his hands in his pockets, examining each room. In a closet he came abruptly upon himself; from the fragments of a broken mirror stacked in a shoebox his reflection gleamed up, shattered and twisted. It was a shock; he closed the door and stalked out of the room, into the pantry.
“I know one thing,” he said wryly to Ellen. “I’m not going to be the nice-looking young man behind the counter again. That’s over and done with.”
“Is it?” Ellen said, not understanding. “That’s good; I’m glad.”
Hadley indicated the empty socket where his left eye had been. “I mean this.” He touched his bandaged, misshapen jaw. “And the rest.”
Ellen busied herself at the sink. “This all has to be fixed up; my God, it’s filthy.” She tore down some newspapers tacked to the wall. “All this will have to be scoured; the whole place.”
“Let’s get busy,” Hadley said.
“No!” Ellen turned quickly, her face anxious, pleading. “You can’t do anything; you’re supposed to rest for another two months, at least. Your rib—” She put her hands on his shoulders and gazed up earnestly into his face. “Please.”
Hadley walked over to the door and bent down to fix it open. He kicked a square of broken cement against it and stood for a time in the open doorway, his back to his wife. Pete, sitting in the corner of the room, began to wail; his face swelled and blackened and he waved his arms furiously.
“What’s the matter?” Hadley asked, turning toward him.
“He pinched his hand.” Ellen pulled something away from the baby. “This, whatever it is. A cupboard hinge, I suppose.” She slipped out of her jacket and tossed it over the windowsill. For the task ahead she had put on an old pair of faded jeans, a paint-splashed canvas shirt; briskly, she kicked off her shoes and began gathering together the items that had been brought over earlier in the week.
“Here we go,” she announced. She carried the zinc bucket to the kitchen and sprinkled soap dust into it; as hot water roared after the soap, she tore cotton rags from a discarded sheet and began tying her hair up with a bandanna. “You sit down,” she instructed Hadley, “or go outside. I’m going to do the walls first.”
She lathered the heavy scrub brush and searched for something to stand on. “I can’t quite reach the ceiling,” she said plaintively. “Can . . . you think of anything?”
From the dilapidated garage Hadley found her a wooden crate to stand on. Ellen climbed gratefully onto it and began scouring the ceiling; dirty water dribbled down her bare arms into her rolled-up sleeves and dripped into her face. She grinned happily down at him, eyes wide and hopeful.
“Am I doing any good?” she asked.
“You’re doing fine,” Hadley told her. “But I think it’s about time to knock off and have a beer.”
“We’re going to have to get ice,” Ellen reminded him. “For the icebox . . . And I think it should be cleaned out first.” She wrinkled her nose. “It doesn’t smell so good.”
Cautiously, Hadley seated himself on the doorstep, his knees apart, hands clasped together. Warm autumn sunlight beat down on his face; he squinted and turned his head away. A faint breeze stirred the palm tree, a metallic rustle, heavy and ponderous, like a very old bird shifting fitfully in its sleep.
The sun made him feel good. He enjoyed it; his body relaxed, and some of the dull ache drained out of his joints. Every part of him hurt to some degree; the constant pain had become a background, a distant presence that had gradually waned below the level of consciousness. The vacant darkness of one side of his brain . . . that was the worst of all. Artfully, he focused on a cat making her way among the parked cars on the far side of the street. He could see well enough, though. He could still make his way around. And his rib would eventually heal.
Most of him would heal. If he sat long enough in the sun perhaps even his eye would return, grow back in place, very tiny at first, then larger and larger until it was full sized. But that did not really seem likely. The more he thought about it the more he doubted if such a thing could happen. The idea rapidly dwindled away; regretfully, he allowed it to leave. What had happened to him had left a permanent mark; whether for better or worse, he was not the same Stuart Hadley.
In fact, in many ways, he was not Stuart Hadley at all. Once, he had wondered who or what Stuart Hadley was. Now it did not matter, because he had only a remote, detached relationship to Stuart Hadley. The name stirred nothing; it was an echo that aroused very little in him, in spite of its appearance across the papers in his wallet. It was something to answer to; he could tolerate it to that extent.
Sleepily, he got out his cigarettes and matches. He lit up and cautiously stretched out his legs. Some children passed beyond the iron fence, pushing a bike. They glanced at him; their voices ceased as they made out the destroyed portions of his face. He said nothing; and presently they went on, but not as loudly as before.
It was going to be that way. He was marked, and marked where it showed. No old lady would ever come again, carrying her radio, wanting to have it fixed. There would be no kidding with the dark-haired girl at Woolworth’s soda fountain. But he felt no resentment at the realization; the warm sun made him relaxed and at peace.
“Can I have a cigarette?” Ellen gasped, stepping off the box and pushing her hair back out of her eyes. She came over to him and crouched down; dirty water clung to her face and arms. As he handed her his cigarette she leaned forward and kissed him on the back of the neck.
“I’ll be able to help you soon,” he said. “By the time we move in.”
“We’ll be moving in the day after tomorrow,” Ellen contradicted practically. “I’m just getting it clean enough to live in; you can fix it all up later on.”
