by Robert Bloch
The past recaptured. Was that the solution?
Warren stared at her as her face melted, merging with a memory. Connie O’Hara. Connie O’Hara, the waitress with the auburn hair. The one he dated but never—because she was a good Catholic—and how he had wanted to, but she wouldn’t let him, so he never did, not with a redhead—
“Whatcha looking at?” The baby-blue eyes held amusement, the voice was warm and husky. Everything was warm and soft; there was no strangeness left in the room or in the world. Warren felt himself sinking back on the sofa, sinking back in time to a place where everything was right again, even the warmth lancing his loins.
“Don’t let all this old junk fool you,” Dolly said. “I’m not a museum piece, you know.”
She was in his arms now, so swiftly that he scarcely had time to murmur. But he did murmur, and she heard him, and she giggled.
“Harry? Oh to hell with Harry. Besides, he’s dead.”
And then there was no more laughter, nor any sound save that of quickened breath.
FIFTEEN
Lena was working over on Suncrest this afternoon. That’s where the motel units were and they’d be showing people through them this weekend, so she had to get a move on. But it was an easy job. All she had to do was go in, raise the blinds, dust around a little and make sure the windows looked clean.
She’d just finished 1702 and was pushing the service cart over to 1704 when Mr. Ruppa—he was in 1703, across the street—opened the front door and hollered where the hell were his clean towels.
Like always he was drunk. Anyway, he sounded like he was drunk. That’s the rich ones for you. Only four o’clock and he was schnookered up already. And what did he want with towels?
Lena knew she’d made his place up with clean linen yesterday afternoon when he went out, but you can’t fly off the handle with the tenants. And he give her twenty dollars Christmas.
So she didn’t say nothing, just pulled the towels off the cart and took them over to him. His breath stunk something awful, maybe because he forgot to put in his teeth or something. Lena always put her teeth in a glass water before she went to bed and sort of cleaned them up in the morning.
But you take fellas like Mr. Ruppa, they probably was afraid to get that close to a glass just plain water. Schnapps he had to have. Always such a mess cleaning up by his place on account of the bottles and glasses and him spilling stuff on things.
He didn’t say a word, just grabbed onto the towels and the door went slam! right in her face. So Lena crossed over and unlocked 1704 and went in. But all the time she cleaned she kept on sort of talking to herself.
If she was only smart, boy could she ever write a book about the goings on! Four years by this place and seven years downtown in the hotel where it was even worse on account of the gamblers and call girls and all.
The things that go on most people don’t know about! Like when she was at the hotel and Mr. Kelsey busted down the door and they find this lady—what was her name once?—anyhow she was the fat one with the dyed hair lying bare-naked in the bathtub, dead. With that vibrator. Mr. Kelsey said she got electricoted, whatever you call it. Served her right, doing a crazy thing like that. And what about the wholesale grocers convention when she heard all the screaming and she reported to the bell captain and they went up and there was this dirty Chinaman beating up on that girl with a whip? He had her tied down and everything and she was all blood, but when they come in she got real mad on account of they made the Chinaman stop. Such a rotten business—that’s why she quit and took the job out here.
Only it wasn’t much better, not if you kept your eyes open. Even if all she did was clean they couldn’t fool her any. Like that Mrs. Thomas and what she did Wednesday nights when Mr. Thomas went by the Bowling Club. And the pictures she found that time after the minister died—right inside the Holy Bible yet. Such people!
But the work wasn’t too hard and right now if she quick hurried up and got the rest of the units cleaned she could get off early.
Anton would be on his off too and they could stay by the storeroom where they kept the pool supplies, all those air mattresses. Nobody came nosing around and maybe they could have some drinks. That Anton, he got so rough when he had too much, he would hit her a crack and make her bleed, but it felt good like that, you know? And it made it better after. Three years, twice a week, and his wife didn’t catch on. A good one, huh?
