by W. L. Heath
Actually, Judge Carrington did not understand his daughter at all, and neither did his wife. The only person who really understood Emily was Boyd. In moments of exasperation he was fond of saying, “I don’t understand you, Emily,” but he did. Even the unpredictable things were predictable to him. He had learned to expect the unexpected, and he had conditioned himself to a life of paradox. He knew, for instance, that the strongest bond between them was Emily’s infidelity to him. He knew that their longest single step toward each other had been made, paradoxically, on a night when Emily spent four hours in a Charlottesville tourist cabin with a fraternity brother of his. He knew Emily and he knew how she felt and how to handle her. She was sorry and ashamed when she came back to him that night; all he had to do was forgive her. It had cost him something, but then life with Emily was more a matter of giving than receiving, anyway. He knew she loved him, no matter how often she betrayed him, and that knowledge was what held their marriage together, because it was all that really mattered to Boyd. Only when he was drunk did he forget this, or ignore it, and he was always sorry afterward. If it was a weakness to look at it that way – to think that her love was worth what it cost him – well, then he was a weakling. But he couldn’t imagine another kind of life, without her.
He knew Emily. He could read her like a book. He knew, for instance, that she had been unfaithful to him again in the second year of their marriage when she went away to Atlanta to attend the wedding of a friend. He didn’t know who the man was or how or exactly where it had happened, but he knew it had happened, as soon as she came back. She loved him too tenderly. She was too solicitous. It was all right. He was sorry and he was glad. That was life with Emily. A going away and a coming back, and the coming backs were what renewed and revitalized their love.
It gave him pride, though, to know that she had never violated their marriage with any of the men in Morgan. Most people thought she had, but she hadn’t. He knew this. And secretly he thanked her for it.
The main trouble now was the question of children. Boyd wanted children and Emily did not. She still felt young, she said (she was twenty-seven), and she wanted to enjoy life a little longer. She had seen how tied down you can get when you start having babies. Boyd knew, though. Emily was afraid. The thought of child-birth frightened her. Well, all right, he told himself. Someday it will happen anyhow, and you’ll see it was worth it. Most things that are worthwhile in life cost you something.
As for Emily, she was a puzzle to herself. There was a chronic restlessness in her, that much she recognized, but where it came from, or why, she couldn’t begin to guess. “What’s the matter with me?” she often asked herself. “Why do I do these things?” Then, without waiting for an answer, she would try to think of something else. Most of the things she did seemed pointless, even when she did them, and even when she enjoyed them. Life either excited her or bored her, and there was no in-between. But it was all pointless anyway. The only steady certainty in her whole existence was Boyd and her love for him. Her infidelity was the greatest puzzle of all, the greatest source of frustration and remorse. She loved him alternately with tenderness and passion, but she loved him best when he was not looking – at a bridge game as he studied the dummy hand, or at a party when he stood across the room talking to someone else. She loved him best, always, in the moments of unawareness – especially when he was asleep. Sometimes when he was asleep she would look at him and imagine that he was dead, and the most exquisite and perplexing sense of guilt would come over her, almost as though she had killed him.
Together they were an attractive and popular, if unlikely, couple. They had an expensive new home and plenty of money. In the summers they played golf and swam and occasionally took a trip. In the winters they shot quail and played bridge and went to football games out of town. They had friends in Memphis and Atlanta and they were probably the best liked, best envied couple in Morgan. They were good dancers, good talkers and good drinkers, and they had a natural air of ease and sophistication that came from knowing they were the upper crust of the upper crust in Morgan, Alabama. They had been brought up in old homes, where there were cherry corner cupboards and sugar chests, and crystal that had come down the French Broad River and survived the Civil War.
By ten-thirty the party that had begun at the golf club at five o’clock that afternoon had moved back to town and into a little modern house owned by Jack and Martha Byjohn. A few had dropped out along the way, but others had taken their places and now there were six couples and three or four stags, all going strong. Things were getting pretty drunk. In the kitchen, Dink Hartman, wearing an old rubber fishing boot on his head, was reciting “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” Wally Faulk, the dentist, who had joined the party as late as eight o’clock, was already so drunk he had locked himself in the bathroom and couldn’t get out. A dice game had started behind the breakfast bar, and Eileen Eubanks was going into a lot of detail about her hysterectomy. Boyd Fairchild and Emily were in the living room with Jack Byjohn and the Brayleys, listening to some old Benny Goodman records that Jack played only on special occasions, like tonight. Nell Harriman was still remarking to people that the best parties were always those that started without anybody planning them, and people were still agreeing with her on it.
“I’ll tell you one thing, though,” Pete Brayley said. “We got to get old Wally out of the toilet. He’s been in there over an hour now.”
“He’s all right,” Jack Byjohn said. “He can’t hurt anything in there.”
“Yeah, but I’d like to have a crack at it myself,” Pete said. “He’s been monopolizing that thing for an hour. He must think we’re all a bunch of camels or something.”
Pete’s wife sniggered over the rim of her glass. “You don’t mean camels, honey. Camels are what can go without drinking so long. You mean something else.”
