The Fiend

by Margaret Millar

  “Since you put it like that,” Howard said, taking her hand, “go ahead. Do you need money? What do you want to ac­complish?”

  “An errand.”

  “Ah, we’re playing the woman of mystery today, are we?”

  “There’s no mystery about it,” she said bluntly. “Jessie’s sick. I want to buy her a little game or two to keep her quiet.”

  “I see.”

  She could tell from his tone that what he saw gave him little pleasure.

  “I’m sorry the kid’s sick,” he added. “What’s the matter with her?”

  “According to Ellen, Jessie’s hands are sore from playing on the jungle gym.”

  “It hardly sounds catastrophic.”

  “I know, but Ellen tends to minimize things like that. Some­times I think she’s not sympathetic enough with the child.”

  “Sympathy can be overdone and children can take advantage of it.”

  “Not Jessie. She’s really a wonderful girl. You know, when she and I are alone together, I never have the least trouble with her. The problem of discipline doesn’t even come up.”

  “Why should it?” Howard said dryly. “She calls the shots.”

  Virginia looked shocked. “That’s not true.”

  “All right, it’s not true. I’m just imagining that she comes barging in here without knocking, helps herself to whatever is in the refrigerator, bangs on the piano, feeds the dog until he’s too stuffed to move—”

  “It so happens that she has my permission to feed both the dog and herself and to come in here when she feels like it. She has no piano of her own so I’m giving her lessons on ours be­cause I think she has talent.”

  “Listen, Virginia, I’ve wanted to say this before but I hated to cause trouble. Now that trouble’s here anyway, I might as well speak my piece. You’re getting too bound up with Jessie.”

  “I won’t listen to you.”

  She put her hands over her ears and shook her head back and forth. After a moment’s hesitation, Howard grabbed her by the wrists and forced her hands to her sides.

  “You’ll listen, Virginia.”

  “Let go of me.”

  “Later. It’s natural enough for you to be fond of the kid since we don’t have any of our own. What isn’t natural is that she’s taken everybody’s place in your life. You don’t see your friends any more, you don’t even seem to want to spend much time with me when I’m home.”

  “Why should I, when all you do is pick on me?”

  “I’m not picking on you. I’m warning you for your own good not to make yourself vulnerable to a heartbreak. Jessie doesn’t belong to you, you have no control over her. What if something happens to her?”

  “Happens? What?”

  “For one thing, Dave Brant could lose his job or be laid off and forced to move away from here.”

  Virginia was staring at him bleakly, her face white. “That would suit you fine, wouldn’t it?”

  “No. I happen to like the Brants and enjoy their company. They’re not, however, my sole interest in life. I’m prepared to survive without them. Are you?”

  “I think you’re jealous,” Virginia said slowly. “I think you’re jealous of a nine-year-old girl.”

  He let go of her wrists as if the accusation had suddenly paralyzed him. Then, with a sound of despair, he walked away into the living room. She stood motionless in the middle of the kitchen, listening to the rustle of Howard’s newspaper, the sighing of his leather chair as he sat down, and the rebellious beat of her own heart.

  (3)

  At 12:50 Charlie Gowen went back to the wholesale paper supply company where he was employed. He was always punctual, partly by nature, partly because his brother, Benjamin, had been drumming it into him for years. “So you have your faults, Charlie, and maybe you can’t help them. But you can be careful about the little things, like being on time and neat and keeping your hair combed and not smoking or drinking, and working hard— A bunch of little things like that, they all add up, they look good on a man’s record. Employment record, I mean.”

  Charlie knew that he didn’t mean employment record but he let it go and he listened to Ben’s advice because it sounded sensible and because, since the death of his mother, there was no one else to listen to. He felt, too, that he had to be loyal to Ben; Ben’s wife had divorced him on account of Charlie. She’d walked out leaving a note in the middle of the bed: “I’m not coming back and don’t try to find me. I’m sick of being disgraced.”

  Charlie worked at the paper supply company as a stock boy. He liked his job. He felt at home walking up and down the narrow aisles with shelves, from floor to ceiling, filled with such a variety of things that even Mr. Warner, the owner, couldn’t keep track of them: notebooks, pens, pencils, party decorations and favors, brooms and brushes and mops, typewriter ribbons and staplers and stationery, signs saying No Trespassing, For Rent, Private, Walk In, erasers and bridge tallies and confetti and plastic lovers for the tops of wedding cakes, huge rolls of colored tickets to functions that hadn’t even been planned yet, maps, charts, chalk, ink, and thousands of reams of paper.

  The contents of the building were highly inflammable, which was one of the main reasons why Charlie had been hired. Though he carried matches for the convenience of other people, he hadn’t smoked since the age of fourteen when Ben had caught him trying it and beaten the tar out of him. Mr. Warner, the owner, had been so delighted to find a genuine nonsmoker, not just someone who’d quit a few weeks or months ago, that he’d given Charlie the job without inquiring too closely into his background. He knew in a general way that Charlie had had “trouble,” but there was never any sign of it at work. Charlie arrived early and stayed late, he was pleasant and earnest, always ready to do a favor and never asking any in return.

