by Packer, Vin
At times, he thought that some of the reason for it was that he felt sorry for her. She was so husky and red-cheeked and wholesome, looking like a member of the Radcliffe field hockey team, yet with that unbearable awkwardness about her, too, that was sometimes indigenous to her type woman — a clumsy shyness, helped wretchedly by the fact she was an upstate provincial.
“Oakey-doaky,” she used to say, before Pitts taught her better.
“Hi, kiddo,” she still said.
And, “Well, Paul Revere,” which she sometimes said upon leaving. It had taken Ralei a good month to realize that this was a pun onau revoir.
At other times he attributed his attraction to her (if it was an attraction) to her own sort of rustic aggressiveness. She was the only woman he had ever encountered who gave him the feeling that he was some form of shy and passive entity being wholly dominated by an aggressive force, a force somehow feminine. It was a decidedly pleasant feeling, despite the suspicion on Ralei’s part that it was probably quite morbidly motivated. She was always directing things between them in physical matters: always yanking off the belt from his pants, or unzipping him so that the very sound of the act made him sometimes imagine that it was she unzipping her own fly, and he, trembling with a virgin’s delight. She was forever saying, “Oh, look at you, P!” with sheer pleasure in her voice. “How beautiful you are!” so that he often felt quite conceited after one of their adventures.
Yet despite all this, and the fact that she was not really attractive as a woman (in fact, she was sometimes quite an embarrassment for Pitts), there was another flaw. He had seen it when she insisted on sending food back to the kitchen because something about it was not up to par, and he had seen it in her attitude toward the secretary he employed, toward clerks in stores, and a few times it had shown itself at cocktail parties they attended together, at luncheons with her publishers, at the booksellers’ party. It was a stripe of unbelievable meanness, razor-sharp. It was the breath of life to her book, but Pitts had often met authors who wrote the worst kind of evil, yet were the gentlest, most retiring kind of men; at any rate, he had rarely seen their stripes, if indeed they had any. He had always thought that the cliché about authors writing out their hostilities and other emotions was somewhat true, that those who wrote murder books were thoroughly unequipped for any but the most bumbling kind of murder, and that historical romances were often enough written by schoolmarm types whom history would overlook and whom romance had already overlooked.
Gloria Wealdon, Pitts imagined, if she were not having an affair with you would undoubtedly be an extremely unpleasant person. Boring, impatient, and rude — the kind of person who prided herself on being outspoken and who never had anything to speak out about but the most unkind, impolite sort of backfence gossip.
Pitts glanced at his watch and decided not to be too early for his arrival in Cayuta. It would likely be a very delicate time, this time he would spend at the Wealdons’; delicate because Gloria would probably take no cares to look upon their situation as such, and while Milo Wealdon sounded quite like a creampuff, from all that Gloria said about him Pitts did not think he was the kind of man he would like to offend. Milo sounded not at all like a Milquetoast, but like that variety of male who is simply resigned to disaster (in this case his marriage) and whose bravest efforts are to retain some shred of dignity, some semblance of human communion — even at its minimal pitch — between himself and the woman he vowed to love, honor and obey. Such men were always of a gentle ilk; their wives, invariably, their opposite. That, of course, had to be their common ground, their raison d’être — their dissimilarity.
• • •
No, he would not arrive at Gloria Wealdon’s early, as she had suggested. Pitts was certain he was not going to allow her to seduce him before dinner or after dinner, or at any time during the stay in Cayuta — and the very thought of it made him wish she were beside him, telling him to hurry up and find a side road, the way she often did on their drives together, telling him to hurry up, pulling his shirt tails out of his pants while he tried to keep the car on the road.
The thought made him extremely thirsty, and he pulled off the road at the next inn.
After the bartender placed the beer in front of him, Ralei found he had absolutely no money other than seven cents. He wrote out a check and presented it to the bartender, with his driving license. The check was one of his business ones, and the bartender studied it carefully.
