‘My dear,’ declared Patrick, one hand on his hip, the other holding his glass up as though in a toast, ‘I had already fallen when Louise went down, and when she hit the floor I skidded three feet in her direction!’
My wife laughed and waggled an admonishing finger. ‘Patrick, you’re a scandal!’ Patrick, looking smug, lit up one of his French cigarettes, and she put a saucepan of water on to boil.
‘By the way,’ I said, realizing that this had been bothering me for some time now – in fact since I’d talked to Daffie – ‘where did they take Roger?’ This last was shouted out in relative silence, as the dishwasher timer suddenly clicked over, and it made my wife and Patrick start. Frightened me, too, in a way. They turned away. I lowered my voice. ‘I, uh, didn’t see him in the dining room.’
‘They took him into your study,’ my wife explained. She put a lid on the saucepan, staring at it as though estimating its contents. ‘They said the TV bothered them.’
‘Really?’ I pulled the cold beers forward, packing the warm cans in at the back. ‘I don’t even think it’s on.’
‘Knud was watching something.’
‘He fell asleep.’
‘You know, he told me a really weird story tonight,’ said Patrick, sucking up some of the crushed ice from his salty bitch.
‘Knud?’
‘No, Roger, of course. Before the – before …’
Shoving things around to make room for the beer, I discovered at the back an old bottle of tequila, still about a third full. Must have been in there for years.
‘He said he came home one night and Ros was gone.’
‘Nothing weird about that. The weird thing was to find her at home. Say, how long’s it been since we were last in Mexico?’
‘Eight and a half years, Gerald – but don’t interrupt. Tell us about the story, Patrick. What happened … ?’
‘Well, it’s very peculiar,’ said Patrick, stubbing out his cigarette, his bright eyes squinting from the smoke, his voice losing some of its mincing distance, mellowing toward intimacy. ‘He said he arrived home from the office late one night and Ros was gone, but there in her place, sitting in a chair by the window, was a strange old lady. Roger said the only word for her was “hag.” An old hag. She had long scraggly white hair, wild piercing eyes, a hunched back, and she was dressed in pitiful old rags. He said he felt a strange presentiment about her as though he were in the presence of some dreadful mystery. He asked her why she’d come, and she replied that she’d been told he was a great lawyer and could help her in her misfortune. She claimed to possess a fabulous wealth which she wished to share with all the world, but which had been taken away from her by a wicked and spiteful son and locked in a secret vault. Moreover, her son was seeking to have her declared mentally insane and put away, and she wanted Roger to force the son to release the fortune for the benefit of all and to prevent her unjust incarceration. Well! Roger said he understood immediately that it was a parable she’d been speaking, one meant for him alone, he was the selfish son, and his treasure – well, he told the strange old woman that though he sympathized with her plight he was unable to do as she asked. “For shame!” hissed the old woman. “You’ll burn in hell for your lack of charity!” Mortified by his own weakness, he buried his head in his hands, and when he looked up again the hag was gone. He ran to the door and found Ros, lying in a swoon in the corridor outside, her hair loose and wild, her clothes torn.’
‘In a swoon—?’
‘That’s what he said. You should have seen his eyes when he told us! He said he carried her into the bedroom, fearing for her very life. He sat up with her all night, weeping buckets, kissing her feverishly, pleading for her forgiveness, until at last she came around. He begged her to tell him all that had happened, but she said she couldn’t remember a thing since she’d left the bank that afternoon.’
We were both staring at Patrick in silence when the dishwasher popped suddenly into its rinse cycle, making us all jump. I laughed. My wife said: ‘It must have been a dream, don’t you think, Gerald?’
Even over the noisy churning of the dishwasher, we could hear Mr Draper’s booming voice on the other side of the door: ‘Yes, heh heh, you might say I’ve got a lot of time on my hands!’ Patrick started up uneasily. ‘Probably,’ I said. ‘Or maybe a play Ros was in …’
‘Time, heels! Yeh heh heh!’
‘Do you think they’ll keep my tweezers?’ Patrick asked anxiously, tugging his cuffs down over his wrists, his eye on the door. ‘They’re real silver!’
‘Speaking of silver, I forgot to tell you, we’re invited to Cyril and Peg’s big anniversary party,’ my wife said, peeking into the kettle of water. The way she held the lid made me think of the Inspector hooded by Ros’s skirt.
‘Are they here yet?’
‘A – a gift from my mother—!’