  In the alley behind the building Charlie found one of his co­workers, a young man named Ed Hines, leaning against the wall with an unlit cigarette in his hand.

  “Hey, Charlie, got a match?”

  “Sure.” Charlie tossed him a packet of book matches. “I’d appreciate having them back, if you don’t mind. There’s an address written on the cover.”

  Ed grinned. “And a phone number?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “You gay old dog, you!”

  “No. No, it’s not like that actually—” Charlie stopped, real­izing suddenly that Ed wouldn’t understand the truth, that there was a family at 319 Jacaranda Road who were neglecting their pretty little girl, Jessie.

  Ed returned the matches. “Thanks, Charlie. And say, the old man’s in a stew about something. You better check in at the front office.”

  Warner was behind his desk, a small man almost lost in the welter of papers that surrounded him: order forms, invoices, sales slips, bills, correspondence. Some of this stuff would be filed, some would simply disappear. Warner had started the business forty years ago. It had grown and prospered since then, but Warner still tried to manage the place as if he per­sonally knew, as he once had, every customer by name, every order from memory. Many mistakes were made, and with each one, Warner got a little older and a little more stubborn. The business continued to make money, however, because it was the only one of its kind in San Félice.

  Charlie stood in the doorway, trying to hold his head high, the way Ben kept telling him to. But it was difficult, and Mr. Warner wasn’t watching anyway. He had the telephone perched on his left shoulder like a crow. The crow was talking, loud and fast, in a woman’s voice.

  Mr. Warner put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Charlie. “You know anything about some skeletons?”

  “Skeletons?” The word emerged from Charlie’s throat as if it had been squeezed out of shape by some internal pressure. Then he went dumb entirely. He couldn’t even tell Mr. Warner that he was innocent, he had done n
othing, he knew nothing about any skeletons. He could only shake his head back and forth again and again.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Warner said irritably. “I mean those life-size cardboard skeletons we have in stock around Halloween. Some woman claims she ordered a dozen for a pathologists’ convention dance that’s being held tomorrow night.” Then into the telephone, “I can’t find any record of your order, Miss Johnston, but I’ll check again. I promise you you’ll get your skeletons even if I, ha ha, have to shoot a couple of my employees. Yes, I’ll call you back.” He hung up, turning his attention to Charlie. “And believe me, I meant everything but the ha ha. Now let’s start searching.”

  Charlie was so dizzy with relief that he had to hold on to the doorjamb to steady himself. “Yes, sir. Right away. If I knew exactly what to search for—”

  “A package from Whipple Novelty in Chicago.”

  “That came in this morning, Mr. Warner.”

  “It did? Well, I’ll be damned.” Warner looked pleasantly sur­prised, like a man who doesn’t expect or deserve good news. “Well, I hand it to you, Charlie. You’re getting to know the business. I ask for skeletons, you produce skeletons.”

  “No. No, I—”

  “I saw you at the drive-in the other night, by the way. You were with a nice-looking young woman. Funny thing, I could have sworn I’ve seen her before. Maybe she’s one of our cus­tomers, eh?”

  “No, sir. She works at the library, in the reference depart­ment.”

  “That explains it, then,” Warner said. “So she’s a librarian, eh? She must be pretty smart.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It pays to have a smart wife.”

  “No, no. She’s not—I mean, we’re not—”

  “Don’t fight it, Charlie. We all get hooked sooner or later.”

  Charlie would have liked to stay and explain to Mr. Warner about his relationship with Louise, but Mr. Warner had picked up the phone and was dialing, and Charlie wasn’t sure he could explain it anyway.

  He felt sometimes that he had known Louise all his life and at other times that he didn’t know her at all. In fact, he had met her about a year ago at the library. Charlie was there at Ben’s insistence: “You don’t want to be a stock boy forever, Charlie. I bet there are careers you never even heard about. One of them might be just down your alley but you’ve got to investigate, look around, find out what’s available.”

  And so, night after night, Charlie went to the library and read books and magazines and trade journals about electronics, photography, turkey farming, real estate, personnel management, mining engineering, cartooning, forestry, interior design, cabinet-making, raising chinchillas, mathematics. He barely noticed the woman who helped him locate some of this material until one night she said, “My goodness, you certainly have a wide range of interests, Mr. Gowen.”

  Charlie merely stared at her, shocked by the sudden attention and the fact that she even knew his name. He thought of a library as a warm, safe, quiet place where people hadn’t any names or faces or problems. The woman had no right to spoil it, no right—

  But the next time he went, he wore a new shirt and tie, and a very serious expression which befitted a man with a wide range of interests. He took out an imposing book on archi­tecture and sat with it open on the table in front of him and watched Louise out of the corner of his eye as if he had never seen a woman before and wasn’t sure what to expect from the strange creature.

  He guessed, from the way her colleagues deferred to her, that she was head of the department and so must be at least in her late twenties. But she had a tiny figure like a girl’s with the merest suggestion of hips and breasts, and her movements were quick and light as if she weighed scarcely anything at all. Every time Charlie caught her glancing at him, something ex­panded inside of him. He felt larger and stronger.

