by Susan Sontag
But she still doesn’t like that question. “Listen, Mr. Dillon!” The woman crossed her arms and looked peeved. “I got a feelin’ you don’t understand somethin’. Now I was educated by the sisters, God bless ’em, and I been a Catholic all my life and I’m gonna die a Catholic. And if my Tommy ever comes home and tells me he wants to marry an un-Catholic girl, I’ll whale that kid within an inch of his life. He won’t know what hit him when I—”
“Look,” Diddy interrupted again, “I just need to know about the circumstances of your husband’s funeral.”
“Well, what d’you think I’m telling you,” she exclaimed sourly. “Don’t be in such a hurry. Where’s the fire?”
“Mrs. Incardona, I appreciate your hospitality and your honesty. But I do have a job to do.”
“I know, I know,” she sighed. “You work for the railroad. Just wait a minute, I wanna get another beer. Sure you won’t have one with me? Okay.” Diddy leaned back in his chair while she was out of the room, closed his eyes. Myra Incardona’s returning footsteps. “Listen,” she said, settling in the chair again, “I wanna get something straight. You come in here and ask me a lotta questions and I don’t act formal or anythin’, and seein’ as I got nothin’ better to do I’m talkin’ to you. But one thing I wancha t’know is that every word outa my mouth, every last word, is the God’s honest truth, so help me God. Are you with me?” Diddy nodded sleepily. “About this whole goddamn cremation business, for instance, that you seem so interested in, though why the railroad should care what happened to what was left of poor Joe I’ll be damned if I can figure out. You wanna know if I was for or against it. Or maybe why I didn’t stop it. But I’m not tellin’ you, though you’re a perfect stranger to me, any different from what I told Father McGuire down at Immaculate Heart today. You know that man had the nerve to start bawlin’ the daylights out of me, just this afternoon? And what for? I’ll tell ya. For lettin’ Joe be cremated. He told me that Joe’s soul would rot in Purgatory forever and that he wouldn’t be able to rise up at the Last Judgment and lotsa spooky stuff like that. Trying to make me feel bad. Like I done somethin’ awful to Joe.”
“I’m sorry,” Diddy said. He really was.
Myra didn’t even seem to hear Diddy’s words, but sailed on. “And I told him, Father McGuire, I says, beggin’ your pardon, Father, but you’ve got no right to talk to me like that. I didn’t have no control over that funeral, I told him. Charlie’s the one, and if you want to tell somebody off and make ’em feel bad, you get ahold of Charlie. Boy,” she laughed, “would I like to see that! Charlie’d make mincemeat out of him. But Charlie’s gone back to Massachusetts already. So I had to handle him all by my lonesome. And I did. Father McGuire is a young priest, see, and when they haven’t been long out of the seminary they get ideas. He’s sort of serious, takes everything very hard, know what I mean? A little wet behind the ears. But I set him straight. He understands now.”
Diddy sighed. Talking with this woman was like drowning. Just a bit more, then he’d leave and maybe go to the movies. But he hadn’t got everything quite straight in his mind about Incardona and his family. For example, the situation between the brothers. Diddy sent up a probe. “How would you describe your husband’s attitude toward the Church?”
“Say, can I have another cig? The brand I smoke is lousy. Thanks … Now what was that you said?… Oh, about Joe … Well, he had his gripes, you know. Like Charlie. Joe could go on somethin’ awful when he wanted to. He was always talkin’ against the Church, makin’ fun of me and Tommy goin’ to mass every Sunday regular as rain, while he lay around the house in his underwear swilling beer or gin, yellin’, cursin’, carryin’ on.”
There’s the Incardona Diddy met. Things beginning to fall into place.
“Was he … Mr. Incardona … a very violent man?”
“Not what you call violent. But sort of mean, when the mood took him. I’m not talkin’ about what he did to me. I can take care of myself if I have to. But Tommy is somethin’ else. I told you that. Joe never did fancy kids much, though you’d think he’d like his own boy, wouldn’t you? But he and Tommy never hit it off.”
“Was Tommy afraid of him?”
“That little fellow? Not on your life. Stand right up to him, he did, big as life. How many times I seen it—Joe takin’ off his belt to wallop the daylights out of Tommy for somethin’—the kid’s got a lot of the devil in him, but he doesn’t mean no harm. And Tommy, full of spunk, sayin’, Go ahead, Pop. You dish it out and I can take it.”
“Did he really say that?” said Diddy enviously.
“Well, not just those words. Tommy’s got a temper, too. Takes after his dad, I guess. He’d call Joe some pretty dirty names. They made me laugh, but Joe didn’t like ’em.” She laughed, brought the beer can to her lips. “Oh…”
More vividly than before, Diddy envisaged the family in its squalid smoky nest. Grouped in a snapshot pose: the big brutal father, the sexy slob of a mother, the harum-scarum kid. All changed, because of him. But he’s getting lost (now) in sentiment, in subjective guilt. That isn’t why he came. It was to affix objective guilt and innocence if he could; and incidentally to find out what had prompted the cremation. Forget about that. The conversion of Angelo Incardona into ashes had, apparently, no more than a trivial significance for his family. Though, to Diddy, it seemed a terrible, frustrating judgment. Among other things, an invitation to amnesia. Diddy must not allow Incardona’s reality to become flimsy, dubious. The workman existed and he was dead; even though the evidence of his body had been miniaturized and dissipated.