‘Cyril and Peg? I think so.’ She poked around in the refrigerator and found a carton of eggs. ‘Didn’t they come with Fats and Brenda?’
‘It’s Old Man Time here, soaks! I mean, folks!’ Mr Draper sang out jovially, bumping in through the door, and Patrick slipped stealthily out behind him. Mr Draper wore wristwatches chockablock up both arms like sleeves of armor and his pants bagged low, their thin suspenders stretched tight, weighted down by his deep bulging pockets. ‘Come along now, heh heh, no present like the time!’
My wife, using a ladle, dropped the last of the eggs into the boiling water, checked her watch, then peeled it off and handed it to him. ‘Mine was your first, Mr Draper,’ I said, showing him my empty wrist.
‘Call me Lloyd, son! You – oops, nearly forgot!’ The old man reached into his hip pocket and pulled out the butcher knife the Inspector had found. ‘Iris said to return this to you.’
‘Why, thank you, Lloyd. Looks like it needs a good washing.’ As she turned to put it in the sink, our eyes met. ‘Are you all right, Gerald?’ she asked, smiling at me as she might at our young son.
‘Yes, only I – I keep forgetting things …’
‘Wasn’t there someone else here when I came in?’ asked Mr Draper, peering over his spectacles, just as Dolph came thumping in for another beer.
‘He left,’ said my wife, turning her bottom away from Dolph as he passed. She winked at me.
‘Christ, have I got a thirst!’ Dolph exclaimed, swinging open the refrigerator door.
‘Gerald just put some in, Dolph.’
‘Cold ones to the front,’ I said. It was coming back to me, the knife, loose in the room like a taunt, then someone reaching for it, picking it up …
Dolph pulled a beer out and popped it open, took a long guzzle, all the while holding the door agape.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ smiled Mr Draper, coming forward (yes, Naomi, Naomi picking it up and putting it in her bag, Mrs Draper making her take it out again – it must have been just before Roger hit me). ‘It’s time—’
‘You already got mine, Dropper,’ grumped Dolph, wiping his mouth with his sleeve (and some big woman, fallen among my wife’s potted plants, greenery in her hair like laurel, a silly look on her face as though she’d just remembered something she wished she’d forgot). ‘That one with the gold band halfway up your arm – don’t lose it!’ He belched and the dishwasher shut down. ‘That’s better!’
‘Time is never lost,’ Mr Draper declared, lifting his chin so as to peer grandly down over his long warty nose, ‘only mislaid!’
‘Jesus, what a night,’ wheezed Dolph, ignoring the old man. He shook his burry head as though in amazement, hauled out another beer. ‘It’s starting to look like a goddamn packing house in there, Gerry!’
My wife blushed, wiped her hands on her checkered apron. ‘I’ll go tidy up in a minute, Dolph.’
‘Is this guacamole?’ Mr Draper asked at the butcherblock.
The two glasses of vermouth sat there, pools of pale green light on the maple top beside the dark pudding of mashed avocado. Like two halves of an hourglass. I hurried over to the fridge, fill
ed the bucket with ice. ‘You’re right, Gerry,’ Dolph said, watching me (‘Well, it has avocados in it,’ my wife was explaining, ‘but it’s not as spicy – would you like to try some?’), ‘you sure as hell couldn’t stab anybody with that thing.’
‘Yes indeedy, ma’am – if you have a spoon. I don’t think I can chance those crispy things. New store teeth, you know.’ He grinned sheepishly and pushed them halfway out of his mouth at her.
Dolph squeezed his empty can double and tossed it in the bin, then, belching voluminously, popped the other one open. ‘I’ll take that bucket in for you, Gerry.’
‘Thanks, Dolph. Oh, hey – this bottle of tonic, too.’
Mr Draper smacked his lips generously. ‘A real treat, senyoretta!’ he beamed. She smiled again, but less buoyantly. Her courage was slipping, and I could see the anxiety and weariness crowding back. ‘But I must fyoo-git!’ He lifted his manacled arms: ‘Time, like they say, hangs heavy – yeh heh heh!’ And he left us, Dolph having preceded him without farewell.
‘Are you fyoo-gitting, too?’ my wife asked, her apron twisted up in her hands.
‘Well, duty,’ I said, picking up the two glasses.
‘Someone …’ She hesitated, staring at her hands. ‘Someone said there was a valentine.’
‘What? A valentine?’
‘In Naomi’s bag.’
‘Ah, well, what didn’t she have in there! Even our—’
‘They said it was from you.’
