by Packer, Vin
Charlie did not answer. He clutched his glass of Coke in his hand and drank a big gulp. Then he said, “I see where you’re going to hire someone for inventory help.”
“Oh, my, yes.”
“My sister, Evie, is going to apply for the job, I think.”
“Well, really? Really. Well, that should be nice. And she is the young lady Mr. James Prince is so exceedingly fond of. Rather, of whom Mr. James Prince is so exceedingly fond. We must watch our grammar. Evie.”
“Yes,” Charlie said. Gee, he was a slouch. Yes. Yes. Yes. Great conversationalist.
“Well, well.”
“She didn’t tell me she was applying for the job. She told Mr. Lofton and I overheard.”
“I seeeee.”
They were silent momentarily and Charlie racked his brain for something to say. He could not bear the silences with her.
She said, “He is really crazy about your sister.”
“Jim Prince?”
“Oh, my, yes. Truly.”
“I guess so,” Charlie said. “One night they got caught in a car.” Oh, for the love of ten devils, what made him blurt that out? Quickly he said, “I mean — one night they had some beers, I guess, and they stopped driving and Mr. Lofton went to look for them.”
“And did he find them?”
“Sure. That’s why Evie’s mad at Jim Prince.”
“I — don’t understand.”
Charlie said, “I don’t either, I guess. I don’t know why I brought it up. It’s sort of idiotic, I guess.”
“It is an interesting subject. The plight of young girls in society today is an extremely interesting subject.”
“Now Evie’s always talking to Mr. Lofton. Like he was her father or something.”
“Nevertheless,” Jill Latham mused, “Mr. James Prince is completely taken by Miss Evie Wright. That is most obvious.”
“I guess it is,” Charlie said. “I don’t like Mr. Lofton.”
“He is an attractive older man. One could hardly say he is unattractive.”
“He’s bossy,” Charlie said. “He’s terribly bossy.”
“And he has never been inclined to remarry?”
“I don’t know,” Charlie answered. “My mother and he stick around together — I mean, keep company — and I guess it never came up. I suppose he isn’t inclined. My mother isn’t inclined either.”
Miss Jill Latham quoted:
“He loves his bonds who, when the first are broke,
Submits his neck unto a second yoke.”
She giggled and stood up. “Herrick,” she said. “You have probably never read ‘Hesperides.’ “
“No, I haven’t.”
“Would you like another Coke?”
“Swell,” Charlie said. “If you have another.”
“I have an en-tire icebox chucked full!” She stood looking down at him, and she stepped back, tripped on the rug, and stopped still. “Listen,” she said. “I have an i-dea.”
She was gay and pretty. Charlie wondered what her face looked like when she cried.
“I have an i-dea, but I do not want to in-flict anything on you.”
“Heck, no. No, you wouldn’t be inflicting anything. What?”
“Well, I have some — some rum. Rum. There now. I came right out with it.” She smiled at him and put her right hand to her mouth, covering it, looking at him with a coy, wry expression. “There now. What do you think of that? You think I’m awful, don’t you?”
“No. I — ”
“Drink-ing rum and Co-ca — Col-a. Ha! Now I have certainly shocked a young gentleman and scholar.”
“Gee, golly, I’m not a kid. I mean, do you think I’m a kid?
“Ah-ha!” She laughed again and took two steps back. “Ah-ha! Now! I will go immediately into the kitchen and bring out this horrible liquid and I shall put a teensy bit into your soft drink. There now. What would you say to that?”
“Swell!” Charlie almost shouted. Goddamn, she’s fun. She’s so cute and different. I mean, pretending she was going to shock me. He could probably drink her under the table, no doubt. He had never tried, but no doubt he could.
Still, there’s something creepy about the whole thing.
Oh, I am sick and dog-tired of being a suspicious character always ready to throw rocks at people. There is nothing creepy about this situation but me. I am a creep and all I can do is do my best to hide the fact.
No, I mean her. She’s creepy.
