Norton pressed both hands tightly against the sides of his head. For a sickening instant he was convinced that he was going mad; the pressure behind his eyes made him stagger and he sat down and bent forward until his head touched his knees. “God!” he murmured in a thick heavy voice. He did not want absolution and forgiveness. He didn’t want tilings as they used to be, neat and orderly. It was this knowledge that shook him to the core of his being.
Later — how much later he did not know — he found himself standing beside the telephone desk. He picked up the receiver without haste, without thinking, and dialed the number listed after the name of Frank Soltis.
She answered the phone herself and this seemed a miracle to him; behind her voice was the canned sound of radio or television laughter, and she spoke above it, saying, “Yes?” quite loudly, but drawing the word into a teasing complaint.
“Please listen to me,” he said. “Just listen. Please. You won’t hang up, will you?”
“Who’s this, for Pete’s sake?”
“Cleo, you’ve got to listen. I’m — this is the man. I... I saw you last night, remember.” He heard the sharp intake of her breath, and he cried softly: “Please listen! I’ve got to see you. I’m sorry. It was a mistake.”
“Who are you? What’s your name?”
“That doesn’t matter. I want to apologize, Cleo. I want to see you. Are... are you all right?”
“What do you mean, am I all right?”
He couldn’t interpret her mood from the tone of her voice; but she sounded more querulous than angry. “You know what I mean. I’m terribly sorry, Cleo.”
“That’s fine, that’s great. Everything is dandy now.”
“Please, please,” he said, whispering the words like prayers. “I want to see you. I swear before God I won’t bother you again. But I must see you. Are you alone?”
“My father’s here.”
“Did you tell him?”
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” she said, but a thread of coquettish insinuation ran through the scorn in her voice; Norton felt himself tremble with hope.
“Don’t be like that, Cleo,” he said. The hope became stronger, exultant; they were discussing it like a pair of conspirators. “Can’t you slip out for a few minutes?” he said. “Will you try?”
“I’m not supposed to go out this late.”
“Say you’re going to borrow a book or something from a girl friend. You’ll only be gone a few minutes.”
She was silent and he heard the sibilance of her breath in his ear. A dismaying thought struck him: was she having the call traced? Signaling to her father, pointing frantically at the phone, telling him with silently straining lips who was on the line. The scene was garishly illuminated by the bursts of whiteness in his mind; he saw her crouched at the phone, the father large and angry, hurrying to a neighbor’s house to call the police.
“Cleo,” he said. “Trust me. Please.”
“I’m thinking. Do you know where Raynes Park is? There’s a statue in the middle of it, and some benches.”
“Will you meet me there?”
“If I can. If I’m not there in half an hour, it’s no use. My father’s pretty strict.”
“I don’t blame him.” The sense of relief was so great that Norton almost laughed aloud; the guilt and terror were draining from him like poisons, and in their place flowed the warm restoring balm of peace. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Don’t stand me up now.”
At that he did laugh, giddily but silently. “Not a chance. I’ll be there.”
When he replaced the receiver Norton sat perfectly still for half a minute. He was hot all over, his shirt sticking to his body with perspiration. How would he explain going out to Janey? The dog, of course. He went quietly upstairs and opened the door of their bedroom. The light was out and Janey’s body was a soft slight mound under the covers.
“Janey?”
She stirred and murmured sleepily, “Coming to bed?”
“I’m going to take Cinder for a walk.”
“All right, dear. Put on something warm.”
He closed the door and went to his son’s room. Cinder slept at the foot of Junior’s bed. “Come on, Cinder,” Norton said in an urgent little whisper. “Want to go for a walk?” Cinder, a glossy black dachshund, squirmed and leaped off the bed, crooning with excitement.
Norton picked her up and tucked her under his arm. “That’s a good dog,” he said. A bar of light fell across his son’s face. Norton looked at the sleeping boy for an instant, and the serenity in his face, so unknowing, so vulnerable, went through him like a knife. He knew intuitively that salvation was close at that instant; in his excitement he could imagine the drumming beat of wings, the appearance of soft, miraculous lights, but deliberately and ruthlessly he turned away from all this, closing the door and running quickly down the steps with the frantically squirming puppy in his arms.
The night was black and the yellow street lamps reached up and touched the low limbs of the trees with gold. There was a small soft wind and the only sound in the breathless silence was the occasional dry creak of a branch above his head; it was how the twist and strain of rigging would sound, he thought, canvas and ropes tightening powerfully against the massive press of great quiet winds. He had never sailed in his life, but he imagined a sailing ship would be like that on a calm night.
He put Cinder in the front seat and fastened her leash to the door handle. Without lights he moved carefully away from the curb, drifting in a closed dark silence along the block. The dog was puzzled; she whimpered and worried her leash. Norton patted her head and said, “It’s all right, old girl, we’re just taking a little ride.”