‘From me! What, a valentine to Naomi?’ I didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended. But she seemed to be trembling, so I set the glasses down and took her in my arms. ‘Hey, has Louise been working on you again?’
She turned her head into my chest, wrapped her arms around my neck. At least, I was thinking, she didn’t ask about the cock sock. ‘Gerald, I’m afraid …’
‘Come on, you’re my only valentine. You know that,’ I said, and lifted her chin to kiss her.
But there was a sudden rush of chattery laughter as the door whumped open and in came Charley Trainer with Woody’s wife, Yvonne, and a tall skinny man he introduced as Earl Elstob. We pulled apart. I recognized Earl by the mismatched pants and sports jacket, green socks and two-toned penny loafers, as the guy who’d been in a clinch with Charley’s wife in the TV room a little while ago. What I hadn’t seen before was the awesome overbite that nearly hid his chin from view. One of Charley’s insurance projects no doubt; he often brought them to parties to soften them up.
‘Hey!’ boomed Charley affably, wrapping his free arm around my wife’s waist; the other carried glasses and a half-bottle of scotch. ‘Hey!’
My wife, getting out a fresh handtowel, said, ‘Goodness! I’ve got so much to do!’ and Earl Elstob, grinning toothily, asked us if we knew what a constipated jitterbug was. Charley Trainer har-harred and lumbered over to the fridge for some ice cubes. He grabbed ahold of two, and a half-dozen fell out. ‘You’re lookin’ beautiful!’ he said to the room in general, and Yvonne, a huge splotch of blood over the left side of her face, thrust her empty glass out and cried: ‘You goddamn right!’
My wife picked up the avocado dip and offered it around, Charley slopping half of it out on the floor with his first dip. He stooped with a grunt to wipe it up with his fingers, hit his face on the edge of the bowl in my wife’s hands, came up with a green blob over his right eye like some kind of vegetable tumor. ‘What izziss stuff anyhow?’ he asked, licking his fingers. Big Chooch they called him back in his college football days: Choo-Choo Trainer, last of the steamroller fullbacks. In those days he could sometimes be stopped but rarely brought down; now, any time after happy hour, you could tip him over with your little finger.
‘One who can’t jit!’ Earl Elstob hollered out, just as my mother-in-law came in, looking down her nose at so much noise, to get cookies and milk for Mark. Charley backed out of her way, crunching ice cubes underfoot, and bumped into the cabinets, sending things clattering around inside.
‘There’s some vanilla pudding for him in there, Mother,’ my wife said, exchanging a cautionary glance with me. ‘Behind the bean salad.’
‘Mark’s still not asleep?’ I asked. Yvonne seemed to be crying.
‘Not yet!’ my mother-in-law snapped, giving me a fierce penetrating look which had more in it than mere reproach. She slammed the refrigerator shut, snatched down a box of candies from the cupboard, and, jaws clenched, planted a button of chocolate in the middle of the little bowl of pudding – fplop! – like some kind of immutable judgment.
Charley Trainer, staring down at it, suddenly went limp and morose, his thick jowls sagging. ‘That poor damn kid …,’ he muttered tearfully, the avocado dip now slipping down over his eyebrow as though he were melting, and my wife shook her head at him, her finger at her lips.
Charley stared at her foggily, failing to understand, opened his mouth to speak, and my wife, in desperation, grabbed up the dip again: ‘Charley! A little more … ?’ Yvonne stifled a sob.
‘But … but I loved her—!’
‘We all did, Charley. Here …’
I had a catch in my own chest and felt suddenly I had to get out of here (Mavis over the body, working her jaws: it was like trying to turn a key in a stiff lock, my chest felt like a stiff lock) – but as I grabbed up the glasses and turned to go, Tania came bursting in, her bangles jangling, holding her bloodsoaked dress out away from her body as though it were hot soup spilled there, crying: ‘My god, look at this! What am I going to do?’
My mother-in-law took one glance and replied matter-of-factly: ‘It should be soaked in a chloride-of-lime solution. If that doesn’t work, try salts of sorrel.’
‘Protein soap will do just as well,’ my wife said, turning the fire off under the boiling eggs. ‘Just a minute and I’ll get you some, Tania.’
Her mother sniffed scornfully and paraded out with the milk and pudding, her chin high, old dark nylons whistling in deprecation, Earl Elstob holding the door for her, while slurping at his drink. ‘One who – huh! shlup! – can’t jit?’ he repeated hopefully. Yvonne had buried her face in her hands, her short straight hair, rapidly going gray, curtaining her face. It was the first time I’d seen her break down since the day she first learned about her breast cancer.
