Little Less Than Kind

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “How did you do it?” Rafe groaned.

  “A dirty word, today,” said David, “is ‘sheep.’ Which is to say ‘mob member’ or ‘conformist.’ Mrs. Marshall will want to be on the ‘right’ or individualistic, nonconforming, upright, and independently judging side. Oh, there is more than one way to put the ring in people’s noses.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “I don’t wonder. I’m just blowing off. Being cynical. Never mind. I fixed her. She didn’t see the boy. Now we’ll try the other two ladies. She told me where.”

  So they called on the other two ladies, the one who had wanted to go home and was home, the other who had felt she ought to Keep her mouth shut and was still saying so. David dealt with them, confirming them in their cowardice, bestowing upon them the good word “maturity.” And that was that. Neither had seen the boy.

  It was dark now. The night air was cool. Rafe was feeling numb and a little sleepy.

  “Where shall I take you now, Rafe?” asked David obligingly.

  “Take me home.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Yes. She might even be there.”

  “Yes, that is possible.”

  So they came into the Cunningham drive and David ran his car into the garage, between Abby’s car, and Hob’s with its white cover—ghostly in the dark. He saw, with relief, that Ladd’s little car was not under the carport.

  So he guided Rafe through the gap in the hedge. The Lorimer house was dark. They went in together at the kitchen and Rafe turned up lights. David went with him all around the old house. Felicia’s room was empty, silent, pitiful.

  “I can’t think …” said Rafe, and then with a new surge of panic, “I can’t think!”

  “Don’t think,” said David gently. “The police will find her, you know. They can do it better than you and I.”

  “I know.”

  “I’d ask you to come to us for the night but—”

  “No, no,” said Rafe in terror. “No, I must be here.” He had lost his daughter. He was alone. Well, then, alone. He needed nobody. Which was not a good kind loving thought but it came to him. He must be better than that. He must have faith, he must be very good and not get lost in his work but keep praying …

  “She’s been taken in,” said Rafe suddenly, “by someone. I simply haven’t thought of.”

  “I think that’s very possible,” said David.

  “David, how can I thank you?”

  “Good night.” David wanted nobody’s thanks for doing all that he could do, when he could not put Humpty-Dumpty together again.

  He went back alone, through the hedge and along the driveway. The pool at his right caught the sky’s Light. He remembered something. He stopped beside the gate and he listened. There was no sound. The water was calm, as much as he could see of it. His heart shrank as he remembered how Cleona had said something, something about the pool, something doubtful.

  David took the key out of its hiding place and unlocked the gate. He stepped fearfully within the enclosure and upon the concrete deck. The deep water was dark. Only the surface caught any light. He made his way to the pool house and found the switch for the underwater light. The big rectangle sprang into bright” blueness. Nothing. Just the peaceful water, the main drain down there, a few brown leaves clinging at the curve of the walls.

  He looked around the pool house, a structure with no front wall, built around Hob’s barbecue, big fireplace, stone shelves. (Nobody used it now.) He looked into the two dressing rooms, one at either side. There was nobody in the pool house.

  David turned off the light and went slowly, in new darkness, to the gate. He locked it behind him. He put the key in his pocket. He went with a certain plodding, marching, stubborn step, up into the garden.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  He was at the top of the four steps when light flooded the pavement below him. He heard the familiar engine sound, the drop and the new whine of acceleration. Ladd’s blue Corvette, driven in Ladd’s style, as individual as a signature, roared by toward the garages.

  How dared he come waltzing blithely home! David went down the steps. Damned brat! Selfish, destructive! Worthless little punk! I could kill him, thought David. Oh, I’ll blast him. I’ll pin him to the wall. I’ll beat his ears off with the news of the evil he has done and the evil there is in his dirty little soul. And do it, here and now, where his mother cannot see or hear us when we clash under this sky and I put the fear of God into him!

  Something made him look to his left. A police car, lights on its roof, had drifted parallel to the curb, blocking the driveway. David turned to his left and hurried down the drive. The car awaited him. “What is it?” he said in dread.

