by Packer, Vin
“Sure.”
“Well, it does. You try it some time.”
“I believe you, Clara. You don’t have to draw a diagram.”
“What’s got into you all of a sudden?”
“Nothing, for Pete’s sake.”
“I’m not complaining or anything, if that’s what you think.”
“I never said you were. Did I say you were?”
“Boy, talk about jigsaw puzzles. I’d like to put you together someday.”
“Just forget about it, will you, Clara?”
“I would if I knew what I was forgetting about. You just flare up all of a sudden, Brock. No reason. No warning.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!”
“I’m telling you for your own good. You’re a nice kid, but you flare up. I mean, no woman likes housework. Am I supposed to pretend I like housework?”
Brock did not bother to answer. All through dinner he brooded. Not at the fact Clara thought his father was going to let her have a baby. It would be a waste of time to even consider that. Instead, Brock thought about his car and the possibility that his father had not remembered to put the tarpaulin on the front seat. It wasn’t easy to get grease off slip covers, even when you paid to have it done. There was also the possibility that some of the grease might rub off on Brock’s clothes. Even if his father had remembered to put the tarpaulin there, what if he lent the car to one of the other mechanics at the garage, and they forgot; or just didn’t know enough to leave the tarpaulin there? Plenty of times one of the mechanics had to go out on a call, and they didn’t all have cars of their own. He should have let his father take the bus.
The argument did not start until long after dinner, a little past ten o’clock. In the meantime, Brock had spent most of his time polishing his shoes and straightening up his room, but toward ten he felt sorry for Clara. She was alone in the living room, watching television. Brock got a coke from the refrigerator and went in to join her. She was watching another quiz show—Cash-Answer this time. An eight-year-old boy had just named all forty-one signers of the Mayflower Compact. Drums were beating and bells were ringing and the quizmaster was screaming out: “You get cash for your answer, because it is correct!”
“He’s probably a midget,” said Brock, slumping down on the couch beside Clara.
“He’s a genius. Eight years old and he’s won $47,000!”
“He’s probably some kind of nut,” said Brock.
“I’d like to see you win that much money.”
“So would I. But then, he’s younger than I am. I’m jaded.”
“Shh, Brock, listen. Jackie Paul’s talking to him.”
“Well, Charles—is that the name your friends call you—Charles?”
“Chuck, sir. I mean, Chuck.”
“No reason to sir me, Chuck. You’re the one with $47,000!”
“Yes. I mean, I know it.”
“Well, Chuck, how does it feel to be a celebrity? I bet you had an exciting day today.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Paul … Very exciting. We had dinner with my father’s boss, head of Sterling Sporting Goods.”
“There’s a nice free plug if I ever heard one. You’ll be a good businessman, Chuck.”
“No, sir, I mean, Mr. Paul. I’m going to be a baseball player.”
“A baseball player, huh?”
“Yes. Probably.”
“I’m sure that if you make up your mind to be a baseball player, that’s what you’ll be, Chuck. I’m not worried about you! Not a bit! What else happened today?”
“My father said we should all talk in words of one syllable.”
“Well now, that is a good joke. Words of one syllable, huh? I didn’t know you even knew any one syllable words.”
“Yes. And, and I have a cutlery—a knife collection.”
“A knife collection. Boy oh boy! Whoops—there goes the signal. Time is up, Chuck! Until next week! See you next week, Chuck, and meanwhile, folks, remember if you suffer from nagging backaches …”
“Isn’t that something!” said Clara. “A kid like that!”
“It’s his memory, that’s all.”
“With all he knows, he wants to be a baseball player!”
“Maybe he wants to knife someone too,” said Brock.
“Well, he’s a real boy. He’s not just a little bookworm. That’s something!”
“What does he need knives for?”
“Lots of kids collect knives.”
“I don’t know of any.”
“Oh, sure! Come on, Brock! Lots of boys collect knives. Just like snakes or anything else.”
“If they do, they shouldn’t,” said Brock.