“I know what I mean. I mean there’s no sense in him holding up the deal like this every time we have a party. He does it every damn time. What’s the matter with that guy anyhow? He’s a real toilet hound, ain’t he?”
“I don’t think he wants to get out,” Emily said.
“Yeah, he wants out all right,” said Martha Byjohn. “I went by there awhile ago and I could hear him monkeying with the door knob. You see, the trouble is the latch on that door is kind of tricky. You have to hold up on the knob to make it work.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell him,” Jack said. “He probably wants out as bad as we want in.”
“I tried to tell him, dear, but he’s so tight I don’t think he understood. Anyhow, with all this racket ...”
“Listen to this,” Jack said, putting on a new record. “I want you to just listen to Teddy Wilson on this piece. I swear that guy is a real master.”
“Well, I’m going out there and see if I can get Wally out of the toilet,” Pete said. “If I don’t, I’ve got to go home.”
“Aw, look at the big baby,” his wife said, and giggled again. “Look, folks, he’s liable to wet his breeches any minute.”
“Laugh all you want to, but I’m getting sick and tired of that tooth-puller locking himself up in the can every time he gets two drinks in him. Hell, you can’t enjoy a party if you got to sit around with your legs tied in a knot all night.”
“Go ahead, get him out, then.”
“I’ll give you a band, Pete,” Boyd said.
“Wait just a minute,” Jack said. “I want you to hear this. I swear Teddy Wilson’s a master.”
“Never mind Wilson,” Pete said. “Wilson can wait.”
He and Boyd got up and walked out in the hall where they found Dink Hartman, still with the boot on his head, stooping down to peep through the keyhole.
“What’s he doing in there, Dink?”
“I can’t even see him,” Dink said. “He must be in the closet.”
“Here, lemme take a look,” Boyd said. He bent down, swaying slightly, and looked through the keyhole. “I see something that looks like his sleeve,” he said
. “I believe he’s right up here by the door.”
Pete cocked his head against the door. “Wally? Can you hear me?”
“Wassa matter?” a voice said from the other side of the door.
“Say, Wally, how about coming on out?” Pete said.
There was no answer.
“Hey, Wally!”
“Wassa matter?”
“Listen,” Pete said. “You gotta open the door, Wally. Come on out and give somebody else a chance to use the john.”
“Listen, Wally,” Boyd said, “Hold up on the knob and the latch will work all right. Just raise up on the knob at the same time you turn it.”
“Wassa matter?” Wally said.
“Christ Amighty,” said Pete. “Wassa matter, wassa matter – is that all that halfwit can say? Does he think this is funny or what?”
“Let me try,” Dink said. He addressed the door. “Hey, Wall, how about opening on up, old trooper? I got you nice bourbon and water mixed up out here. All you got to do is come right on out and get it.”
Suddenly there was a loud, resonant bumping noise within the bathroom. Dink pressed his eye to the keyhole.
“Well, I’m a son of a gun. Hey, Wally! You all right in there? Wally!”
There was another muted commotion.
“Wassa matter, you guys?” Wally said.
“I’m going home,” Pete said. “By God, I’m going home.”
In the meantime, Bill Clayton had come into the living room and asked Emily to dance.
“I don’t want to dance,” she told him. “What do you want to dance with me for?”
“I just thought we’d dance,” he said helplessly. “What’s wrong with that? Every time I’ve opened my mouth today you’ve jumped down my throat.”
“Oh, go away. You bore me. I know what you’re thinking, Bill Clayton.”
“You do, eh? Well, for once you’re wrong,” he said angrily. “I don’t know what’s got into you lately, but I’ll tell you one thing. It’s not on my mind anything like as much as it must be on yours.”
“I bet! Why don’t you get married? Why don’t you stop horsing around with everybody else’s wife for a change?”
He looked at her a little closer and saw what he had not noticed before: that she was drunk. Good and drunk. She could fool you sometimes because she didn’t get that blank look that most of them got. But she was drunk now, all right, and that called for a change of strategy.
“Look,” he said, “if I apologize and call a truce, will you stop being sore at me?”
“I’m not sore at you. I’m bored at you.”
“All right, but will you accept my apology? I’m sorry I asked you to dance. I’m sorry I ever even looked at you twice. Very sorry, Emily. And if you really want to know why I don’t get married – well, I’ll tell you someday. You ought to know, though, without being told.”
A queer look crossed her face. “What kind of a line is that? Why should I know why you don’t get married?”
He gave her a feeble smile and walked sadly away toward the kitchen. She followed him in, even before he had time to pour himself another drink.
“Just exactly what are you driving at, Bill Clayton?”
“Nothing, Emily, just forget it. I never should have brought it up in the first place.”
He turned away, as if to hear the story Ed Harriman was telling.
“No, I’m not going to forget it, either,” Emily said. “Bill, you’re not … I hope you’re not trying to say you’re in love with me, for God’s sake.”