I love her. She’s plenty mysterious.
Jill Latham left the room and Charlie had the drummer back in his stomach. What if he got so drunk he couldn’t stand and he had to stay there all night?
After she put the rum in his fresh Coca-Cola, Charlie tasted it and it was nothing. If this was all there was to drinking, he could issue a flat statement right now that there was nothing to it.
He said, “Aren’t you having any?”
“I am drinking gin. This is a famous drink in England known as a gin and tonic, so you see I have spoken an untruth. It is not ginger ale. Gin and tonic.”
“This is good,” Charlie said. Actually it made the Coke taste lousy.
“One might say I am con-tributing to the de-linquency of a mi-nor. Dear me.” She sat next to him with her knees pulled up beside her on the couch. He could look at her and see the mountains. He called them mountains. God!
“I’m sixteen,” Charlie said stiffly. Sixteen was a minor, jackass.
“You seem so much older. Like a grown man.”
“I am,” Charlie said. “I am.”
“Yes. I believe you are.”
Hot darts shot up in Charlie’s stomach. He swallowed more of his drink. She was looking at him curiously, as though she were telling him something without saying it. Charlie had never smoked a cigarette in his life, but suddenly he wished he had one. He would light it and look at her over the flame and say, “Jill,” just once. He would say, “Jill.”
“You would never be cruel. I do not think you would know how to be cruel.”
“Miss Latham, I — , oh, it’s silly….”
“What?”
“I don’t know how to say it. I guess I could stand some more rum too.”
She poured a shot in his glass with the ice cubes and poured some Coke on top of that. She said, “What? Try to be ar-ticulate about your feelings.”
“Gee, Miss Latham — ”
“Stop! Stop, stop, stop! We have to reach a decision. Meeting called to order.” She rapped on the table with the swivel stick. “Meeting called to order. We hereby make a rule that during the course of our conversation in the future, the party of the first part may address the party of the second part by her first name.”
Charlie said, “Gosh, thanks. I don’t know whether I can get used to it or not. I mean — say it aloud and all.”
“Objection overruled. Say it,” she said. “Say it.”
Charlie looked down at the rug. He thought, This is the most glorious moment of my entire stinking life and I shall never forget it. This is a time to be treasured, a hallowed moment, a great, great event. Charlie thought, How can I say her name to her? and he said it then, he said, “Jill.” He looked at the rug and said it.
“There now. Now. Now. Proceed with the business of the day. What is it you would like to tell me, Mr. Charles Wright?”
Charlie drank his Coke. Heck, he couldn’t even taste the rum any more. Ah, it was nice. It was plain nice, that’s all.
“When you said that I could never be cruel,” Charlie said, “I thought of something. I don’t want to sound silly….”
“It is a common fear we all have. We are all afraid of sounding silly.”
“Gee, you’re swell.” He looked at her and she was not smiling. Her glance was steady, firm. He said, “You understand.”
“Don’t be afraid of sounding silly.” She filled her drink. and leaned toward him as he talked.
“Well, I thought maybe someone was cruel to you at one time. Maybe that�
��s why you asked me — or said I couldn’t be cruel.”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes.”
Charlie thought, I’ll be an idiot if I cry, but I feel as though I am going to cry. Cry or grab her. Grab her and tell her no, no, no, I would never, never be cruel to her. Grab her hard so she’ll know I’m strong. A man. Not a jerky kid. A man!
“Yes,” she said again, “you understand me. You perceive my problem, my young scholar. My tender young scholar.” She touched his sleeve with her fingers, running her fingers slowly along his sleeve. His whole stomach was jelly. He could feel his head sing. He was a knower. He was the knower in Azrael.
Immediately she jumped to her feet. “My record,” she said. “Oh, of course. Oh, my, yes. My, yes. Will we hear my record?”
“Sure,” Charlie said. “Let’s hear it.”
“My beautiful blues. Not great music, no. No one ever said it was great music, but it is the music of a lonely hour that is not great either. Yet it is an hour. That’s important, isn’t it?”