Yes, it was going to be nice, with Anton. Better yet than working for the rich bitches around this place, them and their nasty business. They could have their money. She was better off poor. Poor but decent.
Anyhow it was interesting, the job was. Maybe she would run into something tomorrow when she did the manors over on Glenaire. Old lady Honecker always went to have Sunday dinner with her son and daughter-in-law on Sundays. She was always so polite and soft-spoken, but them quiet ones, they’re the type you got to watch out for. Lena decided that tomorrow she’d try those keys she noticed in the jewelry box and see if one of them opened the bottom drawer of the bureau. There must be something hid away down there. You never can trust any of those rich bitches.
SIXTEEN
It was past four when Warren opened his eyes. His head throbbed and his mouth felt very dry.
He slid out of bed and stood up, contemplating his clothing draped over the back of the chair near the wall. He reached for it and began to dress slowly, his movements falling into an unconscious rhythm set by the gentle, even snore from the bed behind him.
His attention kept jumping. God, what a room! All it needed was a sign reading, Texas Guinan Slept Here. The wall lamps, imitation candles, held orange bulbs. The boudoir chairs had fringed aprons, the shag rugs were monogrammed in pink, the mirror over the ornate vanity was vintage deMille. And from the walls on either side, the faces stared down.
Here was Jimmy Durante, with hair, and two partners. Miss Sally Rand with two fans, Babe Ruth with two bats. Everybody was smiling, everybody was cheerful, but Warren, turning again to the mirror, found his face grim.
Buttoning his shirt, his eyes swept past the closet, encountering a white robe with a feathered boa collar. It might have looked good on Carmel Myers, but where was she now?
Warren reached for his jacket. Over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of the French doll sprawled on the floor near the window. It had been sitting on the bed when they came in—how many French dolls sat on how many beds in how many yesterdays?—but now it lay on the floor, limbs dangling limply, neck twisted to partially obscure the painted pout of its face. There was something hideous about the figure; it was like a corpse fallen from a great height.
But he had to stare at it. And finally, as he moved quietly toward the doorway, he had to stare at her.
He had to see her sprawled on the bed—see the limbs dangling limply, the painted pout of a face. Dolly Dimples, the original French doll, the corpse toppled from a height on some long-forgotten yesterday.
The face, in sleep, was not in itself disturbing; there was still no trace of wrinkles. But there was no trace of life, either.
Nothing in this room, nothing in this house, was alive. Everything was perfectly preserved, but it had no meaningful existence now; it belonged in the past. And the past was a snare and a delusion. You could live in yesterday’s triumphs, laugh at yesterday’s jokes—but eventually you’d drown in yesterday’s tears.
Or was he rationalizing? All he wanted to do was sneak out of a woman’s bedroom before she woke up—just another traveling salesman. Why overreact?
The answer came when he reached the living room. Its impact was too intense. Empty glasses, stale smoke, stagnant perfume, smirks on faces that had long since become skulls—yesterday bared its teeth and Warren fled.
The front door closed quietly behind him and he moved out, unnoticed, to the street. There he came alive again.
And now what?
What did Lazarus do after he rose from the dead?
Warren shrugged. The question h
ad no meaning, because he wasn’t Lazarus. He hadn’t risen—
Face it. Face the fact that you couldn’t face it, couldn’t face Dolly when she awoke. That was the real reason he’d run away, to escape her disgust, her contempt.
But not his own. That he carried with him. She’d been lucky, passing out almost the moment she hit the bed, but he hadn’t been that fortunate. He’d tried, tried and failed before sinking down into troubled sleep. And even that restless slumber was a relief, because the nightmare had come before, in the impotent effort.
All right, the truth now. You wanted her because you thought it would be different—not like the way it was with Sylvia. The drowning man, clutching at a straw—and the straw broke.
When you drown your whole life passes in review. You see it because you’re still alive, but not for long. And it wouldn’t be long now; thank God for that, because he didn’t like what he saw.