  By the dashlight, he could see the round but rugged young face of the driver. “Ladd Cunningham lives here, does he?”

  “Yes. He does. What happened?”

  “He was exceeding the speed limit on the Golden State, sir. Had to give him a citation.”

  “Yes?”

  “He cooperated.”

  “I don’t … understand.”

  “He pulled over okay. He hasn’t been drinking. He’s not high. He told me that his father died. That so?”

  “That’s so.” (Yes, ten months ago.)

  “Hard for a kid.” The cop himself was a kid to David’s eye. “You’re related to him, sir?”

  David nodded, still tense.

  “Well, people will do that,” the young cop said. “They get hit by a death in the family or a girl turns them down or something. Kids especially, they’ll go off and try to take their feelings out on a car. Well, I happened to be on my way—I mean coming off duty—and when he told me that, I didn’t think he was in such a good state of mind to be on the roads at all. So I told him I’d dog him home, before something not-so-good happened.”

  David stood, stunned.

  “He made it fine. Drove real steady. Sorry about the citation. It’ll go on his record. That can’t be helped, sir.”

  As his heart seemed to burst, expanding, David said “Good for you” so vehemently that the young cop bridled with pleasure.

  “Well, sir, then I guess you’ll take care of him now?”

  “Yes. Yes. Thanks.”

  David went up the front walk, better balanced by an unexpected weight on the other side. His moment of pure rage had passed; his anger was tempered by mercy and good sense, for he had just seen these as facts, existing.

  He let himself in at the front door of Hob Cunningham’s house.

  They were all three standing at the terrace end of the wide hall, Abby with her white shawl trailing, Cleona, and the boy. Abby’s voice had a forced and feverish joy. “Have you had anything to eat, dear?”

  “Yes, thank you,” the boy said stiffly. He was disheveled. He was dirty.

  Abby’s eye had caught David’s presence. “Everyone is home now,” she said, on that same joyous note. “Cleona, go to bed. You must be tired. Good night”

  Cleona caught David’s nod (and the news of no success in his watchful austerity). She scuttled toward her quarters off the kitchen.

  Now that the servant was gone, Abby said to her son in a little different tone, “Oh, Ladd, my poor boy, you mustn’t worry about it any more. I’ve been waiting to tell you. Your father never, never took those pills, dear. We know he didn’t.”

  David, not moving any closer, watched and listened. He could see that the boy was so physically tired that he could scarcely stand up.

  “What pills?” said Ladd in a dull tone. “I had to come home,” he said, stupidly. He was closed against her voice.

  Abby stepped back and with one hand gathered up the trailing length of her shawl. “And you are home, and I’m glad. We’ve been worried. A nice shower, dear?” She was too cheerful. “And a good sleep? Shall I …?” She put out her other hand.

  David said, “Don’t fuss, Abby. Let him be.” (He knew she mustn’t touch.)

  Ladd, with his rumpled jacket slung fro
m a crooked forefinger over his shoulder, began to walk toward the foot of the stairs, and therefore toward David.

  “Mr. Harper has had a heart attack,” said David quietly.

  “Who?” the boy said. The dark eyes were wide open but in their depths they were closed.

  “Felicia is missing.” Nothing moved in the dark eyes. “Rafe Lorimer is frantic.” Nothing. Was there no getting through? “You told a lie about them, didn’t you?”

  The eyes slitted. “I’m not the liar.” Now there was a tension of resistance.

  David did not touch him, either, although he had the impulse to do so—to assure him, to say to him, Don’t be the way you are. So locked, so bitter, so haunted, so miserable. It isn’t necessary. “Will you go to see Dr. Silver, Ladd?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Abby had drawn closer. Her hand went out for David’s support. He avoided her hand. She had better not touch either of them.

  “Will you go to see some doctor? Any one you choose.”

  The boy bent his head to the right and looked up, slyly. “Maybe you need a doctor.” There was light in the slits of the eyes. “Ever think of that?”

  Abby shrank back.

  “All right. Fair enough,” said David. “If I go, will you go too?”