“Why shouldn’t they?”
“They could hurt somebody, for Pete’s sake, Clara!”
“Oh, pssssss!”
“They could! Somebody could get hurt.”
“Brock, honestly!”
“A person could bleed to death.”
“Who would bleed to death? Somebody could apply a tourniquet.”
“A tourniquet! How many people know how to tie a tourniquet!”
It was one of those absurd, pointless arguments that sometimes happen between people, one that starts off in a random, picayune fashion, and then catapults to complete confusion, no longer random but wild and angry.
Clara said, “My father knew how to tie a tourniquet!”
“Almost nobody knows the first thing about tourniquets!”
“It has to be an awfully big wound anyway,” said Clara, “for anyone to bleed to death.”
“It does not! One knick of the old jugular and wham-o! Curtains!”
“Who’s going to knife anyone in the head?”
“The head! The jugular is the trunk vein of the neck, in case you ever get on Cash-Answer and they ask you, Clara!”
“You’re plenty brilliant in your own living room, Brock, but you’re not so great in the classroom, are you!”
“The jugular in the head, for Pete’s sake!”
“That’s not so crazy, Mr. Know-Everything! You’re the one who’s crazy, if you think people bleed to death in this day and age!”
Brock Brown stumbled to his feet, knocking the bottle of coke off the coffee table. “Don’t you call me crazy!”
“Now, look what you’ve done. Made a mess!”
“You like messes, don’t you? And dirt and grease? Come off it, Clara! You like dirt and grease!”
“I won’t mop it up!”
“Leave it!”
Clara Brown looked over her shoulder at the window. She said, “Here comes your father!”
“If you think I’m so crazy, Clara, ask dad if people don’t bleed to death.”
“Calm down, now. Your father’s had a hard day.”
“Ask him,” said Brock Brown, “because he can tell you! My mother bled to death, for your information!”
“That was childbirth. Now, calm down.”
“Child death, you mean.”
“All right, Brock. Okay, dear.”
“And don’t dear me,” said Brock Brown. “I’m not the one you want babies with!”
• • •
That evening in May when Robert Brown returned home, his mind was on getting away from Sykes over the Memorial Day weekend. It wasn’t just because of what had happened earlier in the day. By now, he and Clara should know that any form of spontaneous love-making was a decided risk, with Brock in and out of the house all day. But it had been too long since the two of them had been alone together, somewhere away from Sykes. It would be good for both of them. It would even be good for Brock to be on his own for a couple of days. It wouldn’t be very expensive, if they were to go somewhere near, like the Adirondacks, and maybe had a little more time to themselves and a more relaxed pattern of life, Clara might even get pregnant.
For himself, Robert Brown was not particularly anxious to have another child, but it would mean a great deal to
Clara. He supposed every woman (with the possible exception o
f Edith Brock) had a natural desire to be a mother. In a few years Brock would be going off to college, and it might even be fun to have a youngster in the house again. He was coming up the walk of his house that evening, thinking that he hoped it would be a girl this time—just to even things out—and thinking that the Adirondacks would be a perfect place for a vacation. He was totally unprepared for the collision with his son. Brock was running, and the pair collided head-on.
“Here, here!” Robert Brown laughed. “What’s the rush?”
But his son did not laugh, nor did he smile or stop to talk. He shouted: “I just hope you didn’t get the seat covers dirty!”
“I put the tarpaulin down,” his father said smiling. “Besides I’m not hot out of the sewers or anything.”
He thought of saying something more. Something less pleasant—perhaps: “Where are you going at this hour?” or “Now, just wait a damn minute!” but he could tell Brock was in one of his fits of temper. It happened now and then—not often, really, and it always blew over. Brock was a good kid. Sometimes Robert Brown even worried that Brock was too good, and that was a fool way for any father to feel about his son. No, Brock was one kid Robert Brown could be proud of. If a bad temper was the only flaw a boy had, a man might as well count his blessings. Robert Brown did—daily.