At the first intersection he snapped on the headlights and stepped hard on the accelerator. The forward thrust of the engine forced him back against the cushioned seat, and he sensed the power and urgency of the leaping car infusing his whole body. He felt giddy and weightless, but enormously strong; it was as if the machine were part of him, an extension of his energies, so that he had the sensation of hurling himself forward and being hurled forward at one and the same instant, a delirious balancing of the active and passive which canceled all responsibility and left him suspended in a vacuum of reckless, irrepressible excitement.
Raynes Park had been named for a suburb of London. The small holding of land had been left to the Township of Rosedale by a descendant of one of the original South Shore settlers, chiefly for tax purposes it was rumored, but ostensibly to commemorate the birthplace of the ancestor who had established the family’s fortune in America. It covered a half-dozen acres and was attractively landscaped with yew hedges and dwarf shrubbery. Graveled walks twisted through lawns and neat columns of poplars. In the central plaza iron benches were placed about a small pond, and here, in good weather, nurses and an occasional pipe-smoking old gentleman watched children sailing boats or wading in the warm green water.
Norton parked in the darkness a hundred feet from the entrance to the park. From where he sat hidden in the shadows of trees, he could see the pond shining faintly in lamplight. The benches around it were empty. Damn, damn, he thought. If she can’t make it...
If she came to him, he knew he would be saved. Free. But his fate hung on such whimsical threads. Her father’s mood. He might smile at her, not taking his eyes from the television, hardly hearing her question: “Okay, sure.” Or he might have had a bad day. A chewing-out from his boss. And take out his bitterness on her, exercising parental spleen to restore his ego. “No, and that’s final. Do you see the time? Do you think I want you running around the streets like a damned whore?”
Norton saw her then, walking slowly along a graveled pathway toward the plaza, her small figure moving through the symmetrical shadows cast by the tall poplars. She must have come in from the Hayrack side, he thought, watching as she sat down on an iron bench facing the pond. She was all alone in the park, her face a white blur in the pale lamplight and her b
ody small and huddled beneath the arching limbs of the poplars.
Norton got out of his car and closed the door gently, the sound losing itself in a wind that whispered in the yew hedges. He stood in the protective darkness and watched her for several minutes. When it became apparent that she intended to wait for him some of his nervousness abated; he was by temperament and training a frugal, realistic man, and he knew that she would not be here unless she hoped to get something from him. It was the situation he faced every day in the loan department at the bank; people wanting something and prepared to bargain for it. In this case he didn’t feel like insisting on any particular terms or arrangements, but simple professional habit warned him to watch out for his own interests.
Norton walked into the park, his footsteps on the gravel loud and clear in the cold air. She turned toward the sound and when he emerged from the shadows she stood up and smoothed down her skirt with nervous little gestures.
“You’re late,” she said. “I can’t stay long.”
“I’m sorry.” They were only a few feet apart but he whispered the words as if they were conspirators on a dangerous mission. “I’m sorry, Cleo.” The sight of her youth had unnerved him; a blue kerchief was bound about her hair and beneath this her face was childishly small and vulnerable. She wore a loose-fitting sweater and skirt, loafers and thick ankle socks, a teen-ager’s uniform, sloppily amusing, childishly provocative. Last night she had been different; she must have been different, he thought with something like horror. In his panic he wondered if this were the same girl.
He couldn’t think of anything to say. “I don’t have much time,” he said at last. “Are you all right? Are you afraid of me?”
“Why should I be? It’s all over.” She was staring up at him but he could not see the expression in her eyes. “But how about you? Aren’t you afraid of me?”
“Please try to understand — I lost my head. I shouldn’t have done it, I know. But I couldn’t help myself.” He was suddenly caught in an agony of remorse. “I’m sorry. I swear to God I didn’t mean to hurt you. Can’t you believe that?”
“You thought it didn’t matter what you did to me. I could tell that much.”
“You’re wrong, Cleo. Please listen to me. I’m older than you are and I understand some things better than you can. It happened because I liked you — do you see what I mean? Right from the start, from the instant I laid eyes on you, I felt that you were special.”
“Well, you took a funny way to show it.”
“But I lost my head completely. I couldn’t help myself. Some men are like that, Cleo. I’m ashamed, Cleo, ashamed of what I did, you’ve got to believe me.” This was not as he had envisioned their meeting in the sustaining warmth of fantasy. Instead of graceful, ameliorating phrases he was blurting out his guilt in accents of fear, his hands opening and closing convulsively, his voice rising in a trembling bleat. “I apologize from the bottom of my heart,” he said. “And I’m desperately sorry. Can’t you believe me, Cleo?”
“Well, that doesn’t cost anything to say.”
Norton got his nerves under control. He realized that she was preparing to bargain with him, for there had been more petulance than animosity in her tone. This was touching, he thought. It was sweet and brave of her to think she was a match for an experienced man.