Tania picked up the steak knife Patrick had used to cut his grapefruit, touched the point with her fingertip. ‘Janny was crying, too,’ she said, peering up at Charley over her half-lens spectacles.
‘Janny’s not very flexible,’ Charley rumbled apologetically, wiping away the green dip in his eye.
Yvonne lifted her head, flicked her hair back from her face (I saw now that the eyelash on the side splashed with blood was thickly clotted and her penciled eyebrow was erased: it looked like that side of her face was disappearing), blew her nose and wailed: ‘God gave me a blue Louie, Charley!’
‘Well, give’m one back, Yvonne! God-damn it!’
Tania had discovered and examined the cheese knife on the breakfast table, and was now poking through the silverware and utensils drawers. My wife glanced up anxiously from the sink where she was draining the water off the eggs. ‘Is there something you need, Tania?’
‘Yes,’ said Tania, closing a drawer, while Charley staggered around the room dropping cubes in drinks and on the floor and pouring scotch, ‘maybe I will rinse this dress out.’
‘The soap’s up in the bathroom,’ my wife said, running cold water over the eggs. ‘In the cabinet under the sink, or else the linen cupboard – Gerald, could you look for it? It’s in a blue box …’
‘Sure …’ A whiff of herbs rose to my nose from the cool sweating glasses in my hands, and that now-familiar sense of urgency washed over me again. ‘As soon as I—’
‘Is that my wife’s drink?’ It was Alison’s husband, standing behind me in the doorway, one hand in his jacket pocket, the thumb pointed at me like a warrant, the other holding a meerschaum pipe at his mouth. ‘She’s been waiting …’
‘Ah! Yes, I was just�
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‘Two of them? Well …’ He clamped the pipe in his teeth, took both glasses as though, reluctantly, claiming booty. ‘I’ll see that she gets them.’
‘Now, there goes a pretty man!’ exclaimed Yvonne as the door slapped to, and Earl Elstob, as though suddenly inspired, asked: ‘Say, huh! yuh know the best way to find out if a girl’s ticklish?’ Charley was fishing about in the refrigerator and things were crashing and tinkling in there. He came out with that bottle I’d noticed earlier, dragging dishes and beer cans with it, and, holding it at arm’s length, stared quizzically at the label, then shrugged and poured some in his glass of scotch. ‘He looks like Don the Wand!’
‘Juan?’
‘Yeah, or the Scarlet Pippin – Pimple – what the hell—?’
‘Hey!’ Charley laughed, waggling the bottle. ‘Y’know why the—?’
‘Pimpernel,’ my wife said.
Tania took my arm. ‘C’mon, Gerry. Let’s go get cleaned up.’
‘No, wait!’ Charley rumbled. ‘Jussa – ha ha! – jussa goddamn minute! Why’da Mexican push his wife till she – hruff! haw! – fell offa cliff?’
‘Uh, that’s sorta – shlup! – like a shotgun weddin’,’ Earl yucked, sucking.
‘Check on the toilet paper while you’re up there, Gerald!’ my wife called as Tania, her arm wrapped in mine, pulled me through the door, whispering: ‘There’s something I have to show you, Gerry – something strange!’
‘You know, huh, a case of wife or—’
‘What cli-iii-iif-fff?’ howled Yvonne.
‘And handtowels!’
‘No – haw haw! – wait … !’
As we pushed through the people around the dining table, making our way toward the hall, Tania said, ‘Just a sec,’ and reached in to inspect some knives and skewers, her dress rustling as it brushed others. Over by the sideboard, Alison, discussing Tania’s painting with Mrs Draper, pointed up at something, then adopted ‘Susanna’s’ pose, one hand down in front, the other, holding the vermouth, at her breast, and looked back over her shoulder. Our eyes met and she smiled brightly, dropping the pose as though, still Susanna, exposing herself. She raised her fresh glass of vermouth at me, invited me over with a jerk of her head ‘(In a moment!)I mouthed silently, pointing at Tania’s broad back (she was slipping something into the pockets of her dress), then blew her a kiss just as her husband, who’d been standing in the TV room doorway, turned around, fitting his pipe into his mouth. He froze for a second, teeth bared around the tooth-white pipe, staring at me, and I wiped my lips with the hand with the kiss in it as though I had something hot in my mouth. Alison looked puzzled. Her husband lit up thoughtfully in the shadows behind her.
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