The first thing he saw when he entered the house was Clara on her hands and knees, wiping up something that had spilled on the floor.
He leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“What’s up?” he said.
“Brock knocked over some coke.”
“Well, why isn’t Brock mopping it up?”
“Oh, you know him, Bob. Flew off the handle.”
“There’s no reason for you to clean up after him, honey.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Did you two have a quarrel or something?”
“Not much of a quarrel,” she smiled. “How was your day?”
The argument with Brock had upset Clara, but even in the few moments between his storming out of the house and Robert Brown’s entrance, she had been able to forgive Brock. It was her own fault, she believed, and she had figured the whole thing out in the two minutes it had taken her to walk to the kitchen, get a rag, and walk back. The trouble was, she decided, that she had praised that quiz kid on the television. Brock had an inferiority complex, Clara reasoned, and it hadn’t helped when she had said that the eight-year-old was a genius. Added to that, she had brought up Brock’s marks at school. Sometimes Clara Brown could bite off her tongue. She knew all about the way Brock’s mother had neglected him when he was a child—Robert had gone into that time and time again with her—and she still couldn’t think before she spoke around the boy.
She supposed, too, that she had started him off earlier in the kitchen, when she had said that she didn’t like housework. That probably made him feel this big! It probably made him feel as though she was tired of cleaning up after him, and that in itself was preposterous, because there wasn’t a cleaner, more orderly boy than Robert Brown’s son.
Actually, Clara was disgusted with herself. It made her feel a little better that she had lent Brock the ten dollars that day. She just hoped he’d remember that, once he cooled down, and she also hoped—much more—that Brock would not repeat to his father the things she had said that evening. Clara could not bear to disappoint Robert Brown. Most of all she wanted him to keep on thinking that she was a good wife, and that she would be an even better mother.
“Are you sure Brock wasn’t too hot-headed?” said Robert Brown, “because sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t need a little discipline.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Clara.
And they both laughed then. Brock might need love, and he might need reassurance; he might even need an occasional ten dollars slipped to him on the sly, but where could you find a better kid?
• • •
Brock Brown sat outside his house in the back seat of the Chevy. He held the flashlight limply in his hand. He had gone over the whole car, searching for grease marks or stains, but there were none. He knew he would not stay there long, only as long as he could. It wasn’t fair that it was happening to him again, twice in the same day. It could be easy to stop it, this slow pain beginning in his head, even easier than it had been that afternoon. At night, there were more cars parked in the streets, and there was less chance that anyone would see him take one. Yet he knew there was no easy out this time. His Junior Operator’s license was not good after six o’clock. He knew plenty of guys his own age who drove after dark anyway, but Brock wasn’t that kind.
He blinked the flashlight on and off, sighing and wiggling his toes in his shoes. He was motherless. Christ, Clara was no mother! Even if she did have a baby, she wasn’t any mother, wouldn’t be; but the hell with even thinking about it! She was going to have a baby just like the jugular vein was in the head! He laughed, and it made his head hurt more. He let the flashlight drop to the floor of the car and roll, and he thought: I don’t have to pick it up immediately, let it roll around down there, but he retrieved it instantly, and put it in the side pocket where it belonged.
He had loved his mother. He had really revered her—that was the word. She understood him, for Christ’s sake! What if his father had had his way and named Brock—the name he wanted—Robert Brown, Jr.? He would have been called Bob Brown, like a little nothing. Like John Smith or Tom Davis, or any other nothing name. He might even have been called Junior! Junior Brown … He remembered the way his mother used to tell his father: “I had to give up the name Brock to marry you, Robert!”
He could remember a lot of things about his mother, but why should he? She was dead … Filthy, she used to say, filthy. Or had he imagined that? What did she used to say? You’re a Brock. Why did he remember filthy? He thought of his father’s hands: There was always dirt under the nails, dirt that never seemed to go away, no matter how his dad scrubbed. That wasn’t his dad’s fault. He was a mechanic.