He said, “What’s this here, literary agent?” “It’s my business,” said Pitts. “Yeah? Whattaya do?” “Sell books for authors to publishers.” “That’s very interesting,” said the bartender. “No kidding!”
Pitts decided to make a phone call and end the conversation. He wasn’t particularly in the mood for any conversation, though ordinarily he found it quite pleasant to stop along the road and talk to barkeeps and the like. His mind was still on Gloria Wealdon, on the incredible physicality of her, and the equally incredible mentality. How she could be so attractive in one way, and so disenchanting in the other? He took the money from the barkeep and went back to give her a call. He would tell her he was on his way and perhaps invite her to join him at the hotel where he was staying in Cayuta. They could have a few drinks in the bar before they went to her house for dinner with her husband.
He received the number from the operator and it was busy.
He went back and worked over his beer.
After a while the bartender came wandering back to stand in front of him. “You see,” he said, “we got this woman lives here that wrote a book.”
“Here in the bar?”
“Naw,” the bartender laughed. “Naw, here in Elbridge. That’s the name of this place, mister.”
“I didn’t even know I was in a place. I thought I was between places.”
“Most people don’t know Elbridge is anything, ‘less they live around here. We’re not very big. Just the box and bag factory and this place and a gas station and a movie. They’re all up ahead.”
“Like a company town, hmmm?”
“Sort of a company town. The rest are farmers.”
“And someone wrote a book about Elbridge?”
“No, not about Elbridge, mister, about Cayuta, New York, nearby here.”
“Cayuta, New York?”
“Yeah. Same place that other book was about, you know, that one that’s a big best seller now?”
“Population 12,360.”
“That’s right. That was written by someone from right over in Cayuta, New York.” “Yes, I know.”
“You’d probably know all about that stuff, it being your business. I don’t never pay any attention to that kind of stuff, you know? I don’t do much reading. Got the television and business and everything. When I got free time, I go fishing. There’s good fishing up around here. But this woman comes into the place all the time, and I got to talking about it.”
“What woman?” said Pitts. “You mean Gloria Wealdon?”
“No, Miss Dare’s her name. Edwina Dare. She lives here in Elbridge.”
“And she wrote a book?”
“Yeah, about Cayuta. She used to live there, see? She worked in a bookstore there. Well, after a while she falls in love with this guy and he’s married, you know? So things get pretty rough and the guy’s tearing his hair out and he don’t want his wife to know, and he’s losing his business in the deal — got money problems.”
Pitts made sympathetic noises, while the bartender poured himself a shot of rum. “So,” said the bartender, “he gets her a job up here.”
“At the box and bag factory?” Pitts smiled.
“Yeah, but she’s not like you might think. I mean she’s no stupid factory girl. I gotta lot of them come in here and they’re stupid, but this one’s different. I even think she had a year at some college, you know? Somethin’ musta happened like that, because she’s not stupid like a lot of them. And he’s okay himself.”
“Who’she?”
“Th
is guy from Cayuta’s in love with her.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, they carried on hot and heavy, you know? She’s got this job, and she’s staying at this place, boarding, and he’s out to see her all the time. Got business with the box and bag company, you know? They’re his suppliers or somethin’, and it’s all on the up and up, looks like. I mean, who around Elbridge even knows he’s married? Course he has this kid, but — ”
Pitts said, “But he doesn’t bring the kid.”
“Naw, he brings the kid, all right. Kid and Miss Dare get along peachy, you know? Think they were mother and daughter or somethin’. He brings the kid lots of times. Miss Dare says he always said he wasn’t ashamed of her, he was proud of her, and he wanted his kid to know her. Well — ” the bartender drank the rum in a gulp — ”who’s to know, you know? I wouldn’t drag any kid of mine to meet the dame I was shackin up with, but that’s what makes horse races, ain’t it?”
“I guess it is.”
“Kid used to be a little bit ah thing, first. Shot up overnight, seems — but it’s been four, five years.”
“That long, hmmm?”
