In excess of anger Dix took the measly check now and tore it into little pieces, tore it and restore it and scattered it all over Mel’s rug. The usual check, the pittance on which to exist another month. Go to a Veterans’ Hospital. Beg. you’re a veteran, aren’t you?
He sat there at the desk, holding his hot head with his steeled lingers. Seeing through his fingers the stack of bills addressed to Mel Terriss. It was rotten luck running into Mel that night. Why couldn’t he have met Mel during the war years, when he could have sneered down at him the way he’d wanted to all his life? But Mel had been hiding out in some factory: even the Army hadn’t wanted Mel. When they met, the war was long over and Mel was a rich stinker again.
Dix had tried not to speak to Mel in the bar that night, he’d avoided the recognition, forgetting you couldn’t avoid an ass like Mel. Mel had to weave over and poke his fat, stupid face across the table. Dix could see what was churning in Mel’s mind as he looked at the blonde. Ready to start over the same old way, let Dix do the dirty work, procure the girls in exchange for tips. Well, it hadn’t worked that way; he’d stopped boot-licking six years ago. And maybe it wasn’t so bad running into Mel. Dix had the apartment and the car and the clothes: the charge accounts wouldn’t hold out forever but they were still good enough. That was the sort of money Mel had. And Mel was in Rio. good old Mel!
Without Mel, there would have been no Laurel. His brain cooling, the hunger for Laurel began gnawing again. Maybe she had had a chance to sing at some big event; she wouldn’t turn it down, he knew that, even if she hungered for him as he for her. She was like him that way, she was after big time. The only difference was she wasn’t looking for money; she wanted a spotlight.
Hatred of Uncle Fergus surged anew. Unless Dix could help Laurel get that spotlight, he’d be sloughed. As soon as the new wore off him. As soon as she found out he was broke. He couldn’t lose her, she was the only thing he had. The only right thing he’d had since he took off his uniform. In shame he got down on his hands and knees and began gathering up the tiny pieces of the check. He had to have this much money; it wouldn’t last long but it would prolong things for another week, maybe by that time he could raise more. There must be ways to get gravy out here; there were sure to be, only he hadn’t been looking for them. He hadn’t needed to, the two-fifty did well enough before he met Laurel. Delicately he picked up each small piece, being careful not to crumple them. And then came the fear that Laurel would return suddenly, find him in this ridiculous position. He began to work faster, nervously. When he had retrieved all the scraps, his hands were wet and shaking. He had to wipe the palms on his shirt before he dared piece the check together. He was careful despite his shaking fingers, putting each small piece in its proper place. Until they were put together and one piece missing. It had to be a piece of value, the “Fergus” of the signature. Frantically he searched for it, crawling on the floor like a baby, trembling with the fear that she or someone would come before it was found.
He spied it finally, under the desk chair. He had the check again! He didn’t know if a bank would accept it, whether it would be necessary to write again to Uncle Fergus with some excuse about its destruction. The maid mixing it with advertising folders, tearing it up. Uncle Fergus wouldn’t believe his story. He’d stop payment on the first check and then he’d wait to make sure it hadn’t been cashed before he sent a second. It would be a month at least before Uncle Fergus would return a check to Dix, a month with not more than a ten spot left in his pocket.
Worrying about what could happen, a sickness came over him, so real that he felt weak as a cat. He could scarcely make it to the couch. He flopped there, his eyes closed, his fingers tight in his palms. He couldn’t lose Laurel. He wouldn’t lose her. No matter what he did. He could go to work. There must be plenty of jobs. Laurel knew a lot of rich people; maybe he could give her a story about needing to get into something. Not for money. For research. Or Brub. Brub might get him on the police force.
He could smile at that: and he then felt better. Only what would Laurel be doing while Dix was on call twenty-four hours a day? She wouldn’t be sitting at home; she wasn’t a Sylvia.
He couldn’t go to work; there were other ways of getting money. If Laurel would only introduce him to some of her friends; the easiest way to get money was through those who had money. He knew how to do it that way. Why was Laurel keeping him hidden? Anger was rising; he mustn’t get angry now. He couldn’t take another spasm. He went to the bar and he poured a heavy slug of the stuff; he didn’t want it but it settled his stomach.
