The door swung halfway open. "In! Come on, come on. In quickly, before we lose heat!"
Dale scooted ahead of me with a short laugh. I hopped over the sill. Our greeter, a slim, boyish man in a Beatle haircut and a tight ski sweater, closed the door with an extra push needed at the end. He threw the deadbolt and turned to us without a smile.
"Larry Estleman," said Dale. "John Cuddy."
I extended my hand. Larry's features sagged and he shook my hand. "Again, I'm sorry . . . about . . ."
"I'm sorry, too," I said. "It was a bad time all around."
Larry said, "Yeah," and dropped my hand.
“Where's Martha?" asked Dale.
"In the kitchen," said Larry. "With Carol. We have the oven on."
Dale nudged Larry to precede us. I took off my coat. We walked through a small living room; I tossed my coat on a chair. The walls needed repainting, the ceiling replastering, and the furniture replacing. It didn't feel much warmer inside than it had on the stoop.
Dale whispered to me. "They hadn't paid their oil bills, so . . ."
I nodded to stop him, but he continued.
"The stove's electric, and Larry put an old space heater of ours in Al Junior's room. I called the oilman, he'll deliver tomorrow and add it to our bill.
I nodded again as we entered the kitchen.
The two women sitting at the table looked up. One was blond and a little prim. She looked calm and one hand held a pencil hovering just over a grocery pad. The other resembled Audrey Hepburn in her early thirties, short black hair and a thin, tired face. Both had sweaters and coffee cups.
Larry leaned against the refrigerator and stuck his hands into his pants pockets. Dale spoke to the blonde. "Martha? This is John Cuddy."
She smiled and got up. I awkwardly waved her to stay down, but she came over and gave me a peck on the cheek and a polite hug. "Oh, John, welcome to our house. Al told me so much about you." She spoke in a falsely buoyant tone.
Her head inclined to the woman still sitting, Martha spoke again. "And this is Carol Krause."
I looked at Carol, she riveted angrily on me. "Why don't we move into the living room'?" said
Martha. "We'll be more comfortable."
"I felt a little chill in there, Mart," said Carol. She had the smooth, even voice of a TV anchor. Or a hostess in an expensive lounge. "Couldn't we all just stay in here?"
Martha blinked then smiled. "But chairs . . . we wouldn't all—"
"That's okay, Martha," said Larry quickly. "I ought to go up and check on the boys anyway."
"Good, good," said Martha, moving her head a little too vigorously. He slipped out of the room, and the rest of us went to sit down.
Martha was halfway into her chair when she popped back up. "Oh, I'm so sorry, John. After the trip, you and . . . You must want some coffee?"
"No, no, thank you," I said. "Martha—"
"Oh, tea then? Beer?" She stepped to the refrigerator and pulled open the door. The little light didn't come on, but even without it the shelves didn't look too full. "Soda? We have plenty, really."
"Not just now, thanks."
"None for me, either," said Dale.
I was aware of Carol twisting and untwisting her fingers. I glanced around the room. The tile around the sink was loose in its mortar, the wallpaper was twenty years old and curling, and only one bulb shone through the three-bulb plastic fixture over the table. Martha's list was at right angles to me, with entries, crossouts, and connecting arrows all over it.
Martha closed the door and came back to us. She suddenly looked up and to the right, closing her eyes for a second, then she sat down, said, "Excuse me," and wrote something more on the list, drawing another arrow from it to an earlier line.
"John," said Carol in a barely civil voice, "could I see you in the living room for a minute?"
"Sure," I said, Martha giving no indication of noticing Carol's change of heart toward that part of the house. Dale cocked his head at us as we left, her in the lead.
From the rear, she was perhaps five-five, with a slim torso but wide hips. The hips would move in a sexual sway no matter how stiffly she carried herself.
I As soon as we were in the living room, she turned on me, her crossed arms hugging herself against the cold.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"Could we sit—"
She pigeoned her head forward. "She's been waiting up for you. She said she couldn't go to bed without meeting you. The man who told her her husband was dead. On the phone. Like calling in a mail order . . ."
I considered slapping her, but she wasn't hysterical, just mad, and I was a convenient target.