“The lady used to run the boarding house where Miss Dare stayed died, and Miss Dare got left it. They was awful close, her and the lady. The lady wasn’t ever married either, and I guess she had her romance or somethin’ like that, because she took a shine to Miss Dare, and they were like mother and daughter. She left the place to her. Miss Dare kicked out all the boarders and lived there herself. Alone. And it was like that was his second home or something. Least once a week he was over here. More at times, but least once. Then she started fooling around.”
“Fooling around?”
“With other men, you know? Used to burn him up. I’d hear him tell her she didn’t have no right, and she’d tell him she couldn’t help herself. Them were her exact words. She’d tell him she couldn’t help herself. I’ll marry you, he used to holler, Edwina, I’ll marry you, but she’d always shake her head no and say she was already married, and she was Catholic. It was funny because you wouldn’t expect it from a lady like her — class and everything. ‘N she always called herselfMiss Dare.”
“I see,” said Pitts.
“I mean, you’d think she’d be a Mrs. if she was married, and if she was one of them Catholics, you’d think — well, you wouldn’t think she’d be that way. Every other way, nice, you know? Just had that wild streak. I dunno. And she doesn’t look like no glamour doll either. Nice type.”
“What’s her book about?”
“About them, you know? Her and Mr. Fulton. About how they met and how they broke up, and how she come here, andmost all the truth, you know? Only in her book she don’t play around, and the guy she’s in love with — Mr. Fulton — he dies on the road in an accident, on his way here. Oh, she don’t call it Elbridge, and she don’t call it Cayuta either, mind you, but it is Cayuta. Most of it’s set there.”
“You read the whole thing then?”
“I gotta admit it’s a little too romantic for my tastes, you know? I like somethin’ more for men. Adventure. But it’s got some sexy stuff in it. Surprised the hell out of yours truly, mister!”
Pitts laughed.
The bartender said, “I mean, I knew there was these other men she was seeing behind his back, time to time, but you figure, hell, a woman’s lonesome, and he’s got his own place over in Cayuta, and why shouldn’t she, you figure. You see, I’m no Catholic; I’m Methodist, only I don’t go to church. But I figure her business is her business, don’t you think that’s the way to figure?”
“Yes,” said Pitts. “Open me another beer, would you?”
“She’s been pretty quiet lately, you know? Writing the book kept her occupied. Not that she was any lady of the night, either. Miss Dare can come in here any time of day or night and I’ll be honored to serve her. But like she told Fulton, I guess sometimes she can’t help it.”
“I guess.”
He grabbed a beer from the cooler under the bar. “Anyway, mister, that book she wrote is not to be read in church, you know? Not in the Catholic church and not in the Methodist church! It’s got some hot stuff in it, know what I mean? And this doll is not the type, you’d think, but neither would you think she was shacked up all this time with some guy married to another woman, and herself Catholic and everything.”
“Well,” said Pitts, “that’s interesting.”
“Oh yes. Life is pretty interesting, mister. New York City ain’t got a corner on sin.”
“Where does this Miss Dare live? Nearby? I could leave my name with you, and she could write me a letter about her book. Don’t tell her to send me the book. Just tell her to write me a letter about it, if she wants to.”
Pitts decided that was a mistake the instant he said it. He had actually not meant to say it. He had just been sitting there thinking, Wouldn’t it be fantastic; another woman from upstate New York with another exposé about thesame town, and another best seller? He was even thinking about the press releases, about what could be made of it; but that was the way he always wasted time, with wonderful idle dreams while he was having a beer and letting his legs stretch — wonderful idle dreams about best sellers.
He chuckled. The bartender was pouring himself another shot of rum.
“Say, I’ll tell her that,” said the bartender. “What is it you do? You sell books?”
“I sell books to publishers. Not like a bookseller.”
“Yeah? Well, she might just want to know all about you. I know she’s anxious to meet that Mrs. Wealdon.”
“Why?”
“Oh, you know. You want to meet someone who did it. I mean, get some tips. Miss Dare doesn’t know what to do, and I can see the spot she’s in. So you write a book, what next? You know?”