If he knew where Laurel was, he’d go to her now. If she cared anything about him she’d have wanted him there tonight to hear her sing. He didn’t believe she was singing. She had another man; whenever she got a chance to be with that man. she didn’t care whom she knocked down.
He couldn’t remain here all evening thinking these thoughts, suffering these agonies. He’d go nuts. He had to get out, go where he could breathe. Go hide himself in the night.
He caught his breath. He didn’t dare. It was too soon. The police were still on the alert. And there was Laurel. He didn’t dare do anything that might spoil what he had with Laurel. But he couldn’t stay here. He had to get away from thinking his thoughts.
He went to the bedroom, seized the telephone. He didn’t know how main times Brub had called during these days, these weeks. Dix had abruptly turned down all advances. But he’d left the door open. When the surge of work was over, he’d call Brub. He didn’t notice the time until after he had dialed: he was relieved to see that it wasn’t late at all, not quite nine o’clock.
It was Sylvia who answered. She sounded not only surprised to hear from him but almost as if she’d never before heard his voice. He asked for Brub. “Is he home? Thought I might run out for a little if he isn’t busy.”
By that time she seemed to know him again. She was cordial. “Do come out. We’ve been wondering when you’d get your nose out of that book.”
“Sure you don’t mind?”
“We welcome you,” she said quickly. “And I do mean it. Brub was so bored just sitting around with me, he’s gone next door to borrow a rake or a deck of cards or something.”
“He isn’t at home?”
“He will be before you get here,” she said with certainty. “Come along.”
He felt better right away, he felt himself again. Sure of himself, happy, easy. He’d stayed in too closely with Laurel; that wasn’t good for a man. Maybe she’d felt it too. Maybe that was why she’d taken this job tonight. But she couldn’t have felt too shut in, she’d been out every day on lessons or beauty appointments or some excuse.
He didn’t bother to change his clothes. He grabbed the nearest jacket, putting it on as he returned to the living room. He had to delay there. The torn check was on the desk. He wouldn’t want Laurel to see it. He scooped the pieces into an envelope, sealed it to make certain he wouldn’t lose any precious bit, and stuck it in his jacket pocket. He looked down at the stack of bills addressed to Mel, wondering if Laurel had noticed them, and if she had. why she hadn’t said anything. Someone had stacked them in that neat pile, not he. It could have been the slattern, but it could have been Laurel. It probably had been Laurel; he could see her hands now arranging the paper and the magazines on the table. Idly, deliberately. She could have done the same to the mail while he was dressing or putting on the coffee. Idly, but she would have noticed. Noticed and wondered. He swept the mail into the drawer, banging it shut. He wasn’t going to think in circles: he was going to Brub’s and forget.
3
He left the apartment by the back door. It gave him a good feeling as soon as he stepped into the night; he was doing something familiar. The night too was good; there were no stars, only hazy darkness. He went softly through the alley to the garage. The sound of the door opening couldn’t carry back to the apartments. The hinges were well oiled.
The car looked good. He hadn’t had it out for da
ys, and it felt good to be at the wheel. He didn’t have to back out quietly, he let it purr: he was going to visit his friend, his friend the policeman.
By the time he reached the Nicolais’ there was no anger, no tension left in him. He whistled his way up the walk. Brub opened the door and things were good again, the way they’d been that first night. Brub in sneakers and a pair of pants as wrinkled as his own. Holding out his hand saying, “You’re a sight for sore eyes. What’s the idea of the brush-off, Genius?”
It was all good until they came into the living room together, as they had on that first night. And as on the first night. Sylvia was there. Filling the room, for all her quietness. Fading out the bright colors for all the monotone of her silver-gray slack suit, her pale gold hair, her pale, serious face. There was no welcome in her eyes for him, she was looking at him as at a stranger. In an instant she smiled, but the smile was a pale thing and in her eyes there was no smile. He felt himself an intruder and he was angry; if she hadn’t wanted him to come here tonight she could have said so, she could have said Brub was out and let it go at that. But she’d urged him to come; she’d even called Brub home for his coming.