Warren turned, squinting into the sun. It was almost level with the rooftops now, level with his gaze.
Time to go home.
Time to go—
He started down the street, watching the flow of late afternoon traffic. When he reached the corner he glanced to the left, debating if he ought to take a roundabout route and avoid passing the block where Tom and Jerry lived. But they wouldn’t be able to see him from here, and the brunch was long since over; the guests had gone.
What had Jerry thought when he didn’t return from Dolly’s place? Could she suspect what happened, did she know? Perhaps Dolly would tell her, though that wasn’t likely. Dolly had her own pride to protect.
Warren shook his head. She wouldn’t talk. Once an actress, always an actress. But if you came right down to it, every woman was an actress, in her own way. And when a man marries it’s like going backstage at a theater. That’s part of the attraction—it’s exciting to find out what goes on behind the scenes, learn all the secrets of costume and make-up, see the actress when she’s not playing a role. Then, gradually, the novelty fades, disillusionment sets in, the reality becomes dull and tawdry. And the man looks for a new theater, a new actress whose privacy he can invade.
Well, it didn’t matter now. Even if Dolly did say something, he was home free. And that wasn’t a figure of speech; once he reached home now he would be free.
He crossed at the corner, turned, quickening his pace, matching the traffic’s tempo.
The late shoppers drove by, hurrying home from the supermarket with the weekend groceries crowding the spare tire inside the trunk. The golfers were leaving the links, the bowlers had deserted the lawn, and the elderly woman on the bicycle was obviously returning from the tennis court. Warren smiled as she passed: Eden was one place where you could actually see little old ladies in tennis shoes.
And young people, too—the sons and the daughters, nephews and nieces, even the grandchildren, paying the duty visit to the old folks at home. Once a week, once every two weeks, perhaps only once a month or less, but the routine was always the same. An hour or so of awkward, uneasy small talk and then the quick, grateful glance at the watch. Well, Dad, looks like we’ll have to be running along now. Sorry, Mom, but we really have to go. Now you take care of yourself, understand?
And maybe Dad smiled bleakly and maybe Mom cried, but they did understand. Visiting hours always had to end—at the prison, the hospital, the sanatorium, even at the zoo. And Eden was all of these places in one. The only difference being that its inmates were self-incarcerated, its patients self-admitted. Its once-wild specimens had chosen captivity here.
But even in confinement the inhabitants of Eden represented the elite, the fortunate few. Living in luxury, cushioned by comforts denied the vast majority of their impoverished, underprivileged peers.
Warren shrugged. Save your pity for them, he told himself. For the senior citizens struggling along on the antisocial insecurity of social security, the golden-age generation pinching the pennies of their pitiful pensions, the elder statesmen confronting a state of perpetual poverty. The unemployed and unemployable, living in their geriatric ghettoes, their termite infested bungalow courts, one-room furnished apartments, fleabag hotels, Main Street flophouses. And the wretched refugees in the resthomes, the asylums for the aged. What were the figures—eighty, eighty-five per cent of the entire population over the age of sixty-five facing this fate?
Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we go—
That’s the way the old song went, but the song was ended. The river was choked with pollution, the woods had been cut down to make room for a new high-rise savings and loan building, and Grandmother’s house had been long since sold to meet mortgage payments. The elderly no longer lived on farms, or in the urban homes of their children. The best they could hope for was right here in Eden, and this only if they were lucky. But was that really all one might expect in return for a lifetime of effort—nothing but the meager assurance of creature comfort while you watched the sunsets, waiting for the end?
Well, he wasn’t waiting. And he’d watch only one more sunset.
Warren walked down the street, turned, climbed. His leg muscles protested against the effort of ascending the grade, but he ignored their message. They’d rest soon enough now.