  He was only vaguely aware that it was getting late and people were leaving the library.

  Louise came from behind the desk and approached the table where he was sitting. “I hate to disturb you, Mr. Gowen, but we’re getting ready to lock up.”

  Charlie rose awkwardly to his feet. “I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t notice. I—I was absorbed.”

  “You must have great powers of concentration to study in a noisy place like this.”

  “No. No, I really haven’t.”

  “I wish I could let you take this book home but it’s from the reference shelves and isn’t allowed out. Unless, of course, there are special circumstances—”

  “No. No, there aren’t.” Charlie hung his head and stared down at the floor. He could almost feel Ben behind him, telling him to square his shoulders and keep his head up and look proud. “I mean, I’m not an architect or anything. I don’t know anything about architecture.”

  He hadn’t planned on telling her this, or, in fact, talking to her at all. He’d intended to let her think he was a man of some background and education, a man to be respected. Now he could hear his own voice ruining everything, and he was powerless to stop it.

  “Not a thing,” he added.

  “Neither do I,” Louise said cheerfully. “Except about this building, and here I qualify as an expert. I can predict just where the roof will be leaking, come next January.”

  “You can? Where?”

  “The art and music department. You see, last year it was the children’s wing, they patched that up. And the year before, it was here, practically above my desk. So next time it’s art and music’s turn.”

  “I’ll have to come back in January and find out if you were right.”

  There was a brief silence; then Louise said quietly, “That sounds as if you’re going away some place. Will you be gone long, Mr. Gowen?”

  “No.”

  “We’ll miss you.”

  “No. I mean, I must have given you the wrong impression. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You didn’t give me the wrong impression, Mr. Gowen. I simply jumped to a wrong conclusion. My dad says I’m always doing it. I’m sorry.”

  “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t go anywhere.”

  Charlie could feel Ben behind him again: Stop downgrading yourself, Charlie. Give people a chance to see your good side before you start blabbing. You’ve got to put up a front, develop a sense of self-preservation.

  “In fact,” Charlie said, “I can’t even leave the county without special permission.”

  Louise smiled, thinking it was a joke. “From whom?”

  “From my parole officer.”

  He didn’t wait to see her reaction. He just turned and walked away, stumbling a little over his own feet like an adolescent not accustomed to his new growth.

  For the next three nights he stayed home, reading, watching television, playing cards with Ben. He knew Ben was suspicious and Charlie tried to allay the suspicion by talking a lot, reminis­cing about their childhood, repeating jokes and stories he heard at work.

  Ben wasn’t fooled. “How come you don’t go to the library any more, Charlie?”

  “I’ve been a little tired this week.”

  “You don’t act tired.”

  “A man needs a change now and then. I’ve been getting into a rut spending every night at the library.”

  “You call this a nonrut?” Ben gestured around the room. Since their mother’s death nothing in the house had been moved. It was as if the chairs and tables and lamps were permanently riveted in place. “Listen, Charlie, if anything happened, I have a right to know what it was.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m your older brother and I’m responsible for you.”

  “No. No, you’re not,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “I’m responsible for myself. You keep telling me to grow up. How can I, with you breathing down my neck? You won’t allow me to do anyt
hing on my own.”

  “I won’t allow you to make a fool of yourself if I can help it.”

  “Well, you can’t help it. It’s over. It’s done.” Charlie began pacing up and down the room, his arms crossed on his chest in a despairing embrace. “I made a fool of myself and I don’t care, I don’t give a damn.”

  “Tell me about it, Charlie.”

  “No.”

  “You’d better. If it’s not too serious I may be able to cover up for you.”

  “I keep uncovering and you keep covering up. Back and forth, seesaw, where will it end?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  Charlie paused at the window. It was dark outside, he could see nothing on the street, only himself filling the narrow window frame like a painting that had gotten beyond control of the artist and outgrown its canvas. A layer of greasy film on the glass softened his image. He looked like a very young man, broad-shouldered, slim-waisted, with a lock of light brown curly hair falling over his forehead and twin tears rolling down his cheeks.

  Ben saw the tears, too. “My God, what have you done this time?”

  “I—I ruined something.”

  “You sound surprised,” Ben said bitterly, “as if you didn’t know that ruining things was your specialty in life.”

  “Don’t. Don’t nag. Don’t preach.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Charlie told him, while Ben sat in the cherrywood rocking chair that had belonged to his mother, rocking slowly back and forth the way she used to when she was worried over Charlie.

  “I don’t know why I said it, Ben, I just don’t know. It popped out, like a burp. I had no control over it, don’t you under­stand?”

  “Sure, I understand.” Ben said wearily. “I understand you’ve got to put yourself in a bad light. Whenever things are going all right you’ve got to open your big mouth and wreck them. Who knows? This woman might have become interested in you, a nice relationship might have developed. God help you, you could use a friend. But no, no, you couldn’t keep your trap shut long enough even to find out her name. . . . Don’t you want a friend, Charlie?”