When she spoke, it was better. “Finished that book?” she asked as if they’d been together daily. “I’m dying to read it.” Yet in the midst of her words, she chilled again. And recovered, giving him a wider smile. “How about a beer?”
“Let me,” Dix said, but she was already up from the chair, crying, “I’m the official beer-getter around here. You sit down.” She wasn’t smooth and polished in her motions tonight; there was a nervousness as she went to the bar. Maybe she and Brub had had a scrap; maybe that was why he’d gone to the neighbors, and why she’d urged Dix to come, to get them past the awkward stage. At any rate there was no difference in Brub, good old Brub, reclining himself on the couch and saying, “I was afraid you’d skipped back East, Dix.”
“Just work,” he answered. He sounded like anyone who worked, regretful of the time it took, almost apologetic.
“Finished?”
“God, no!” He laughed easily. “But the heat was off so I decided a break was in order.” Sylvia set the glass and bottle at hand on the end table. Dix took the opposite side of the couch, pushing Brub’s sneakers aside. He smiled up at Sylvia. “That’s why I barged in on you. Hope I’m not in the way.”
“Not at all! I told you we were bored, didn’t I?” She looked down at Brub. “Beer, darling?”
“Might as well.”
But there wasn’t the smilingness between them as on that first night, not the ease and two-is-one perfection. Something was wrong. Dix didn’t care about their troubles. He needed a quiet evening like this, with beer and Brub gabbing about his boat. Brub was a kid about boats. Dix didn’t want to talk; he wanted only to be lulled by this kind of aimless conversation.
There was no mention of the case; there was no case until Dix mentioned it. Until he said. “How’s the case coming?”
Under his eyes he watched Sylvia, awaited her reaction. He was disappointed. There wasn’t a reaction tonight. She was too quiet, loo colorless to be more quiet or of less color. There was no change in her at all.
“Nothing new.” Brub answered. “It’s stymied. Same as the others. No clues, no fresh evidence, no hints.”
Brub wasn’t lying to him. Brub was disgusted but he wasn’t discouraged as he had been before. The life had gone out of the case. It wasn’t closed because the police didn’t close the books, but it was as good as closed. Brub even switched the subject. “Remember Ad Tyne, Dix?”
He didn’t.
Brub insisted, “Sure you do. Adam Tyne. The flight commander from Bath. Nice quiet fellow. We saw a lot of him that spring of forty-three. The blonde one.”
He searched for memory but he didn’t find Adam Tyne. There’d been a lot of good fellows, Adam Tyne could have been any of them. Not that it was important. Brub was continuing, “Had a letter from him the first of the week. I wrote him when I got back but hadn’t heard a thing. He’s married, settled down. Wish I had the letter here, darn it, but I left it at the office.” Brub’s voice changed, became grave. The transition was so sudden that there was no time to attune to the change before the words were spoken. “He had a sad piece of news. Brucie is dead.”
Brucie is dead. The words quivered in the vacuum of quietness. Brucie is dead. They resounded thunderously in the silence. Brucie is dead.
When he could, he began to echo them as he should with proper shock, with the right incredulity. “Brucie is—“ He couldn’t finish above a whisper. His voice broke—“dead.” The tears were rolling down his cheeks; he covered his face, tried to withhold the sobs that were clawing him Brucie is dead. The words had never been spoken before. He had not known what would happen when they were spoken.
He heard from a far-off place Sylvia’s little, hurt cry, “Dix!” He heard Brub’s embarrassed apology. “Dix. I didn’t know—”
He couldn’t answer them. He couldn’t stop crying. It was a long time before he could stop; it seemed eternity within the confines of the shocked silence. He lifted his head when he could and said huskily. “I’m sorry.” It released Sylvia and Brub. They didn’t know the agony raking his heart.