“How much stuff do you want brought over from your family’s place?”
“Just our beds. And our clothes. Dishes—personal things.” She straightened up. “You don’t mind staying there a couple of days, do you?”
“No,” he answered. He could stand anything now.
“We could stay with the Golds.”
“It doesn’t matter. You kept the living-room furniture? That was paid for.”
“Yes,” Ellen said. “The living-room furniture and the beds, and that big lamp, and the rugs, and the silver. All the small stuff; it’s stored. Everything but the refrigerator and the stove and the television set. I let them take those back . . . It wasn’t worth paying them off.”
“You mean we didn’t have a choice.”
“Did—you want them?”
“No,” Hadley said. “We can use the icebox.” Five weeks in the prison ward of the county hospital had taught him to go without a lot of things.
Ellen moved back to her bucket and rags. “We still have the electric toaster and the electric coffeemaker and the Waring blender. All the kitchen gadgets . . .” Her voice trailed off forlornly. “I couldn’t give them up . . . and anyhow, we could have got only a few dollars apiece.”
“Fine,” Hadley said genially.
“I guess we could use the money, though.”
“We’ll be all right,” Hadley said. He blew a cloud of smoke out into the yard, among the geraniums and candy tuft; he wondered idly if there was any way one man could saw down a full-grown palm tree.
He spent the next month resting and recovering, and puttering around the basement apartment. His body was mending slowly; gradually his strength came back. He had been very sick. It took a long time to recover what he had lost; and not all of it came back. At last, he gave up waiting. He knew there was no more on the way; what he had was all he was ever going to have, the rest of his life.
Before
he painted the apartment, he scoured the walls with a steel brush. He chipped the old paint off the woodwork and made arrangements to restore the stain. The wood, under its cheap white enamal paint, was a lovely old walnut; slowly, reluctantly, the original grain and color emerged. He labored patiently at it . . . The job was a long one.
While he scraped and rubbed and cleaned, Ellen hurried back and forth to her job; while Hadley recovered she was working as a typist and stenographer at a downtown business office. Hadley took care of Pete and the apartment. For the first time in his life he had the long empty mornings in which to think and become familiar with himself. During the weekdays there was no sound except distant radios booming out soap operas, and the squeak of brakes as milk and bread trucks raced along the streets.
As his rib mended, he was able to begin painting. He spent all day Saturday in the paint stores, going over colors and grades, high-gloss, enamel, flat-coat, oil- and water-based, the new rubber-based, brush and roller paints, spray guns, turpentine, sandpaper, everything related to house painting. When he purchased he chose calmly, solemnly. What he carried home was a cardboard box of simple colors, basic materials to build with.
Carefully, step by step, he built his way up. It was slow and painful; he stood all day on a stool, sanding and cleaning and caulking, getting the dust and grime of years off, scraping down to the real substance beneath, the genuine material that had been covered over, buried beneath stale, artificial layers. Plain, unassuming tints began to emerge as he built up from the solid subsurfaces. He worked over each square foot at a time, his attention completely on what his hands were doing, putting everything of himself into the work.
After the cleaning and painting came new fixtures. He ordered plain overhead fluorescent tubing from a wholesale house; one whole day was spent assembling the units, wiring up the starters, ripping out the old decayed wiring and putting in solid aluminum BX cable. At night the apartment smelled of paint, and gas from the kitchen stove. Through the open windows drifted the smell of autumn grass drying in fields and gardens. Ellen sat on the bed, mending moth holes in a spread, as Hadley worked patiently, repairing the plunger mechanism of the toilet.
He wanted to put in better heating. But that could wait; it was still some time before winter. He proceeded cautiously, step by step; he learned all over again, from the ground up. He felt his way along as a weak man should, as a man recovering from a terrible illness had to. He understood how sick he had been; he took his time about coming back.
In an old pair of torn, stained trousers, and tennis shoes, sweatshirt, his neck sunburned, arms perspiring, he squatted in the garden, pounding out frames for new concrete steps. It was something he knew nothing about; he failed, and for a while he put the job aside. He could not expect to do it all at once . . . He returned to the apartment and restudied the plumbing situation.
One afternoon, while he was laboring over the flue of the stove, Olsen and Joe Tampini dropped by.
“It’s looking pretty good,” Tampini observed shyly, moving around the apartment. The sight of the store truck parked outside gave Hadley a strange feeling; he ignored it and poured beers for the two men.
“Shit-lousy neighborhood,” Olsen muttered, accepting his beer. “Thanks.” He threw himself down self-consciously on the couch and crouched forward, bent over and nervous. “Long time no see,” he said finally. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” Hadley said.
“You sure got banged up,” Olsen observed, studying him briefly. “I was the one had to put up another door.”
Hadley nodded without answering.
“You gave old man Fergesson the scare of his life,” Olsen continued, rubbing beer foam from his hairy upper lip. “He almost crapped in his pants . . . He’s never been the same since. You really jolted him.”
Tampini agreed. “He’s sort of quiet. He doesn’t yell at everybody all the time now.”
“Glad to hear it,” Hadley said vaguely. He did not mind hearing about the store, but it was difficult for him to concentrate on it. “How’s business?”