She had said it a little too loud, and Bill looked around uneasily, but everyone was occupied, talking and laughing. No one had heard her. He turned to her again and gazed at her steadily.
“I promised myself you would never know, Emily, but I guess I’ve let the cat out of the bag, haven’t I?”
“I think you’re giving me a load of bull, Bill Clayton.”
“Okay, then skip it then,” he said. “It can’t make any difference now anyway. Can it?”
“No. Bill, you’re not serious, surely.”
“I told you to forget it. Just forget the whole thing, Emily. Just say I’m drunk and don’t give it a second thought.”
“Bill …”
“Consider the matter closed and forgotten.”
He started to walk away, but she caught his arm.
“What is it, Emily?”
“I think you’re giving me a big line of crap.”
He shrugged and started away again.
“Well, I’m sorry I talked like I did to you in the car,” she said.
He smiled at her forgivingly.
“I am really. I’m sorry as hell. I’ve been sorry all night. It’s spoiled the whole party.”
“Well,” he said, “you’re sorry. I’m sorry. Now let’s have another drink and forget the whole mess.”
“But I don’t want to forget it. I think it’s perfectly awful. But my Lord, Bill, I didn’t know. You never said anything.”
“What could I say? After all, you’re a happily married woman and …”
“Don’t be too sure about that.”
Oh, brother, he thought. “Emily, let’s not talk about it anymore. Not in here, anyway. Somebody might hear us and you know how they all are. They practically think we’re having an affair already.”
Use of the word “affair” had been a risk, but he wanted to see what effect it would have on her.
“Let’s have that drink you offered me,” Emily said.
“How you like that guy?” Pete Brayley said. “Did you ever hear anything to equal it? I swear, I’m going to get him outa there if I have to call the Fire Department.”
“No need for that,” Boyd said. “Just stand back and let old Fairchild han’le it. I’ve han’led these things before.” He drained his highball glass and set it carefully on the floor against the wall. He rubbed his hands together and licked his lips. “All right, Wally. Now, look here, old boy. Wally?”
“Wassa matter, you guys?”
“Listen, Wally. Listen with all your might. Open the goddam door. Just lift up on the knob when you turn it. Watcha say?”
“No.”
“Well,” Dink said, “least we got a new answer that time.”
“What’d I tell you?” Pete said. “That simpleton, he don’t want out. We oughta break in the door. How you like that? One hour and fifteen minutes!”
“Look, Dink,” Boyd said, “will you please open the door?”
“I’m Dink,” Dink said. “That’s Wally in there, remember?”
“Right you are. I meant Wally. Wally, come on out and act like a human being.”
No answer.
“Well, that settles it,” Pete said.
He turned and walked down the hall and disappeared into the living room. After a moment they saw him come out again and walk stiffly toward the door with his hat on backward. He looked very much offended.
“Wait a minute, Dink,” Boyd said. “Where’s my wife?”
“I don’t know,” Dink said. “I haven’t got the dimmest idea.”
He went into the kitchen, and Boyd was left alone in the hall, standing by the locked bathroom door.
“Wally?”
There was no answer. He went down the hall and into the kitchen, looking for Emily. She was not in the kitchen, so he went into the living room. She was not there either.
“Listen to this one, Boyd,” Jack said. “‘Please Don’t Talk About Me When I’m Gone.’”
“Wait a minute, I’m looking for somebody.”
“Who? Emily?”
“Yeah.”
But he wasn’t. He was looking for Bill Clayton now.
Chapter Five
They must be some kinda Law, Sugarfoot told himself. They got to be. They must be these guv’munt agents, G-men, or some other kinda Law.
He didn’t believe it, because they didn’t look like the Law. But for four hours now, ever since discovering the gun in the suitcase, Sugar had
determinedly evaded the truth. Ain’t but two kinda people tote guns, he told himself. Law and outlaw. They got to be the Law. It won’t do to look at it no other way.
Lord, Lord, I got me a mess now though. What I got to go nosing around up there for in the first place? I declare, a man’s nose may get him in more trouble than his organ. How come I cain’t set down here like I’m suppose to, ’stead of prowling around upstairs going through everybody’s suitcase and hunting up some kinda gun. Man, I ought to have my head examine for doing something like that. Now look at me. I got me a mess sure enough. Got that man’s gun in mind all night long. Cain’t even rest. Done swallowed down a whole bottle like it was no more than branch water, and look at me. Setting here a hour till quitting, just as cold, flesh-crawling sober as I can be. Seem like if I much as shut my eyes, first thing I see is somebody with a gret big gun in something. I neen think I’ll rest tonight. They bound to be some kinda Law though. It won’t do to look at it no other way.
Sugarfoot was alone in the lobby. The lights had been turned off everywhere except at the desk and at the doorway, and the shadows seemed to be encroaching on the wide hall itself. Sugar moved his chair closer to the open door to get the cool air and to hear the occasional sound of a car that told him he was not entirely alone in the night. Miss Benson was not in yet. If it weren’t for her, he’d close on up and go to bed. No one would know the difference. He longed for another drink. Just a small one, he thought. Something to go to bed on.