“I know.”
“Her Mr. Fulton says she shouldn’t see Gloria Wealdon. Well, he’s not stupid, is he? I mean, a guy’s not going to let his doll go blabber-mouthin’ to Gloria Wealdon all about her book and what it’s about. They had some big fight, I’ll tell you! Boy!”
“Did she try to see Mrs. Wealdon?”
“Not yet. She was gonna, last week when she heard Mrs. Wealdon was comin’ back from New York. He talked her out of it. Well, like she tole me, ‘I’m not going to bare my soul to Gloria Wealdon,’ she tole me, ‘I just want to ask her advice about selling my book. It’s selfish of him,’ she tole me, ‘he’s just concerned with himself.’ You see?” The bartender sighed. “Well, who knows? I don’t blame the guy; I don’t blame Miss Dare. But it’s some mess. And now it’s over, it’s worse, you know? People try to be friends, but that’s no good, you know?”
“What’s over?” said Pitts.
“The affair. The affair’s been over for about eight months now, see? Oh, you know, they’re friends and all, but the romance ain’t been there. Not for about seven or eight months.”
“So she wrote a book to make up for not, having any romance any more.”
“Say, you know,” said the barkeep, “I never thought of it that way before, but that could be her story. You know?”
“I suppose so,” said Pitts.
He got up and walked back to the phone booth, to try to get Gloria a second time. He decided not to encourage the bartender to give Miss Dare his name; yet while he decided it, he still felt intrigued by the idea that it would be wonderful and idiotic if Miss Dare had really written something he could sell; it would be delightful how it had all come about. Again, there was the busy signal. He told the operator not to call him back. He may as well go right on into Cayuta and call Gloria when he arrived at the hotel.
When he went back to the bar, the barkeep was grinning sheepishly.
“I suppose I done somethin’ underhanded,” he said.
“What do you mean?” said Pitts.
“Well,” he said, “I called Miss Dare on my phone here. She don’t live a stone’s throw away. She’s coming over,” said the barkeep.
Seventeen
&
nbsp; With all the tension coursing through the town, it was a wonder no murders had ever been committed there.
— FROM Population 12,360
THE POLICE SERGEANT had Gloria Wealdon’s clipboard in his hand. He said, “Listen to this, will you? Just listen!”
The detective showed signs of impatience with the sergeant. He heaved a sigh and turned around in the room. Besides himself in the Wealdons’ living room there were Min Stewart, Jay Mannerheim, Stanley Secora and Fern Fulton.
“Listen to what?” said the detective.
“Something here caught my eyes. I’ll read it just the way it’s written. Listen.” He read the words very slowly and precisely:“You don’t fcare me Min, fo there!”
Min Stewart said, “I’m not going to stay here any longer. What is anyone doing about Louie? Can you tell me that?”
“Steady,” said Jay Mannerheim in a hushed voice. “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. We’ll have to stay here. But they’ll continue to look for Louie. Don’t worry.”
In a corner, Stanley Secora sat slumped in a chair; the glasses he had recovered from the kitchen floor were steamed; his face was very white. Fern Fulton sat on the couch, wringing her handkerchief in her hands.
“Read that again,” said the detective.
“You don’t fcare me Min, fo there.”
“Interesting,” the detective said.
“She musta been drugged when she wrote it,” said the sergeant, “that’s why it’s all confused.Fo there, for example. She could — ”
“Oh, good God,” said the detective.
“Well, how else could you explain it?”
“If a man’s drunk, Carrington, it doesn’t mean he spells his words the way he says them. His writing might be illegible, but he doesn’t spell the words the way he says them, for Christ’s sake.”
Min Stewart shuddered at the cursing.
“Well, what could it mean?” said the sergeant.
“What could it mean, Mrs. Stewart?” the detective asked. “Would you know?”
“I have a lawyer for such matters,” said Min Stewart. “And I’mvery concerned about my son!”