Norton fell asleep on the train. In the taxi to Faircrest he sat in a heavy withdrawn silence, occasionally shifting his position to light a cigarette or rub both hands over his pale face. Farrell was grateful for the silence; he had had enough of remorse and guilt.
But by the time they reached their homes Norton seemed to have recovered some of his mild good humor. He thanked Farrell politely, said he hoped he hadn’t been a nuisance and walked quickly into his house. Farrell paid off the driver and stood for a moment breathing the cool night air. There was no reason to hurry; his home was dark. He wasn’t hungry, he wasn’t thirsty, he wasn’t anything at all. The spectacle of Norton’s Gethsemane had drained him of everything but pity. Finally he went up the walk to his house. He turned on the lights and put his coat and hat away. The silence was unnatural and depressing. Everything his eye fell upon reminded him painfully of the warm and complex human stir that was missing; the television and record-player, a book Barbara had been reading, Angey’s red wool muffler on the floor of the closet, the faint hopeful chirp of Jimmy’s parakeets against the silence...
There was something to do, at any rate. He went upstairs and fed the birds, changed their water. In the study again he saw the pieces of glass he had broken the night before still lying on the rug. In the soft light they glared at him like accusing eyes. He made himself a mild drink and picked up Barbara’s book. It was My Antonia by Willa Cather. He let the book fall open, let his eyes find a passage. He read,
One dream I dreamed a great many times and it was always the same. I was in a harvest-field full of shocks and I was lying against one of them. Lena Lingard came across the stubble barefoot, in a short skirt, with a curved reaping-hook in her hand, and she was flushed like the dawn, with a kind of luminous rosiness all about her. She sat down beside me, turned to me with a soft sigh and said, “Now they are all gone, and I can kiss you as much as I like.”
The words blurred before his eyes. He had forgotten that she had read the book to him the first year they were married. He had forgotten so damned much, it seemed.
The phone rang and he lifted the receiver with the desperate hope that it would be Barbara. But it was Lieutenant Jameson.
“Mr. Farrell, we’ve picked up the boys who ran down your daughter,” Jameson said in a crisply pleased voice. “Actually, it wasn’t our doing; their father brought them in just a little while ago. There’ll be a Magistrate’s hearing tomorrow morning in the Rosedale municipal building. Around nine o’clock, I’d say. You don’t have to be there, of course. The Accident Investigation officers will handle everything. But I thought you’d want to know.”
“Yes, of course,” Farrell said. He put a cigarette between his dry lips. “Who are they?”
“They’re teen-agers, both of them, sons of a doctor who lives in Rosedale. Their names are David and Mark King. They took their mother’s car while she was entertaining some friends at lunch, and went for a joyride. When they struck your daughter they were too frightened to stop. But they owned up to what they’d done about an hour ago and their father brought them right in. Both kids are in sad shape, but I don’t expect you’ll have any sympathy to spare for them. And I don’t blame you. Doctor King wanted to come over to see you tonight, but I told him it might be better to talk to you at the hearing tomorrow morning.”
“Look, are you sure of this?” Farrell said. “How do you know they’re not lying?”
“Well, why should they? People don’t usually lie to get themselves in trouble — it’s the other way around. But aside from that we’ve checked their story and there’s no doubt they’re telling the truth.”
“I see,” Farrell said slowly, and ran a hand over his damp forehead. “There’s no chance of a mistake, then.”
“Certainly not. I thought you’d be glad to know they’re in custody.”
“Of course,” Farrell said. He closed his eyes and saw Jerry’s bruised and bloody face, the back of his brown, corded neck in that instant before Malleck’s fist had driven him to the floor. “Yes, I’m glad,” he said. “Thanks for calling, Lieutenant. What time is the hearing?”
“Around nine. I’ll see you there.”
Farrell put the phone down and looked at the backs of his hands. The knuckles were marked and cut in a half-dozen places, and the knuckle of the middle finger on his right hand was raised in an irregular lump. Jerry had got what he deserved; Farrell tried hard to make himself believe that as he lifted the receiver to call his wife.
