by Carol
The store wasn’t so lucky with the two Misses Messenger. They were fifteen and seventeen, lithe, quick, efficient as locusts. If there had never been an Abbie Hoffman they would have invented an effigy of somebody like him. Their father had plenty of money and gave them generous allowances, but from the time they were tots they had followed their mother into stores and watched her work. Mr. Messenger, who felt often that the mantle of Job sat on his stooped shoulders, had taken particular care to instruct his daughters in the proper outlook of their mothers “trouble/’ The girls had listened and dutifully reported after each shopping excursion the stuff Mother had ripped off, but the more physically coordinated they became, the swifter were their movements, the higher their goals. They took full advantage of the fact that department stores looked with indulgence upon their family history, but the store detectives and the entire security system was shaken when the unattractive forms of the two Messenger girls were reflected in the closed-circuit TV.
Once John had been walking aimlessly near scarves-and-handkerchiefs when he had seen the younger Miss Messenger loading up. He put his hand on her shoulder. Without turning around she shook off the hand and went about her business. Sorrowfully, John told her that she was doing something wrong and that she would have to come to his office.
The first thing she saw in his large, light room was a paper bag on his desk. It was magenta-colored and bore his initials in white. He had made the initials himself.
“Hey, that's neat," said Miss Messenger.
John smiled with pleasure.
“Why do you take so many of my things," he asked gently.
Miss Messenger shrugged. “It's something to do," she said.
“But the things don't belong to you," said John. He looked at her, his eyes genuinely puzzled.
Miss Messenger burst into tears. “Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. “That's not fair. Stop looking at me like that."
The girls confined their profession to Macy, Altman, Lord & Taylor, Bonwit, Bloomingdale, and other places after that. Never the Sun stores.
Augustus Wanger had a sleepless night, as he usually did after a meeting with John and the directors. He didn't know exactly what he disliked most about John; there was so much to dislike: John's beauty, charm, forthrightness, honesty. Why couldn't John be more like Augustus Wanger: cruel, shrewd, self-seeking, stout and self-despising?
At three in the morning Augustus began to worry on a grander scale, not so much about the store or his job or the way everybody tried to take advantage of him, but about the planets and the sun. How could planets revolve around the sun? How could we send people into space, to the moon? Who made the whole messy arrangement in the first place? Was there a God? No, because if there were a God, Augustus Wanger would be John Sun and vice versa.
What made a boat stay up? How did the gasoline engine work? What about electricity, the telephone, the effect of alcohol on the bloodstream? Why should he have to lie here worrying about all those things when everybody else was sleeping softly, gathering up energy for the next day to attack Augustus Wanger?
If John were dead, there would be less trouble and conflict in the corporation and in Wanger’s mind. Wanger had read a good many mystery stories and was aware of how fruitlessly villains had worked through the centuries to achieve a perfect crime. A crime was perfect only if no crime was suspected. If he could get John to die a perfectly natural death ...
Old age was out, since John wasn’t more than thirty. A heart attack would be unconvincing (the company doctor had gone around telling everybody that he’d never examined a healthier body than John’s, every organ functioned like a beautiful machine ) and most poisons were detectable. Suppose he and John were crossing the street together, and just as a traffic light changed, John would be given a sure, swift push and his body would fall under the wheels of a speeding car. Augustus Wanger would deliver the funeral eulogy—something about this handsome young whatever being struck down in the flower of whatever whatever. He would wear a sober black suit to the chapel, and tears would flood his eyes as he spoke.
That was too uncertain. You never knew just when traffic was going to be heavy, and it would be suspicious if he pushed John only to have John get up and say, “Why did you push me?” which, God knows, he was perfectly capable of asking.
What about poisons from plants? He’d been reading in a gardening book about America’s many toxic plants, some with poison berries, some with poison eaves, some fatal in all parts. Perhaps he could get John to try a new health-drink ... something Augustus would brew himself out of deadly nightshade, oleander leaves, lily of the valley berries, foxglove, and some angel-of-death mushrooms. How could you make somebody try a health brew . . . ? “John, you’ve been looking a little peaked lately ...” Absolutely not. Fellow looked like a risen angel. Maybe distract his attention at the restaurant and carry the stuff in an envelope and slip it into his tomato juice ... but how could you get the brew into powder form? Ask John to do him a favor across the room ... no, have the waiter tell John he was wanted on the telephone. But that would mean taking the waiter into his confidence, and the waiter could spend the rest of his life getting fat on the payola he, Wanger, would have to part with. No, no one else could be in on it.
What about a very sharp stiletto in the gut? Get him in a crowded place, keep the old eyes elsewhere, and let him have it—pssst—right in the belly? The knife would have to be extremely sharp, and he would have to know the exact right spot ... and then what would he do with the weapon? Just drop it (he would be wearing gloves, so there would be no fingerprints)? Try to conceal it or lose it on the floor? No, too much element of doubt there.