“Shitty,” Olsen answered heartily. “Fergesson fired Jack White; he’s got somebody else in, some half-assed goon from Meyberg’s.”
“I’m on the floor,” Tampini said. “I sold a Zenith combination today; that’s what we’re out delivering.”
“Fine,” Hadley said, smiling. “How’s your girl?”
“We’re married,” Tampini managed to answer, overcome with shyness. Under his Arrow shirt his chest swelled with pride. “Say, drop over sometime and have dinner with us; Virginia’s a swell cook.”
“I will,” Hadley promised.
The two men lingered. “Good to see you again, Stumblebum,” Olsen said abruptly. “The joint isn’t the same.” He didn’t look directly at Hadley. “Sorry you’re gone, but I’m glad you told that fat-assed Fergesson off. Do it again for me sometime.”
Hadley said nothing.
“I always thought you didn’t belong in a crummy joint like Modern,” Olsen continued. “If I had anything but crap in my pants I’d tell him to go shove it and get the hell out of there. But I guess I won’t. I guess I’m too chicken-shit.”
“I never thought of it that way,” Hadley said.
“Well,” Olsen said, belching, “maybe it wasn’t worth it.” He gestured toward Hadley’s face. “You look pretty damn awful with that missing peeper; why don’t you get a glass one? I know a guy, a buddy of mine, he lost an eye in the war and got a glass one. Anyhow, I’m glad you did it. You look all right, considering. You seem to be doing all right.”
Thoughtfully, Hadley answered: “I feel okay. A little tired.”
The two men got to their feet. “We have to go,” Joe Tampini said earnestly. “We’ll drop by again sometime.”
“Can I come over for a feed?” Olsen asked bluntly. “I can stand some broad-cooked food for a change. Those goddamn hash houses are ruining my gut.”
“Sure,” Hadley said, grinning. “Anytime. I’ll give you a call on the phone.” As they wandered out the door, he said: “You think Fergesson will care if you visit us?”
“Fuck him,” Olsen bellowed as he strolled down the concrete walk, hunched over, head turned like an enormous crab.
“I think he’s sorry,” Tampini said, blushing. “I mean, I think he feels it was his fault. He knows—” He broke off, confused. “It’s none of my business. I think he feels responsible.”
Hadley nodded.
“He’s having trouble finding people to run both stores,” Tampini said hurriedly. “I think—”
“Come on!” Olsen squalled from the truck. “Get your ass out of the sling—we have to deliver this pile of shit and get back to the store.”
The truck drove noisily off, and Hadley reentered the apartment to resume his work. For a little while he thought about Fergesson and the store. Then the images faded; he was glad to get rid of them. They ceased dancing around him, and he turned his attention back to the corroded stove.
The message itself came through Alice. As Hadley and his wife were laying squares of asphalt tile in the kitchen, Ellen said: “I have something to tell you. I don’t know what you’re going to say; maybe I shouldn’t even mention it.”
Hadley laid down the glue pot and seated himself at the kitchen table. It was late, almost midnight; the windows were wide open to the heavy night air. Up and down the street there was only darkness and immobility. A few tubby insects bumbled and fluttered around the overhead light.
“I think I know what it is,” Hadley said. “Tampini said something when they were over.”
Continuing with the tile laying, Ellen said: “Alice Fergesson came down to the office today; she found out where I work from my mother. She stayed a couple of hours.” She glanced up anxiously at her husband. “Do you mind if I talk about it?”
“I don’t mind.”
“She wanted to know how we were getting along. She asked about Pete. And about you, of course. Do you remember her co
ming to visit you at the hospital?”
“Vaguely,” Hadley said. The whole period at the police hospital, the interviews with the judge, the activity of the lawyers, the legal arrangements, were blurred and uncertain in his mind. “How is she?”
“She’s fine. She—” Ellen hesitated. “Well, she says that Fergesson says if you want, you can come back to work.”
“I know,” Hadley said after a pause. “I figured that out.”
“She didn’t know how you’d feel . . . Neither did I, because I never thought about it. I just—considered it a closed book. You know what I mean?”
“Yes,” Hadley agreed. “I know what you mean.”
“It took me completely by surprise . . . I told her I’d tell you.” Ellen grabbed some tiles and worked feverishly, intently. “So that’s what she said. She didn’t really say much . . . That’s what she came by for, of course. There weren’t any details . . . I guess it would be the same as it was.”
“I knew it was going to be brought up,” Hadley said. “Is she waiting for an answer?”
“I’m supposed to call her.”
“Tell her to thank Fergesson and tell him I’m not coming back.”
Ellen let out her breath with a rush. “Thank God.”
“It means you have to keep on working awhile. Until I line up something.”
“You shouldn’t be working yet anyhow!” Ellen protested.
“I’m well enough,” Hadley said firmly. “I can begin looking for something.”
Presently Ellen said in a tiny voice: “What sort of thing, darling? What are you going to do?” Wanly, she said: “I’ve been wondering . . . I know you want to do something new, I guess. Different.”
Voices from the Street Page 39