"So where have you been?" she hissed.
"In airports and on a plane. With the cold body of an old friend."
She lost a little height and weight, sinking into herself. She walked over to the couch and sat, leaning forward to conserve her heat. I got my coat, put it around her shoulders. She tugged on the lapels to tighten it around her.
"What a stupid . . . lousy . . ."
"Look, I didn't—"
"No, no," she said, sighing. "Not you. Al's death. No reason for it. The papers here, and some cop from Boston on the phone—"
"Murphy?" I said.
"Huh?" She looked up.
"Murphy. Was the cop's name Murphy?"
“Oh, I don't know." She released a lapel long enough to wipe her eyes. She had on heavy lid-liner and lipstick. The eye makeup smeared a little.
"I didn't take the call," she said. "Dale did. Larry was too upset to help much. I was still at work. She reached me—" Carol broke off what she realized was irrelevant. "It was the way they . . . the way it was done .... "
"About Martha," I said.
Carol blew out through her lips, making them flutter without any accompanying noise. "I don't know. We've been friends, all of us for a long time. Like pioneers, you know. We sort of settled this block when, well, it was after my divorce, and things weren't too fashionable here, despite all the renovations since." She looked around the room.
"How hard up is Martha for money?" I said. "Bottom line."
She shrugged. "You've got eyes. Most of us on the street had to do a little bit at a time. You seen Dale and Larry's place yet? "
"Just a walk through."
"Well, Dale got a chunk of money from an aunt who died, so they did their place a little faster than most, but all of us were trying, including Martha and Al. But somewhere, I dunno, the steel glut, the recession, something must have happened. I didn't know about the oil, when Kenny—he's my son, he's upstairs asleep with Al Junior—when Kenny and I walked in here, it was freezing cold. I hadn't even worn a coat, just rushed over and . . . I don't know how they . . . I mean this is Pittsburgh, you know, February?"
"What are you two doing in here?" said Martha, coming in, her coffee cup chattering a little against the saucer she carried under it. Dale followed.
"Just getting acquainted, Mart," Carol replied.
"Good, good," said Martha.
I heard Larry padding down the stairs. He appeared with his coat over his arm. Dale, as if
on cue, retrieved his from the chair and tugged it on.
"Oh, Dale, Larry," said Martha in a hostess voice, "do you have to go already?"
Larry stifled a yawn. Dale gave his short laugh.
"Yes, yes. Larry has half the early shift at the bookstore, and my first lesson is at eight o'clock." He turned to me with a smile. "A lawyer who wants to learn how to play. To surprise his wife." He winced as soon as he said it. Martha seemed to notice nothing, neither the gaffe nor the wince.
"Thanks for the ride in. Ah," I said remembering my suitcase but not feeling I could leave yet.
Dale, anticipating me, covered his faux pas by fumbling out a house key and pressing it into my palm as we shook. "This'll get you past the front door. No alarms. Just be sure to put on the deadbolt and leave on the front light."
"Thanks. I'll try not to—"
Dale waved me off. Larry was already on the doorknob. Dale walked to the door, turned with a serious look. "We'll see you here at one-thirty tomorrow."
We all nodded and they left.
"Well, now, John," said Martha. "How was your flight?"
"Fine," I said, "clear weather, no delays."
"A1 hated flying, you know. Ever since the war. He always preferred taking trains, so he could read, you know."
"Al liked to read."
"Were there trains in Vietnam?" Martha asked. I glanced at Carol, but she was focused on Martha.
"Yes," I said. "There were a few. Mostly Vietnamese used them. They would be crowded, unpleasant. We never rode them."
"Funny," said Martha. "Al preferred trains."
"Martha, has anyone—"
"Oh," she interjected, standing, "your coffee. It must still be in the kitchen. I'll just-—"
"No, Martha," I said, trying to keep the protest out of my voice. "I don't take coffee."
"Oh," she said, still standing, "how about tea then? Soda? We have plenty of everything, really."
Her repetition of hospitality sounded so brittle I thought she would break.
"No, really," I said, motioning for her to sit down.
