by Packer, Vin
“Leave him alone, Em. Boy will come soon enough when he’s hungry.” Charlie recognized Russel Lofton’s voice. So he was staying to dinner again.
His mother complained, “I wish he wouldn’t read so much. All he does is read. Never bothers with people. Reads all day. Charlie!”
O that I were where Helen lies,
Night and day on me she cries …
“What does he read?”
“Anything! Everything!” There was a note of pride in his mother’s husky voice; there always was when she talked about the way Charlie didn’t do another thing but read.
“Let’s just go ahead, Mom.”
“I wish he’d come.”
“He’ll come.”
“Charlie Wright!”
“Out of my bed she bids me rise …”
“He doesn’t even hear you. Mom.”
“Let the boy be, Em.”
“That’s right, Mom. He doesn’t even hear you.”
“Says haste and come to me!”
Oh, I hear you, all right, I hear you. Charlie stood up slowly, put a marker in the page of the book, and stretched his long arms above his head. The poem beat its cadence like a drum in his brain. I wish — I were — where Hel — en lies. For a moment he let it pound around, a real rhythm he could really hear, and he stared again at the hills and the sun setting behind them. Whenever he thought about that poem he was confused. He liked it. He imagined a beautiful soft woman calling him, a white goddess, a sylphlike girl, calling him. He decided she would not be naked. She would wear something. Something silky, flimsy, white. She would call him at all hours and he would have to go to her and he would imagine rising from his bed to go to her, but what then?
Then, Charlie thought, then the hell with it. It was all muddled up in his mind and he did not know why he even bothered with poems like that. He snapped his fingers as if to bring himself to, stuffed an old handkerchief in the pocket of his trousers, and slicked back his hair with a broken comb he found on his dresser. He looked at his own reflection thoughtfully when his hair was combed, and then he grinned, because it was silly to see himself staring at himself, and he thought with sardonic amusement, I must be getting simple, plain simple.
As he walked from the room he whistled softly. There was no tune, just random notes. He went down the hall with its worn blue-flowered wallpaper, past the antique rosewood coat rack with the angry head of an eagle mounted on top, and on to the entranceway of the dining room. He paused to listen to the conversation before he went in, but they weren’t even talking about him any more.
“Say, this is swell,” Russel Lofton was saying. “How do you do it, Em?”
Charlie despised the barking manner in which Mr. Lofton spoke. He was a lawyer in Azrael and his wife was dead, and he was always hanging around the Wrights, calling Charlie’s mother Em. He never called anyone by the name everyone else did. He had his special names. Evie was ?-venus, and Charlie was Chucker.
“Well, well, well, well, Chucker!” Mr. Lofton said as Charlie walked into the dining room. “Chucker!”
He reached out and touched Charlie’s sleeve as the boy pulled his chair forward and sat at the table. It was an annoying habit Lofton had, catching hold of the coat of the man or woman he was talking to, or gripping him by the arm. He was in his middle forties, but he could easily pass for a man of fewer years. His physique was good, wide athletic shoulders, fine muscular arms and legs, and a flat hard stomach. He had a good head of thick black hair, which only in recent years showed gray at the temples, large brown eyes, a thick crooked nose, a broad full mouth, and a square jawline.
“So you did hear after all, honey?” Mrs. Emily Wright said. “Some boys you have to call from ball games. Have to call you from books!”
“Aw, Mom, forget it.”
“College won’t be all books either, you know. They have football and hockey and rowing — ”
“Sure, Mom. O.K.”
His mother looked tired. Her face had a tense, haggard quality. She was a handsome woman, thin like Charlie, but perpetually weary. She had married Charlie’s father when she was twenty-two, had Evie the same year, and lost Egan Wright when she was twenty-six, a year after Charlie was born. People in Azrael said she never got over Egan’s sudden death in the quarry cave-in, and that was the reason she never remarried. But she said, “There simply wasn’t anyone, and when there was, he didn’t want a ready-made family.”
Sometimes when she said that, Charlie resented it, because he liked to think it was the other way — the way folks said. His mother was a dark, tall lady, quick and talented. She had managed the Azrael Gazette for ten years now, and if she was occasionally annoying and usually slovenly in her dress and actions, Charlie tried to remember she worked hard. Her hair was cut short and brushed back from her forehead, and her eyes were a matching brown color. Her nose was small, and her chin pointed and determined. Russel Lofton was her best friend, a fixture around the Wright house, like a lamp or a table, and there was never any fuss made for him. He was treated like one of the family, like a father to Evie and me, Charlie thought, and it made him angry. He had no specific reason for disliking Lofton, but he knew that he resented him.
Mrs. Wright said, “Hungry, honey?”
“Eat a horse,” Charlie answered.
“You ought to,” his sister said. “You’re too skinny, doll. You ought to fill out.”
“Your sister’s right,” Mr. Lofton said. Charlie didn’t even look at him.
“So you can get a girl friend when you go to Haa-vud.” Evie giggled and winked at Russel Lofton. She was a slim, pretty, nineteen-year-old girl, medium-sized, with a good bust, a shock of dark hair cut poodle style, regular features, good legs, a soft voice, and a cocky manner.
“You know what ‘Nez thinks. Maybe you ought to date ‘Nez and practice up.”
“Time enough, time enough.” Mr. Lofton chuckled, reached over with his large square hand, and patted Charlie’s wrist. “Time enough for girls, eh, Chucker? Time enough, eh, boy?”
Charlie felt himself squirm inside.
“Never mind girls.” Mrs. Wright smiled. “I just wish he’d play sports more.” She looked at Charlie, nodding her head slowly, as though she would never get used to the idea that he was the way he was — an intellectual, she called him to herself — and she was pleased. “Books!” she said, smiling. “Land! I’d never have thought — ”
That was the way that July evening began, slowly, evolving into a typical evening, with small talk and not too much to do, and everyone saying much the same things they might say on any warm night in the Wright house in Azrael, Vermont.
Mrs. Wright sighed. “Whew, it’s a scorcher! Whew!”
Time enough for girls, eh, Chucker? Time enough, eh, boy?
It began slowly with Charlie thinking when his mother said, “I suppose you’ll go to the library again after dinner?” that yes, he would go to the library. He would.
“What a boy!” his mother said, again proudly. Charlie was oblivious of her pride; he wished she would not talk about it all the time. There wasn’t anything wrong with him, for Pete’s sake. Was there anything wrong with him?
Evie said something flippant and Mr. Lofton said something unimportant and Charlie did not hear because then he started to think, What if she is there!
He thought, Silly good goddamn, what if she is at the library? What of that? He wasn’t going there because of her. No, he certainly was not … was not!
Time enough, eh, boy?
Read more of Come Destroy Me
Serving as inspiration for contemporary literature, Prologue Books, a division of F+W Media, offers readers a vibrant, living record of crime, science fiction, fantasy, and western genres. Discover more today:
www.prologuebooks.com
This edition published by
Prologue Books
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
4700 East Galbraith Road
Cincinnati, Ohio 45236
&n
bsp; www.prologuebooks.com
Copyright © 1956 by Fawcett Publications, Inc.
Renewal Copyright © 1984 by Marijane Meaker
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-3928-6
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3928-2