  “No.” The boy was at bay, there at the foot of the stairs, facing the two of them. “I want to go up to my room. May I?”

  “Of course,” said Abby faintly.

  But the boy said to David, in a furious snarl, “May I? Sir?”

  David said nothing.

  “You want to hit me. Why don’t you hit me? I know you can’t stand me around. You want to get rid of me? Hit me, then.”

  Abby gasped. Daivd, without a smile, just shook his head.

  “You better go to your lousy Jew head-doctor,” the boy said bitterly, “and you better be quick about it. I’ve had about as much as I can take.” He fled them, up the curve of the stairs.

  They were sitting in the library, side by side. The door was closed. The big house was perfectly quiet. They had been speaking low, just the same.

  Abby said, “But was it Ladd? Are you sure?”

  David said, “I haven’t been able to talk to Mr. Harper, but I am afraid it was, Abby. I am afraid so.” He had his arm behind her. He was waiting for the storm. It had not come yet.

  “Oh, poor Rafe,” said Abby, almost in a whisper. “I know what he must feel.”

  “Felicia is probably quite all right.”

  But Abby wasn’t thinking of Felicia. “Ladd was so furious with Rafe this morning.”

  “What?”

  “When Rafe was here. Didn’t I say? I think Rafe had it in his mind to protect me. Ladd said some very nasty things. He called Rafe an old fool, and he said other things. Then he … just flung himself away.”

  “That rather settles it,” said David sadly. He was waiting for her to cry.

  “You knew all this when you went off?” said Abby.

  “I was afraid to tell you,” he confessed.

  “Then you don’t … altogether understand.” Abby had the edge of her shawl in one hand. She rubbed her forehead with it. “Oh, I’ll fight … for nothing bad to happen. You’ve seen me. I do that. Because I am a selfish woman. David. I want there to be peace and kindness and people being polite to each other and not unhappy. That is exactly what I want. And sometimes, you know, if I fight very hard, if I use all my nerves and all my body and soul … sometimes an ugly thing doesn’t happen. But sometimes, I fail.”

  “Yes, we all fail sometimes.” He thought, Am I listening to some kind of principle here? He kept listening.

  “Ugly and terrible things do happen. Hob died. You know. David, you have never let me make any bones about loving Hob, as I did. I truly did. You don’t make any bones about loving June, either—with all your heart. And when you were young, too. In the good time.”

  “I know, Abby.” said David humbly.

  “So I fought not to believe in that horrible thing. But he did have it and he did die of it. And in pain. So when I couldn’t make it be untrue, did I behave so badly?”

  “No, darling. You did not.”

  “Well, that is the way,” said Abby. “And I’ve been fighting, all day. All this day. I’ve fought to understand him and forgive him, since this morning. I tried to think that Ladd and Felicia had eloped, you know. And that Rafe was all upset because he didn’t approve. That didn’t seem enough, so I even … Oh, David, it is funny, in an awful way. Maybe, I thought, that girl had gotten herself pregnant, or was saying that she was, and pressuring him. And that was the way to understand the things he said, and the way to forgive them. I even tried to eat that.”

  “Eat it?”

  “Yes. Yes. Like a dream,” she said impatiently. “The way you eat a dream, in the morning. You have to take it in, into your fabric. It takes time.”

  “Yes, I see.” David marveled.

  “But even so, even so … I couldn’t get away from Ladd, this morning, saying some things to me. I would be very very glad to forgive them and forget them. But you see, when something breaks, why then it is broken. You can say that you forgive and forget but the break is still a break; it can’t be mended.” Her voice fell very low. “That’s how I know what Rafe is feeling now.”

  David tightened his arm. “You can’t put Humpty-Dumpty together again? So Rafe says.”

  “And he is right. I lost my child, my own little boy, that I can remember from the sight of his tiny tiny fingernails, all the way along. This morning, right in this room. Well, I suppose I only heard about it. I had already lost him. So that’s gone, now. And it never can come back.”

  David was feeling he knew not what. Sadness and relief.

  “That’s why,” she said fiercely, “I don’t want fighting. That’s why I fight fighting. Something always gets broken, and broken forever.”