He came abreast of the house, noting with satisfaction that the garage was empty. Good. Sylvia was at the beauty shop—only five-thirty now; she wouldn’t be back for at least an hour. And when she did arrive—
Better not think about that. Besides, it wouldn’t be so bad, not after the initial trauma. At least everything would be neat and clean; not one of those gruesome self-executions with the muzzle thrust into the mouth and the back of the head blown off, the blood and brains spattering the ceiling. How could anyone contemplate such a method? Was it a final assertion of ego, one last melodramatic plea for attention, a sick mind’s sick joke about going out with a bang instead of a whimper? Or was the self-condemned man really condemning the woman—punishing her with the ultimate shock? Was it a reversion to childhood, an infantile rebellion against Mama’s demands for keeping everything neat and tidy? Look at the mess I made here—ha ha, now you’ll have to clean it up.
No, he didn’t feel that way, and there would be no mess for Sylvia. His was an act of reason, not revenge. And like a reasonable man, like an efficient and competent CPA, he’d already arranged affairs in anticipation of what was to come. The will waited in the safe deposit box at the bank, along with the insurance papers. Securities had been transferred long ago, and there was a neat, complete, itemized listing typed in triplicate. No major bills outstanding; everything owned outright and the accounts brought up to date. His house was in order.
And now was the time to enter it.
Warren reached into his pocket, captured the key, fitted it to the lock. The front door swung open, then closed behind him as he moved into the living room. A simple sequence of actions and reactions, everything automatic, programmed and performed a thousand times before. But now he found himself aware of every movement, every moment. Aware of sounds, aware of silences, conscious of the warmth from the window and the pattern of lemon light and purple shadow sun-strewn across the carpet.
Yes, the sun was setting now, just as he’d envisioned it; the air was clear and smog-free, but clouds cushioned the horizon and the sun was sinking into them, sinking to rest.
He could watch from the chair before the window, see it all as he sank into rest. When you come to the end of a perfect day—
Warren found himself shrugging, trying to shake off the thought which kept obtruding, but the words of the old song were already fading and the voice of reason rose.
The sunset was just an optical illusion caused by the rotation of the earth, its color created as the receding rays filtered through atmospheric pollution. And the sun itself was merely a mass of flaming gases shimmering in space; it didn’t sink and it never rested. Beyond was a vast void in which a million times a million more suns swirled, their firefly flickerings lost in an endles
s expanse of emptiness.
Firefly flickerings. Was that the voice of reason? Warren shrugged again. The mundane mind, stubbornly rationalizing the irrational into simple simile. Unable to accept the fact that light was only a pulsation, energy was a pulsation, thought itself a phenomenon of another pulsation which we call consciousness.
But damn it to hell, he wasn’t going to be cheated out of his sunset. No voice, reasonable or unreasonable, would interfere now. Not Dolly Dimples’ voice pining for the past, not Roy Crile’s voice praising the present, not Sylvia’s voice forcing him into a future he’d forsworn.
For a moment he found himself wishing he could hear Sylvia’s voice just once more. The voice of the old Sylvia—who had, of course, been the young Sylvia. Easy to talk to, because she understood. Starting out together they’d shared the same problems, sought the same solutions. But the wench was dead. Or, if alive, in another country where her problems, her solutions, even her language was different. Was it Seneca who’d slit his wrists in the tub and then lay back to quietly converse with friends as life ebbed away? Warren wasn’t Seneca; he had no one to talk to, certainly not Sylvia.
“Almost six.” His own voice now, prompting him to action.
Warren turned and walked down the hall into the bathroom.
As he entered he caught himself wondering why so many chose to end existence here, of all possible places. Fools and philosophers, even Seneca in his tub. Symbolism? Life going down the drain, down the tube? A need for privacy in which to commit the deed of shame—suicide, the ultimate autoerotic act?
And what was he: philosopher or fool? Perhaps both; perhaps they were one and the same. It didn’t matter; what mattered was that he was tired of explaining himself to himself, tired of questions now that he’d discovered an answer.