Chapter Eleven
Lights gleamed on the first floor of Wayne Norton’s home. Norton stood in the doorway of the kitchen looking down at the dinner place that had been set for him in the yellow breakfast nook; square modern silverware, a service of white plate, salt and pepper shakers in the shapes of a rooster and hen, all of it placed neatly on a black plastic mat. He had been staring at the table for several minutes, standing motionless with his hands limp at his sides. His dinner was on the electric range: a tunafish casserole, salad and rolls.
Norton put a fist against his forehead and pressed hard against the pain pulsing heavily above his eyes. He wasn’t drunk; he was agonizingly sober. For another moment he stood in the doorway of the kitchen, and then he went quietly through the house and stepped into the powder room in the hallway. He scrubbed his hands thoroughly with soap and hot water, dried them on one of the tiny blue guest towels Janey’s mother had sent them last Christmas. There was a bottle of cologne in the cabinet above the hand basin. Norton rubbed the lemon-scented essence on his hands and face, then carefully combed bis smooth black hair.
For an instant he looked at himself in the mirror. There was nothing in his face to betray him; mild, incurious eyes stared back at him, in harmony with handsome undistinguished features, a tab-collar and neatly knotted tie. Except for the muscle twitching at the corner of his mouth, it was the reflection he bad observed with casual approval since he had reached maturity.
“Wayne?” It was Janey’s voice. “Wayne? Is that you?”
Norton’s face seemed to shimmer in the mirror, breaking with pain. Не leaned against the wall, breathing through his open mouth.
Janey called again, her querulous and rather childish voice drawing his name into two syllables. “Way — ane? Are you downstairs?”
Norton opened the door of the powder room and stepped into the hallway. He called up the stairs: “Hi, honey. I thought you were asleep.”
“No, I was reading. I’m glad you’re home.”
“Can I bring you anything when I come up?”
“I’d love a glass of hot milk. With just a little sugar in it. Would you mind, honey?”
“Of course not. I’ll be right up.” He rubbed his forehead and blisters of cold sweat broke under his hand. “How’s Junior? All tucked away for the night?”
“He wanted to wait up to kiss you good night, but that’s just his clever way of getting another half hour of TV. He’s dead to the world.”
Norton went back to the kitchen and put a saucepan of milk on the stove. He set a tray with cup and saucer, sugar bowl, napkin and spoon.
Suddenly he had an impulse to shout: she liked it, she liked it. He could feel the words swelling in his tight throat, vile and blasphemous as prayers to the devil. With trembling fingers he put a cigarette in his mouth, and went into the dark living room. He paced the floor as if trying to escape his thoughts, his footsteps muffled on the thick carpet, his hands pressed tightly against his temples. But he could not exorcise the demons in his mind. Of course she liked it. The struggles and pleadings were all a trick, a clever act...
Cleo Soltis. He had picked up the things that had fallen from her shoulder bag and had seen her name lettered neatly on the identification card of a key chain. For some reason it had seemed important to put her purse back in order. He had collected her compact, her address book and coins, crawling about on his knees to do so, and all the time she had lain on the sofa with her face turned away from him, slight breasts rising and falling with her uneven breathin
g, her legs white and languid against the coarse fabric of the sofa. She was no longer crying.
He had put the purse in the crook of her arm and touched her warm wet cheek. The words he had said to her sounded wildly in his mind: “You’re not mad, are you? I’m a good man. I have a wife and a little son. They know I’m a good man.”
And then the blond boy on the floor had stirred and Norton had leaped away from the girl’s side to run through the darkness to his car.
His thoughts were like desperate prayers. Of course she wouldn’t give in without a struggle; that was part of the game. When she was older she would understand that.
He sat down at the telephone desk and snapped on the lamp. The room was neat and clean, efficiently poised for tomorrow; pillows straightened and plumped up, ashtrays emptied, Junior’s school books piled on a straight-back chair in the hallway. If I could just talk to her, he thought in despair. Why in God’s name had it happened? If they could meet in some quiet place, the two of them at ease, the things said forgotten, the shame and guilt dead between them, then he could make everything all right. He could explain it.