“You bet it is,” Charlie said. “Jill.”
She crossed the room unsteadily, carrying her glass. She bent down and set the glass on the floor and wound the handle vigorously. Charlie got up and crossed over, crouched down beside her. “Let me do it,” he said. “Let me wind it.”
“You are a gentleman. A kind young gentleman scholar.”
“There’s no sense in your winding the machine yourself. It’s easy for me.”
“You’re strong,” she said. “You’re a strong young man.”
“Aw, this isn’t much. This isn’t much at all.”
He fell back on his elbow once, straightened, and wound it tight. He took the arm and pressed the button, placing the needle in the groove. He stayed crouched there next to her.
The music began slowly, the wailing voice crying out the words. Jill Latham kept saying, “Yes,” to herself, sipping her drink. She said, “Want to dance? Let’s dance. Let’s be very happy and joyful.” She sprang to her feet and held out her arms.
Charlie blushed. He said with as much dignity as he could muster, “I don’t know how.”
“Ah-ha! Ah-ha, I’ll teach you. Young scholar, I’ll teach you. My, yes, you have to know how to dance. Come on, now.”
Charlie stood up shakily. If she touches me, he thought, I’ll fall apart like an unstrung puppet. I’ll cry. I won’t be able to stop crying. But when she touched him, it no longer mattered. It was easy. Sure it was easy, and he began to move his feet.
She said, “That’s right, that’s right,” and he was dancing with her then.
He was dancing with her until they stopped. Who had stopped? Had she? Had he?
He felt her long fingers touch his cheeks. He felt her thumb touch his lips, gently. She brought his lower lip down with her thumb, her fingers cradling his cheek. She pulled herself up to him and her mouth came on his lower lip. She kissed him there. He caught her with his arms and held her hard and she kissed him there. He tried to stop what he knew was going to happen to him but he couldn’t and suddenly she felt it and she said, “You’re crying. Oh, Charles Wright, oh, Charles Wright, you are crying. You are.” She began to kiss his eyes as his face bent toward hers, the corners of his mouth, his cheeks, and his chin. She was saying, “Love, love, don’t worry. Don’t be afraid. No, no, love, it’s all right. It’s all right.”
The music whined in the background.
“I won’t see him again,
Haven’t seen him since that day,
But his eyes watch me
And he just won’t go away,
Even while I wait now
For a final fate now.”
Then the needle clicked persistently in the last groove and there was no more music. He still held her. His tears had stopped but he held her and her lips touched his neck. He said her name over and over. He said, “Jill. Jill, Jill, Jill, Jill.”
Then her voice was no longer low, but regular and even, and there was a note of tired finality as she said, “The record is done. Done.” She pulled away from him and crossed the room. He stood dumbly watching her. He was not the same any more. He was simply not the same any more. He wanted to blow his nose but he did not want to have her hear. Why did he cry? Gee, she was sweet. Ah, gee, he wanted her back with him, not across the room. Back with him so he would not have to be separated from her and think of it all. He would never think this one out, he knew that. Never.
She said, “I will not play it again.”
She came back to him, her face very serious. From the pocket of her wrapper she took a cigarette and a book of matches. She lighted it and let the smoke blow from her lips. Charlie only watched her. He knew his nose must be red.
She said, “Run away.”
“Huh?”
“I said you’d better run away.”
“Run away?”
“Yes.”
“I — love you,” Charlie said. There was nothing else to say.
“I am not the right type of person.”
“Listen, Jill, don’t — , I don’t understand. God, help me, Jill — I — ” He started to go to her and then he realized he was drunk. For a single second she was a wavy figure he could not see. He was drunk. God, he wasn’t going to bawl again, was he?
“I have made you intoxicated,” she said. “I am intoxicated myself. You must run away. Now.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Run away.”