“Now listen to me,” he said, attempting to harden his voice with authority. “I’ve apologized and I think you know I mean it. So there’s no further need for fussing. It’s always pleasanter in the long run to talk things over reasonably. Not much business would get done in the world if everyone went around with a chip on his shoulder. I guess you can see that, Cleo, for you’re obviously a smart little girl. What’s past is past, and there’s no point crying about it. The future is important — that’s the thing to worry about. And as far as the future is concerned, well, I could make up for last night, if you want to look at it that way.” As he saw interest quicken in her face Norton’s instinctive caution asserted itself; there was no point in overselling himself, he thought. In fact, the less she knew about him the better. “I’m not a rich man,” he said, smiling. “But we might have fun, Cleo. Do you know what I mean?”
“Well, it’s pretty obvious, I guess. But I don’t want money.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know. It’s nothing you can put into words, I guess.”
Norton realized with something close to wonder that all of his anguish and fears had been unnecessary; the dread of exposure, humiliation — that had all been a waste of emotion. He understood her perfectly now; and he knew he had never been in any danger.
Norton was suddenly aware of the silence, the faint wind above them in the trees, and of the simple fundamental fact that they were alone here in the shadows of the night, understanding each other without reservation or regret. The soft lamplight made her smooth cheeks shine like gold, and he could see the slight sweet rise of her breasts beneath the heavy wool sweater.
“I’ll drive you home,” he said.
“No, I can walk.”
“I told you I’d be nice to you. I mean it, Cleo.”
“No, not tonight.” She smiled quietly.
“Don’t tease,” he said. “Don’t do that, Cleo.”
“I’ve got to go.” She took a step backward, moving from light to shadow, her skirt flaring in the wind. He saw the flash of her bare legs, thin and white and heartbreakingly lovely in the yellow brightness. “No, Cleo, don’t go,” he said. “I won’t let you.”
Norton was reaching for her shoulders when a bolt of fire exploded across his face and shoulders. As he staggered under the blow, dimly but fearfully aware that he had been struck from behind, his first sensation was one of shock and confusion; but then the pain came dreadfully alive, flaming unendurably on his face, and he cried out and covered his head with his arms.
The girl said: “It’s him, Duke, it’s him all right.”
Norton twisted awkwardly, still holding his arms about his head. “Don’t,” he cried weakly. “Listen to me. It’s a mistake.”
A boy in a red sweater stared down at him. A leather belt was looped around his fist, the end of it flicking slowly along the graveled pathway.
“You like taking things,” the boy said. “Well, you’re going to take a beating now.”
“No, listen...” Norton straightened slowly, still holding his arms protectively about his face. “You’re wrong, she’ll tell you you’re wrong.” He turned desperately to her, his breath coming in great, uneven gasps. “Tell him, Cleo. For God’s sake, tell him I’m sorry — I apologized from the bottom of my heart. Tell him I...”
The belt sang in the air, an ugly, vindictive sound. Norton cried out as the leather cut across the back of his hands. He dropped to his knees. “Cleo, for God’s sake,” he said.
She was laughing at him, her face and eyes bright with excitement. “We’ll be friends, won’t we? You’ll be nice to me now, I know.”
“You begged for this,” Duke said. “You busted up Jerry, five of you to one, and you raped a girl young enough to be your daughter. You guys begged for it, and you’re going to get it.”
“Please,” Norton said. Blood from a cut on his forehead was running into his eyes. “I’m hurt. It’s different from what you think. Let me go. Please.”
“Sure you can go,” Duke said. “I got your license number. I can find you when I want you. Get started.”
The belt sang again, cutting across Norton’s face as he scrambled to his feet and ran. Steps sounded behind him and the belt whistled again and again, exploding viciously across his back and legs. The blood running into his eyes blinded Norton. He stumbled and fell, got up and ran again. Tears mingled with the blood on his cheeks and he could not stop the low animal sounds of pain in his throat. He ran in a staggering circle around the pond until he came to the pathway that led to the entrance of the park.
“Run, you bastard,” Duke said.
The belt sang for the last
time, and Norton staggered on alone into the darkness.
Chapter Twelve
Farrell was still sitting in the study of his home when the phone on the table beside him began to ring. The call was from Bill Detweiller. In a low, tense voice Detweiller said, “John, get over here as fast as you can. Norton just had the hell beat out of him by a pack of hoodlums from Hayrack. He’s too badly cut up to go home. He didn’t want to frighten Janey. So he came here.”
“When did this happen?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes ago. Look, I’ll leave my door open. Get over here and try to do something for the poor devil. He’s in sad shape. I don’t want to wake Chicky — it’s not the time or place for women.”
“Wait a second. Where are you going?”
“I’m picking up Malleck. His wife’s out with the car, and I can get him faster than it would take him to find a cab.”
“What are you planning?”
“What the hell do you think? These punks have declared war, John. I’ve already called Malleck — he’s set to go. Didn’t you understand me? They jumped Norton for no reason at all, cut hell out of him with belt buckles.”
Savage Streets Page 19