“I didn’t know.” Brub said again. He blew his nose loudly. “I didn’t know you—and Brucie—”
He said simply. “She meant everything in the world to me.” Brucie, his soul wept; Brucie. He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. Sylvia’s eyes were large as moons, pale moons, sad. “We didn’t know,” she whispered.
“No.” he shook his head. “I guess no one knew. It was all over.” He put the handkerchief away. He could talk all right now: they didn’t know anything he was thinking. “How did she die? Buzz bombs?”
Brub said, “She was murdered.”
He could show shock because he was shocked. He had never expected to hear it said. It was so long ago. He echoed, “Murdered.”
Brub nodded. His face looked as if it hurt.
Dix had to ask. Painfully as it should be asked by a man who’d loved her. “How did it—what happened—who did it?”
Brub said, “The police have never found out.” He blew his nose again. “Better not talk about it. Dix.”
His jaw was firm. “I want to know.” His eyes promised that he could take it.
“She was down for a weekend at a small beach place. Her husband was coming to join her. At least that’s what she told the landlady.” Brub told it with starts and stops; he didn’t want to tell it. Dix was forcing him to tell it. “Her husband didn’t come. Or if he did. no one saw him. She went out Saturday evening alone; she didn’t come back. She wasn’t found for several weeks. In a rocky cove—she’d been strangled.”
Dix couldn’t speak. He could only look at Brub out of unseeing eyes.
“It was some time before she was identified. She hadn’t signed the register under her own name.” Brub said almost apologetically. “I wouldn’t have dreamed she was that kind of a girl. She was always gay—but she was so—so nice—you know, like a girl from home.”
“She wasn’t that kind.’” Dix choked. “She wasn’t.”
Sylvia wanted to say something but she didn’t. She just sat there like a ghost with her sad. luminous eyes on Dix. He knew he had to get out. before he broke down again. He didn’t know how to leave.
‘They never found any trace of the husband. It must have happened just after our outfit left England. That’s why we didn’t know, why we never heard about it.” And he said what was true. “There’d been so much killing, one more wasn’t news.”
Brucie had died but no one cared, only he. All of them had lost so many, dear as brothers, as their own selves, they had learned not to talk about death. They had refused to think about death being death. Even in the heart’s innermost core where each dwelled alone, they did not admit death.
Dix said unsteadily. “I’d better go.” He tried to smile at them. “Sorry”
T
hey tried to stop him. They wanted him to stay and forget in their sympathy and their understanding, in their love for him at this moment. He couldn’t stay. He had to get out, to be alone in his lonely place. To remember and to forget. He brushed aside their urging the way you brushed away smoke; knowing it would recur but you could again brush it away. He went into the night while they stood close to each other in the doorway. Together. Never alone.
He drove away not knowing where he was going or why. Only to get away. He did not know how far he drove or how long. There was no thinking in his mind; there was only sound, the swish of the dark wet water over the cold sand, colder than Brucie; the water was the voice of a girl, a voice hushed by fear, repeating over and over, no . . . no . . . no . . . Fear wasn’t a jagged split of light cleaving you; fear wasn’t a cold fist in your entrails; fear wasn’t something you could face and demolish with your arrogance. Fear was the fog, creeping about you, winding its tendrils about you, seeping into your pores and flesh and bone. Fear was a girl whispering a word over and again, a small word you refused to hear although the whisper was a scream in your ears, a dreadful scream you could never forget. You heard it over and again and the fog was a ripe red veil you could not tear away from your eyes. Brucie was dead. Brucie whom he had loved, who was his only love.
She had loved him! If there hadn’t been a marriage, one of those secret war marriages. Only she couldn’t see it was unimportant; she loved Dix but she loved that unknown husband too. She didn’t know the unknown one would die so soon. Somewhere over Germany. So many died. She was all mixed up; she wasn’t bad. She was good! He didn’t know until she died how good she was. She hadn’t done anything wrong; it wasn’t wrong to love. When you were filled with love, overflowing with love, you had to give love. If it weren’t for that boy who was to die over Germany. If Dix had only known. The swish of the waves whispering if. . . if . . . if . . . And Brucie dead. Little Brucie.
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