The image of this, and the peace it would bring him, were more vivid than the familiar room, the school books and soft lamplight, the fragrance of milk warming in the kitchen. She would listen to him quietly, that was important, that she listen to him without interrupting. Let him talk it out. She would understand then. She might even be a bit ashamed of herself. He would say, “I’m sorry if I seemed, well, impatient, but that is actually a compliment to you, don’t you see?” It was a good angle, he thought. He imagined her reaction to this flattery, a smile, winsome and knowing, and then her reply: “Well, there’s nothing to be sorry about, I guess. We both know that, don’t we?”
Then it would be over, everything just as it was before last night’s dreadful moment of fury and need. But he was in her power; only she could forgive him.
Norton reached out slowly and touched the telephone book. He felt the quickening stroke of his heart and had the sudden frightening feeling that he was being observed; he looked quickly into the shadows of the dining room, half-expecting to see someone watching him, but the room was empty and in the kitchen there was steam rising from the saucepan of milk.
He opened the telephone book to the suburban section. The figures and letters misted before his eyes, merging into meaningless whorls and angles. But finally the page came into focus. There were two Soltises listed, Frank L., and Jeremiah and Sons, Plumbers. The emergency address of the plumbing company was in Rosedale. And Cleo lived in Hayrack. That meant — he tried desperately to think clearly — that meant Cleo must live with Frank L. Soltis. Who was he? A father? An uncle?
Until that instant Norton hadn’t thought of her as belonging to anyone else or living in relationship with other people. She had been an isolated human unit, without a past or future, with whom he had hoped to talk without interference or interruption; what had happened between them didn’t concern anybody else. But as Norton stared at the name of Frank L. Soltis, he felt a sharp, primitive fear — how could he explain that instant of blind compulsion to a father or brother? Naturally they would take her side; they’d think of her with cloying sentimentality, remembering her childish cuteness, the sleepy head snuggled against daddy’s shoulder, the games of girlhood, the jacks and skiprope, and the little-mother act, doing dishes in a big apron, dusting and sweeping like mommy and big sister. That’s what they’d remember — all the sweet things you could associate with any child. And he’d be the vicious degenerate who had destroyed that innocence.
The bitch, he thought. He knew her better than her family did. He knew all there was to know about that particular little piece.
As he lifted the receiver Janey’s voice sounded: “Way — ane? Isn’t that milk about ready?”
An uncomfortable dryness in his throat made it difficult for him to swallow. Little bitch, he thought. Wise and hard and cold. He started as Janey called again; he hadn’t heard her the first time.
“Way — ane?”
“Coming, honey.”
Janey was sitting up in bed with two pillows behind her back, her smooth, pretty face shining with cold cream. There was a blue ribbon in her dark hair. The room was a snug and scented little box, and Janey stretched out her arms to him like a child welcoming its father.
“You poor thing,” she said. “Am I such a nuisance?”
He kissed her on the cheek and put the tray on the bedside table. “I enjoy having a little nuisance around,” he said. There was cold cream on his lips and when he turned to pull up a chair he rubbed it off on the back of his hand. “Your mother make her train all right?” he asked.
“Naturally, she almost missed it. She had to have a last-minute conference with Junior about something I’m not supposed to know anything about for the time being. Honestly, what a pair of conspirators. It’s hard to tell which one is younger from the way they act.”
“That’s fine,” Norton said. He touched his forehead with his fingertips. The pain was intense. “And how was your day?”
She smiled as he raised the cup of milk to her lips. “I think you should miss dinner every now and then. It’s kind of exciting to be waiting for you for a change. What did John want?”
“John? Yes, John Farrell.” Norton struggled to control his thoughts; they were speeding in dangerously swift circles now, filling the inside of his head with bursts of white heat. “John wanted some information on one of our new services. Our bank, in the case of guaranteed accounts, will pay the depositor’s fixed bills on the first of the month — that is, items such as rent, insurance, car payments and so forth. The client can just forget about these details. We pay the bills from his account, and make sure they’re paid on time, which is particularly important in the event there’s a discount for payment before a specified date.” The familiar phrases, evoking a sane and orderly world, acted as brakes on the perilously spinning wheels of thought. “I explained how it worked to John, and he seemed quite interested.”