"Martha, we have to talk about things here. Have you—"
"Things here," she said with a smile. "I have a list already. I'll just be a minute."
She bustled off into the kitchen.
I looked at Carol. "How long has she . . ."
"Since your phone cal1."
I rested my chin on my chest. Dale had already told me that. I must be more tired than I thought.
"One of us should stay with her," I said.
"I went back home and got a bag. Kenny and I will sleep here tonight."
I stood up. Carol started to push my coat off her shoulders. "Keep it," I said. "I'm just going across the street."
"Macho man." She frowned. "It's probably five below outside."
"I'll keep my hands in my pockets."
Martha came back into the room, list and pencil in hand. "Oh, John, are you going already? Are you sure I can't get you anything? Tea . . ."
"No, thank you. Martha, I'm fine. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Right," she said, coming over and giving me the same aloha peck and hug. "See you tomorrow. Sweet dreams."
Carol followed me to the door, insisting I take the coat. I saw slivers of china out of the corner of my eye before I registered the breaking sound and Martha's voice.
"'Damn you!" she yelled, "damn you to hell." She had followed through like a major league pitcher after smashing her cup against the wall. She was yelling at the stain running down the wall. "How could you, Al, how could you? After all the scrimping and saving. All the . . . pain and sacrifice and . . . no vacations and no clothes and no . . . Oh God, oh my God, oh God, God." She sank down to her knees, then sat back on her ankles rocking and clutching her arms around her. "Oh God, the stain, the coffee."
Carol ran over to her and threw my coat around her. She kneeled down and hugged her, rocking with her.
I quick stepped to the kitchen and wet a towel. I came back in and cleaned up the wall. I could hear kids crying upstairs. I spelled Carol while she went upstairs to quiet them.
After Carol came back down, we moved Martha to the couch. We took turns holding and rocking with her through the night.
NINE
-•-
I FELT A STIRRING AGAINST NY RIGHT SHOULDER. I opened my eyes.
There was a lamp still on. A full head of blond hair was nestled into my shoulder. It looked as though it had been there awhile. Martha.
Then I noticed the kids. They were squatting Indian-style on the door, in front of us on the couch. They were both wearing pajamas, the ones on the younger boy a bit small for him.
"W-w-who are you?" said the older one. He sounded scared.
I lifted my free left hand to my lips in a silent shush. The older boy noticed. My watch said 6:30 A.M. I raised my chin so I could turn my head to the right without nudging Martha. My neck was awfully stiff. Carol lay partially across Martha, sharing my coat with her. One arm disappeared behind Martha and probably belonged to the hand whose knuckles were pressed into my right side. Carol's other arm was across Martha's stomach. Martha's forearms and
hands lay limply along my thigh. We were like three puppies, huddled against the cold.
Puppies? Cold?
I exhaled and could see my breath. I looked down at the boys. The older one hadn't been scared, he was shivering from the cold. So was the little one.
I couldn't see any way to help them without moving from under Martha. I started to slide out from under her. The little one said, "M-M—Momma. Mom-maa!" Martha's head flicked up instantly. She blinked and looked around wildly.
"It's okay, Martha," I said. "We're just—"
She looked at me terrified. "Who are . . .where . . . oh, oh, yes." She blinked and leaned forward, rubbing her eyes.
Carol's arm fell behind her, and Carol slid down and toward me, wakening with a start.
"Mom?" said the older boy.
I caught and steadied Carol. Martha spoke.
"Kenny, Al. You must be freezing. Come up here both of you."
They scrambled up and climbed onto the couch in that stiff mincing way kids move when they're cold. They cuddled with their mothers under my coat. "Kenny," said Carol, rubbing his back vigorously, "how long were you sitting down there?"
"I—I—I . . . d-don't . . . know," he said, stammering now more from the rubbing than from the cold.
"Well," said Martha. "We'll have to get you guys some breakfast. How does hot oatmeal sound?"
"I want some," said Kenny.
"Me too," said Al Junior.
"Me three," said me.
Martha and Carol laughed and got up with the kids. Martha seemed O.K. Carol flashed me a real smile, a mixture of friendship and relief.