  He thought she would weep now, but she did not weep yet.

  “It isn’t,” she said, “that I don’t want to help him and understand him and love him, forever and ever, or that I wouldn’t. But I cannot help him, I do not understand him, and if I am to love him … it has to be … not the same. And I don’t know how it will be. So, David, will you? I need you to do it. Will you please do what is best to be done for this boy?”

  “I’ll do what is best, the best I can, Abby.”

  So she lay upon his breast. “Don’t leave me,” she wept. “I feel so lonely.”

  “I won’t leave you.” He was her rock.

  Well, he thought to himself, I seem to have the mandate. Gary’s uncle tells me to “straighten the boy around.” Aaron leaves me with it. The young cop “guesses I’ll take care of him.” Rafe leaves the boy, and Abby too, to me. And Abby needs me, to do what is best. I am the rock. My job.

  Hob, old friend, he thought, Hob Cunningham, how would you do it?

  It was late. They went upstairs. The house was quiet.

  Ladd Cunningham had stripped off his clothing, his mind a grayness, shot with little disconnected flashes. He forgot about a shower. His normal cat-neatness was gone. Gone. Extraneous. Unimportant. He couldn’t think what was important as he got into his bed. It must be night. Yes, he was going to bed. Therefore, it was night. He put out his light. As he turned on his right side his cheekbone hit the stone. He pushed it with the palm of his hand in one sweeping motion and the stone slipped over the edge of the mattress and was gone, without a thud, softly down among the trailing bedclothes. It seemed to him that he had lost something and he had better find it, but what he had lost was something he had never had so he would think about it tomorrow.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Very early the next morning, while David was at breakfast, the phone rang. It was Walter Douglas. “The boy home, is he?”

  “Yes, he came home.”

  “And all right, is he?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, exactly. If you mean physically, he is all right.”

  “Well, there was a little
something. Just by a fluke, I caught it this morning.” (A ticket for speeding, thought David. But that was not it.) “Call came in to the man on the desk yesterday afternoon from some fellow—owns a sporting-goods store.”

  “Sport—”

  “Now, I don’t say this is going to mean anything, necessarily. But the report was that some kid was in there trying to buy a handgun.”

  “A gun?”

  “That’s right. Well, this fellow didn’t like the smell of it. Said for one thing, the kid didn’t know one type of handgun from another. He didn’t sell, of course. Couldn’t, legally. He thought he ought to notify somebody. Now, he didn’t get the kid’s name or license number, unfortunately. But he says dark hair, dark eyes, medium tall, and driving a blue 1961 Corvette.”

  “And what are you going to do about it?” David said sweetly.

  “Well, now, this kid may not have been your kid. No proof that he was. We could take him there and let the man see him. But he didn’t get the gun, at least not that one. So there’s nothing we can act on.”

  “All right. Thank you,” said David wearily.

  “But watch yourself,” said Gary’s uncle.

  David hung up. Watch yourself? (It was an expression that he despised.)

  . Get rid of! The echo came double. Gary had said that. Ladd had said that, in reverse. David couldn’t believe it.

  But he had to believe it. You don’t believe on proof. You believe on probability, on pattern, on too many coincidences, on instinct, intuition, a certain clicking-down.…

  And nothing to act on?

  Nothing? he thought. The boy has done nothing? What has he done? Let’s see. Impolite at dinner. (Nothing.) Phoned the police with talk of murder. (No proof that he phoned and no confession.) Rude or worse to his mother. (Just how, she may never say.) Told a cruel and vindictive lie about the neighbors. (Not checked yet.) Tried to buy a gun. (No proof that it was he.) Wanted to “get rid of” David Crown. (But he doesn’t mean anything too bad.)

  Yet I and his mother (God help her), and the neighbors, and the police, and the psychiatrist, and even the cook in our kitchen, believe that this boy is sick, and now I believe that he is dangerous. Still, can no one of us, or all of us together, act to keep him from doing great and worse harm until he does it? That is one hell of a note, thought David Crown.