What about a simple injection of deadly bacilli? Deadly bacilli, that had a good ring to it. He would get hold of a hypodermic needle—what with all the people under fifty in America on drugs, the Sun stores probably stocked needles. Ha ha. He allowed himself a brief moment of congratulation at being able to amuse himself at a time like this. No, he'd have to be alone with John in a situation where John's arm would be bare. Ask to see his muscle? Show him a new idea for the store, little self-tattoo kits; and he would illustrate on John how to apply the tattoo, every boy would want one, etc., etc. But John would see that the needle wasn't a tattoo needle, and wouldn't sit still for a full injection of bacilli. Don't bacilli, he told himself, digressing for a moment into wondering if he shouldn't become a TV comedian instead of a store director. He certainly had a good sense of humor and could laugh at himself...
Why was the world so unfair? Life was unfair. If there were a modicum of fairness in the universe,
God would be telling him right now how to bump off John Sun without getting caught. Lie still ... relax ... let it come as an inspiration ... if you just lie still the word will come, the idea will flower ... Augustus Wanger lay perfectly still for a few minutes and fell asleep.
Lydia Stanch was John's secretary. There were two lesser secretaries who worked for her and did all the typing while she thought about John. She was a medium-looking girl, about five feet five, with brown hair and a decent figure and unmemorable features, but that was all changed in her fantasies about herself and her employer; she became Helen of Troy, he stayed as he was. Lydia supplied flowers for his office vases from her parents' home in Westchester. She loved to see the light suffusing his face when he noticed the flowers. It was Lydia who told him about church:
“People think were Catholic, but it isn't that. It's high Episcopalian, and we go to confession and—"
“Confession?"
“You know. Confession."
John had learned not to go on asking questions when he didn't understand something, which was most of the time, because people went off in even more puzzling directions. “It does everybody good to talk about—well, sins, and like that," said Lydia. “I suppose most Protestants think it's silly, but I know it's very helpful for me to talk about something that went wrong ..."
“Is there a church like that near here wher
e I could go?" asked John.
“Oh, yes." She mentioned one several blocks from the Sun offices. “The priest there would be glad to listen to your confession."
“Thank you, Lydia."
“You're welcome, Mr. Sun. Do you want me to fix your In and Out boxes?"
“Oh, no. I’m going to do that now.” John liked playing with the two boxes, just alike, except that one said IN and the other said OUT: easy to read. The boxes could be fitted together neatly, and he kept eight papers in each.
A sign on the main floor of the Sun Building mentioned the Star Security Service. John did not read this, but he had heard one of the words, the second one; it sounded like “skirty.”
The skirty man came into John’s office that morning and, as usual, said “Have a nice day.” John had been told that the building needed a skirty guard for each floor because there were always so many robberies.
The guard used to wait until people replied to have a nice day; at first John had liked him, but then he noticed that the skirty guard wasn’t really paying attention and even if John answered, “Go jump in the lake,” with his sweet smile, the man didn’t seem to care. It was a good game, and John looked forward to it. Just before lunch, he had a nice conversation with the elevator starter, a much older man who paid attention. He used words and phrases nobody else used, and John would always ask patiently what they meant. “P.D.Q.” was one, and John had laughed when the man said it meant pretty damn quick.
“Going out to lunch by yourself?” said the starter. “You’re with Number One. Have a good lunch. Make sure you don’t take anything that isn’t right there on the bill of fare. Then they charge double.”
John nodded and thanked him. He walked along a side street thinking about confession, when he felt an arm against his throat. He was being held tight. He looked around, startled, and saw a thin black boy, several inches smaller than John.
“You gimme your money,” said the boy, terrified.
“I don’t have any money,” said John. He’d thought everybody knew that. “And if I did I wouldn’t carry it in this street. The skirty man said it was a bad one.
‘What do you mean, a bad one?” The boy took his arm away and looked offended. "Nothin’ wrong with this street. I used to work on this street. What kind of a thing is that to say?”
"I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings,” said John. "I’m sorry I don’t have any money. The others always pay for my lunch ... after we read the bill of fare,” he added softly to himself.
The boy shrugged. "Forget it,” he said. "Somebody else’ll turn up. ’S okay.”
A man in a long beige dress came up to John and gave him a leaflet. John thanked him; just then a policeman came up and told the man in the beige dress to run along or he’d take him in. John was pleased with the uniform and the badge. "Hello,” he said. The cop eyed him. “You watch it, too,” he said. “I’m going to confess,” said John. “Yeah, I guess you pulled all the bank jobs in town,” said the cop. “If it isn’t one kind of nut it’s another. Get lost.”
“No, I’ll be careful, I know the way,” said John.
A girl—no, a woman—wearing a very short skirt and shoes with blocks at the bottom and big hoops in her ears came over to John.
“Going out?” she asked.
“Yes,” said John, smiling in pleased surprise. So few people really ever asked him things about himself.
“Well, okay,” said the woman. “Come on.”