“Oh. Well, speaking of problems, mother and I solved one today.” She put the cup down and wiped a tiny cat’s whisker of milk from her lips. “You know how we planned to have the new baby in here with us for the first five or six months? Well, mother and I decided to start her off like a little lady with a room of her own. Now don’t say anything until you see what we’ve figured out: we’re going to make the guest room into a nursery. The curtains are white, and mother thinks they’ll do perfectly — for the time being at least. Then we’re going to find some bookcases for toys, and a daybed with some kind of a chintz fabric for the cover and the cushions. Cradle, bathinette and presto!” She smiled with happy eyes. “A nursery. Didn’t I tell you mother would figure it out?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, wait; here’s the second phase of Operation Nursery. We’re going to turn the study into a room mother can use when she stays overnight. It won’t be a proper guest room, but we don’t have overnight guests often enough to make any difference. Anyway, it will be just for mother and you know she doesn’t expect the bridal suite.”
“It’s not a very attractive room,” Norton said.
Janey laughed. “You know what mother said today? She said she could sleep hanging on a coathook if it meant being near Junior.”
“The television’s in there,” Norton said. “And those old books of mine. They can come out, I suppose.”
“Well, the TV could stay. Don’t you think she’d like it?”
“Yes, I’m sure she would.” He felt his thoughts spinning again and pressed the tips of fingers to his forehead. “I brought home some work to look over,” he said. “You’d better get to sleep now.”
She slid down in bed and he adjusted the pillows.
“I’m afraid I’m getting one of those cramps in my leg,” she said. “Just when I’m so sleepy I can’t keep my eyes open.”
“That’s a shame. Would you like me to massage it a bit?”
&
nbsp; “It may be all right. It may go away.”
“There’s no point grinning and bearing it. Come on, turn over.”
“You’re so helpful I feel guilty sometimes.” She pushed the covers aside and rolled carefully onto her stomach. The room was warm and still and the lamp beside the bed gleamed on her slim smooth legs; she wore a pink nightie but the twisting of her body had pulled it up above her knees.
“Which is it?” he asked.
“The left. It always is, for some reason.”
He rubbed the back of her leg with the palm of his hand. The muscle in her calf was hard as India rubber. She had very pretty legs, rounded like a child’s with neat, slender ankles. Her skin was smooth and cool as ivory under his hands.
She snuggled her cheek against the pillow and made a murmuring sound of contentment.
“Better?” he said.
“Much! It’s like a miracle.”
“Is that enough?”
“You’re tired, aren’t you?”
“No, not a bit.”
“You’ve no idea how relaxing it is.”
“Well, fine.” He wanted to get away; his throat was unbearably dry. The flesh of his wife under his hands, smooth and soft and fragrant, meant nothing to him; it was the memory of another body, hard, wiry, young, the flesh less perfectly kept, less grateful and complaisant, it was that memory that had brought the cold tight ache to his stomach.
“I think that’s enough,” she said at last, her voice blurred with drowsy contentment. She was like a kitten or an infant; caresses soothed her, put her to sleep.
“I’ll go on down and get at my work,” he said. He adjusted the covers under her chin, murmured a good night and left the room quietly. Downstairs he took a bottle of whiskey from the emergency shelf in the kitchen, made himself a strong drink and drained it in two long swallows. How many had he had, he wondered. Four Martinis with Farrell, and a big whiskey.
That was more than he normally drank in a week, but he still wasn’t drunk; steady and bright, unblurred by liquor, was the knowledge that he must see this girl and set everything straight. Only she could absolve him from sin, release him from this rack of guilt. And if she understood and forgave him he would do anything at all for her. It wasn’t impossible that they might become friends later on. In fantasy’s sustaining warmth Norton saw a vision: in four or five years she would probably go to work in the city, and he might help her with the problems and adjustments that were part of anyone’s first job. He could tell her how to avoid the slippery ground of office politics and advise her on savings programs and pension and hospital plans. They might meet in a small bar after work and talk about these things. He saw himself in sharp kaleidoscopic patterns, striding down a street in the late fall, everyone else hurrying for trains and taxis and the cold wind pounding with excitement against the tall gray buildings. She would be waiting for him and smiling. They wouldn’t talk of the past but it would be a strong bright thread weaving itself nostalgically through their relationship.
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