“Stop saying that! I don’t want to leave you. I want to — to help you.” That was it. That was what he wanted to do. He saw her look at him in a strange way, her face tight and hard, and then the look broke and her face was cut with laughter, her eyes sparkling as she laughed at him, at what he had said. That he wanted to help her.
“Shut up!” he shouted. “Shut up!” and the room was still. She looked at him, shocked. Alternately Charlie felt power and shame. He rocked a little, swayed. He said, “Don’t laugh at me.” “I didn’t mean to. I was laughing really at myself.”
“Let’s sit down,” Charlie said, knowing he could not stand there any longer.
“I think it would be better if you left now. Charles Wright, it was wrong. Wrong. It was my fault.”
“It wasn’t.” He was going to be sick. God, get out of here, he thought.
“I’ll go if you want,” he said. His words were thick. “I’ll come back.”
“Yes. Yes. We will have our conversation.”
“I’ll go now,” Charlie said, walking toward the door.
“I am sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Charlie said hurriedly.
“Are you — all right?” She leaned against the wall in the hall. Charlie could not tell whether she was leaning lopsided or whether that was the way his eyes saw her.
He said, “Sure, I’m all right. I’m no goddamn kid.”
“You do not have to use profanity,” she said.
Charlie did not remember what he answered. He remembered calling out good-by and running down the steps. He remembered running down Deel Street as fast as he could, stopping halfway down, and ducking into the bushes near the Bartell’s large yellow frame house.
There in the dirt he sank to his knees and was sick.
Chapter Ten
When the eminent psychiatrist, Dr. Alvin Thomas Jewitt, asked me to write my life history and autobiography for him (that is the way he put it: “Will you write it up for me, Charlie?”) I thought of a poem by Browning. It is called “Porphyria’s Lover.” It is quite an interesting poem, and I remember in particular four lines. A woman is in love with a fellow but they cannot do anything about it. She comes to see him to say she will marry someone else and the fellow wonders what to do. The lines go:
I found a thing to do,
And all her hair in one long yellow string
I wound three times her little throat around,
And strangled her.
Perhaps that says more than anything I can say as to my reason for this — c
rime???
— Excerpt from “The Boring Story of My Life,” prepared for Dr. A. Jewitt by Charles Wright
RUSSEL LOFTON stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel to dry himself. When he was finished he put the towel around his waist and looked at the profile of his figure in the full-length mirror. He pulled up his chest and sucked in his stomach and he thought, Lordy, I have a damn fine physique for a man who doesn’t work at it.
He had no use for those men at Rotary luncheons who refused potatoes and skipped desserts because of their diets. Some things were just inevitable. Some men would get fat in their forties, and others would stay slim. Some men would grow opinionated and set in their ways, and others would remain open-minded and elastic.
Women were the same way, too. Take Em, for example. Over the years it had seemed to Russel Lofton that Emily Wright had never changed. That was ridiculous, of course, and yet there was a kernel of truth in such an observation. Em had never been what one would consider a young woman. She was spry and active and aggressive, but she was not young. Em was always static. She liked to cook and she liked to work, and after both, she liked to go to bed early and get up the next day and do the same thing. Lordy, Em didn’t even seem to enjoy her children. She certainly didn’t understand them. She might understand young Chucker because there was not much to understand there. It was clear-cut. The kid was a bookworm. But Evie — Em would never understand Evie.
Lordy, he knew how Evie seemed to other people. A silly child, sophomoric, he supposed, and that was undoubtedly the reason Miss Jill Latham had refused to hire her for the inventory job. Well, he’d patch that up. As soon as he finished dressing he’d pay a visit to Miss Jill and talk with her about Evie. Lordy, if people could only see the depth to Em Wright’s daughter. She was a wild sort of a kid, he guessed, but all she needed was something to occupy her mind. Something and someone to keep her away from holligans like Jim Prince.
Prince had been calling her, too, and Lofton resented the way Em told her she hadn’t ought to moon around the house all the time. Em had said that after all, Prince said he was sorry. It was pitiful, really, the way Em didn’t understand the problems a young girl faced.