“No, I’m going this way,” said John. She was holding his arm. ‘Where did I meet you,” John asked.
The woman laughed. "Oh, here and there,” she said.
“Was it at the Branches’? The Wangers’ house? Are you a friend of the people who live in Massachusetts?”
“Yeah,” said the woman, frowning. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” said John. “I feel fine. But I’m going to church.”
“To church” repeated the woman. “What are you, some kind of religious nut?”
“Goodbye,” said John. “I hope to see you again.” He walked on.
The church had a sign outside. John could read part of it, but not all. He asked a boy playing the violin on the steps what the sign said.
The boy looked around. ‘It says, Watch your purse. Beware of the dog. All welcome. Come in and meditate. Sermon Sunday by Bishop Halstead . . . Don't you read English?”
“I can read some things,” said John.
The church was dim and pretty. John told a pleasant gray-haired man what he wanted to do. He was told that his confession would be heard, and he was taken to a quiet, curtained place.
For a few seconds John didn't know where to start, but then he cleared his throat and began.
“Yesterday Gus Wanger pushed me when we were standing near the elevator, he does that a lot, like bumping into me and not really hurting me but I can tell he wants to hurt me. Martin Branch stole two white pencils from my desk. I really like the white pencils best. Last night when I went to see the Ratigans and they were playing cards and I was watching, Mr. Ratigan showed his cards to me and said What about that?', so I showed him which was a spade. Harold McBain said something bad about me to Lydia, she started to tell me but then she stopped. I just know it was something bad.”
“Is that what you wanted to confess, my son? Is there something you want to tell me that is weighing on your soul?”
John was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Lydia likes me a lot. She brings me flowers and touches my hand. She likes me.” He was still for a while, then added, “I didn't cry at all yesterday.”
The priest said nothing and John left the still twilight of the church for the sun-filled crowded street. Just as Lydia had promised, he felt a lot better.
On his way back to the office, John passed a middleaged woman wearing a sandwich board. The printing on it was hard to read, so he asked someone what she wanted. He had learned that on most of the streets in New York, people who walked up and down wanted something in varying degrees of dedication.
"Oh, it says like her mother is in this home and they don't feed the old people right and nobody wants you when you're old and gray," said the person he asked, a well-dressed woman with three dogs attached to a leash held with her left hand and four dogs attached to a leash held by her right hand. She was trying to use both hands—and therefore both leashes and seven dogs—to hold down her floppy felt hat.
John thought about that. When he got back to the Sun Company he buzzed for Lydia. First he thanked her for sending him to such a pleasant church, then he asked her what she knew about old people and the treatment they received in nursing homes.
"Why would you care about that?" asked Lydia. "I mean, well, if there's one thing you don't have to worry about—I mean, well—do you have a relative in one of them or something?"
"No," said John. "It's just that if they are in trouble I would like to help them, maybe pay for their food or something like that. I didn't know that there were so many old people that other people have to carry signs about them."
"There sure are," said Lydia. "My grandmother is in one of those homes. We visit her every couple of weeks, but half the time she doesn't even know us. It's like visiting a six-year-old."
John stared. This sounded like a situation he needed to know more about.
"Could you take me to see your grandmother? Today?”
“Well—why?” asked Lydia.
“Because I want to see,” said John.
They took a taxi since John was sure Lydia would take care of all the petty cash transactions. As they were riding he felt an odd sense of urgency. Grownups who were like six-year-olds ... the words meant something to him and he knew it was something important.
The Clara Barton Residence for Dignified Primogenitors was in a decayed street in upper Manhattan. There was a horseshoe driveway bordered with plastic flowers and a lobby containing a smelly marble-veined vinyl floor. Behind a central desk was a short, stout woman with black ha
ir worn at least a foot above her head; she was chewing gum and smoking and talking all at the same time.
"Stanch,” she greeted Lydia, with no emotion. It was as though the use of a surname meant to New Yorkers what "Aloha” does to Hawaiians.
Lydia and John entered an elevator that had the same unpleasant smell as the lobby. Neither John nor Lydia could really understand that its core, amid the confusion of disinfectant, urine, sweat and cigar ashes, was senescence.
They got out of the elevator into a corridor where people were milling. John looked around him, puzzled. "Where are the children?” he whispered. Lydia didn’t hear him. "Hello, Miss Gorfickel,” she called. She turned to John. "I always tip Miss Gorfickel a dollar to take extra good care of Granny,” she said.
Miss Gorfickel eyed them with active hostility. (John made a face at her when she wasn’t looking.) "Granny’s acting up again today,” she said in a voice infinitely weary. “She’s peeing in the wrong toilets again. She’s making trouble.”
"Oh, I’m so sorry,” said Lydia. She handed two dollar bills to Miss Gorfickel. I'm so sorry. Well go in and talk to her now”
They turned down a long corridor, peopled with strange, bent forms and steel walkers and wheelchairs.