Over breakfast in the kitchen, I found myself watching A1 Junior. I hadn't known his father at his age, of course, but you could see the big, brown vulnerable eyes and the curly hair, light brownish thanks to some genetic factor from Martha. He ate thoroughly and slowly, as if he wanted to do it right. I suppressed the thought that maybe he hadn't had much practice of late. The kitchen was toasty warm, the more so since we'd left the oven on last night before slumping on the couch.
Al Junior finished his last mouthful.
"Would you like some more?" said Martha at the stove and over her shoulder.
He shook his head. "Where's Daddy?"
Martha's shoulders went up and down once. Carol said, "Daddy's on a trip, remember?"
Al Junior smiled and said, "Oh, yup." He looked at me and frowned. "Who's he?"
I figured I could handle that one. "I'm a friend of your Daddy's, from the army."
Kenny said, "From 'Nam?"
The abbreviation had a hollow ring coming from his young body. "Yes," I said.
"Did you—"
"Kenny," said Carol sharply.
Kenny shut up and went back to his food. We all ate breakfast a little faster after that.
I excused myself, saying I wanted to go over to Dale and Larry's to clean up. Carol followed me into the living room.
I turned to her and she helped me on with my coat.
"You were real good with her last night, you know."
"It would have been a disaster without you there."
She closed her eyes. "It's still going to be one. She's got nothing now. No way to go."
I gave her a false wink. "I'l1 talk to his boss at the wake. Don't worry."
She crossed her arms and followed me to the door, locking it behind me.
The morning was clear, the air brutally cold, a torrent against the face. I ached everywhere from unnaturally held sitting positions. I tried to walk it off into the wind. A solitary jogger in a ski mask and Gore-Tex suit passed me. I got a block and a half before I had to turn back. With the wind behind me, the walki
ng was almost pleasant, the cold piercing only the pants below my coat's hem.
I reached Dale and Larry's doorway. My watch said 7:15. I keyed the lock quietly and slipped in.
Their foyer was warm. Larry appeared in a restored wooden archway to the right. He wore lilac designer sweat pants cinched at his waist, no shirt. His upper . body was spare and taut, like a junior high athlete.
"How's Martha?"
"Tough night, but she's holding up. I thought I'd flop upstairs for a while."
He nodded, wary. "Want some breakfast?"
"Had some already, thanks."
He nodded again and disappeared back through the arch.
I trudged up the stairs.
I recognized the light tapping.
"Dale?" I asked.
"Yes," he said outside the door. "Larry said you looked pretty beat but it's almost twelve noon and I thought . . ."
I sat bolt upright in the guestroom bed. My watch agreed with Dale.
,". . . you might like some lunch before . . . beforehand, that is."
"I need a shave and a shower first."
"All yours," he said, a little quickly. "Take your time. Cold lunch. No rush."
"See you soon."
"Right," he said.
As I unpacked my suitcase, I began to appreciate the extent of the restoration in the house. In my bedroom, the furniture was perfect: mahogany four-poster, dry sink, and night table; powder blue wing chair with matching hassock; one hurricane lamp. Only the window was modem, double glazed and aluminum. Everything else seemed original equipment. Brass wall sconces, glass doorknobs, wainscoting naturally woodstained (which undoubtedly meant laborious stripping and prestaining). The floors were wide-board hardwood, probably sanded and polyurethaned. I had friends in Boston who had undertaken similar projects on one-bedroom condos. Redoing an entire townhouse would register near the top of the sweat-equity scale.
The bathroom contained a large tub with raised claw feet and a massage-style showerhead. Brass rings on the wall held dark blue towels, contrasting nicely with the light blue tiles and paint. A home that would be a pleasure to live in.
I was dressed and downstairs by twelve-thirty. Larry and Dale were sitting at a table in the dining room, which was just through the archway I'd seen on my way into the house. Larry, back from the bookstore, had changed to a continental-style, gray pin-striped suit, and was laconically turning the pages of a magazine. Dale was in the trousers and vest of a solid gray suit, a small bulge of shirt-covered belly visible above the belt buckle. The table was set but no food served.
The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy Page 7