Now it was worse. Brock could feel the pain in his head begin to get in line. The bandeau. He got out of the car, moving slowly so as not to jar his head too much. He began walking, going down the street by the tar-line in the center. He remembered the way he had swung out of the school parking lot that afternoon, with Dr. Mannerheim looking at him, and Carrie Bates. Why hadn’t he thought to turn the radio to some station playing classical music? Why did he always think of things too late? Maybe he wouldn’t have even been able to find any classical music on the radio if he had thought of it. Nobody had a chance anymore. It was all rock ‘n’ roll. And he wasn’t that kind of guy. ”You’re a Brock.”
The Rubins’ house on the corner was dark. Jews were nice people; goddam Hitler! Brock had read in a book once that the Nazis tied women’s legs together when they were having babies. Oh, Christ! Oh, Christ! What kind of a lousy world was it?
Brock went up the gravel driveway of the Rubins’ house. He could hear the crunch of his shoes on the gravel under him. Maybe someone else would hear the noise—Mr. or Mrs. Rubin—and they’d call out Who’s there? If they did, he wouldn’t run. He wasn’t a sneak. He’d just stand there and take it. More than any Nazi’d do.
The lawn was wet with night dew. There was a birdbath midway between the garage and the back porch. It was nice of the Rubins to care about birds. They were really swell people, and Brock was glad they lived on Marvin Avenue. His headache had reached the tip of his ear now, in a full arc. He was on the first step of the back porch, and with his right hand he reached out to try the screen door. It was locked.
He began to perspire. Why had they locked it? Why in hell? What was so valuable on the goddam porch? By the light of the streetlamp on the corner, he could see a few things on the porch. A mop, a stepladder, some plants, and a pail. Why had they locked the screen door, for Christ’s sake? The door beyond, the wooden one leading into the house, was shut. That was probably locked too, Brock could understand that. But why the screen door? He didn’t want to
break in. He wasn’t a housebreaker! But what choice did he have now?
He was in a cold sweat. He could get pneumonia, for Pete’s sake. He had run out without even taking a coat. His head was splitting, right down the middle in two even halves. From his trousers he took out his jackknife. He went up another step and held on to the iron door handle with one hand while he tried to cut the screen with the other. He could only make a hole. After he forced the hole more, so that it was wider, he stuck his finger in and flipped the catch. The screen door was open.
Before he went in, he felt in his pockets for change. He had seventy-two cents. Was that enough? He decided it was more than enough. The screen door squeaked as he held it open, reaching over for one of the plants. He held the plant under his arm and dropped the money on the ledge. His headache was at its peak now. Carefully, he let the screen door shut and began walking across the lawn with the plant. It wasn’t until Brock was halfway down the gravel drive that he realized water was leaking out of the bottom of the pot—dirty water, leaking down on his pants. He dropped the plant instantly! Even his hands were dirty. The plant and the pot spilled to the ground, and Brock kicked them angrily. What a rotten trick! What a rotten thing to happen! Dirty Jews! Dirty Jews! And he began to run, with tears stinging his eyes.
His headache was gone, but in its place was a sudden wave of nausea. He ducked into the shrubbery, two doors from his house. He knelt and retched. He looked down at his hands. They were as dirty as the wet earth he was kneeling in. From some time far gone, he heard a voice saying: “You’re a little pig! You and your father belong in a sty!”
He began to sob. “I can’t help it! I can’t help it!”
“Filthy little pig!”
In a small boy’s voice, Brock Brown began to pray: “Make her die, God! Kill her! Make her die!”
But his prayers had been answered some nine years ago.
Chapter Five
REGINALD WHITTIER
Above Whittier’s Wheel, in Miss Ella’s living room that May evening shortly after ten o’clock, the trio sat facing the television set. Miss Ella rocked back and forth in her chair, and Reggie Whittier sat beside Mr. Danker on the worn mauve couch with the claw legs. It was the second time this week that Mr. Danker had been invited to dinner. After Laura Lee left the antique shop that afternoon and Reggie went upstairs to see what his mother wanted, Miss