“Hey!” It was Myra Incardona waving her hand in Diddy’s face. “Boy, you were really off on Cloud Nine that time. I thought you was in such a terrible hurry. Remember? When you couldn’t wait to ask me questions?”
Is the woman starting to have doubts about who he is? “I am in sort of a hurry,” Diddy said. “It’s my job. I have to make one more call this evening, and then go home and write some reports before I can get to sleep.”
Myra Incardona didn’t seem to be listening to much of what Diddy was saying, either. Probably catches about one word in three, and makes up the rest in her own head. All she seemed to have heard of his generous florid lie was the bare word: job. “I know you got a job,” she began, with a slack half-smile. “You work for the railroad.”
Diddy nodded.
“But boy, I’ll tell ya one thing. You sure don’t look like anybody I ever seen who held down a job with the railroad. The clothes you got on are too smart. Your pants ain’t cut wide, like the way railroad men wear ’em. And I never saw a railroad man wear a nifty tie like that. Now that I take a good look at you, you look to me like somethin’ in an ad or somethin’. And your face. I can see you never had acne when you was a kid. Why, I can tell a lot just from the way a man shaves himself.” She paused. “You’re a real good-lookin’ guy. Here’s to you.” The woman saluted Diddy with her beer can. “Good lookin’. D’you know that?”
Diddy shrugged his shoulders. Suddenly realizing what was going on: all that beer she’s washed down beginning to take effect. He’d better clear out fast before the woman starts peeling off those slacks.
“Oh, Myra can tell.” Her speech was becoming slurred, her head looked unsteady on her shoulders. “I’ll bet lotsa girls have told you that. So it probably don’t mean nothin’ to you when an old bag that’s pushin’ forty tells you. Isn’t that right?”
Diddy has decided not to answer. Concentrated on summoning the energy to rise from the chair, and get from there to the front door. Out of this house. But meanwhile Myra Incardona’s wandering libido has settled, who knows for how long—a matter of seconds? months?—into friendlier, less pointedly seductive behavior. Endowed with more energy than Diddy. He’s only thinking of getting up; she has already darted out of the room again. Getting still more to drink?
Probably from the kitchen, calling, “Say, what’s your name? Your first name, I mean. I keep gettin’ mixed up on your l
ast one.”
“Paul.”
“Whad’ya say? Wait, I heard. That’s a nice name.” The voice (now) is further away, though Diddy can just make out the words. “I used t’know a Paul. Paul Follet, his name was. Big fella, real strong. Lived near here. Ever know him?”
“No.”
“Too bad.” Myra, with two more cans of beer, at the threshold of the parlor. “He was a swell guy. You might of liked him.” She sat down. “No, come to think of it, you wouldn’t.” This time Diddy the Gentleman didn’t take over. Myra using the opener herself; drinking straight from the can. “How old are you, Paul?”
“Thirty-three.”
“Thirty-three?” She slapped her thigh. “You’re kiddin’ me! Gee, you don’t look that old. You’re gettin’ gray, I can see that. But it’s comin’ in pretty even, and I always say gray hair looks sexy in a man. But your face ain’t lined at all. You look, well, about twenty-eight.” A rapid glance. “Yeah, I’d say twenty-eight.” Putting the can of beer down; looked Diddy over slowly. “Hey,” she grinned, “I got just the job for you. With them clothes and the way you talk and your face, you shouldn’t be workin’ for the railroad. They’re a bunch of slobs. You should be in an insurance office or a bank. That’s the best idea, a bank. Or maybe, if you wanted to earn more dough, you could go to school nights and study for a CPA.”
Diddy puzzled. Is the woman becoming suspicious of him, or is this part of a seduction? Though his instincts tell him it’s probably the former, he can’t decide. Why can’t he decide? Why does he just smile, inanely, affably; as if nothing’s going on. Wait, something is happening. Diddy rescues Myra’s lit cigarette which had toppled from the rim of the ashtray onto the coffee table. “Well, to tell the truth, Mrs. Incardona, I don’t really work for the railroad—”
“You don’t?” she yelled and was on her feet without Diddy having seen her stand up. Diddy alarmed and mystified. “Then what the hell are you doin’ in my house? Is this a gag or somethin’? If it is, mister, you’re gonna be right out on your ear before you can turn around!”
“Hey, hey, hey,” said Diddy. “Calm down, Mrs. Incardona, you didn’t let me finish my sentence. I was about to explain that I actually work for an insurance company that investigates accident claims for the New York, Boston & Standard. I was telling you,” he smiled feebly, “because you said I didn’t look like a railroad man. That’s why. I’m not.”
“Whew,” said the woman. Falling back heavily into the chair. “It’s a good thing I don’t have a bad heart. You sure had me scared for a moment … Paul? Is that your name? I thought you was some creep, gettin’ into my place under false pretenses. Like a burglar or what’s his name, you know who I mean … the Boston Strangler.”
Diddy laughed. For the first moment, enjoying himself in Incardona’s house. All the lies he was telling had become so absurd and ironical they seemed on their way to becoming true. If only he weren’t so uncontrollably sleepy.
At this moment, Myra Incardona is saying something about how she’d spotted him right away, just by his clothes. “It’s that kooky tie,” she said.
Diddy involuntarily glanced down at his tie. Something unusual about it? Looks to Diddy quite ordinary and conservative.
The woman was watching him. “Sure you don’t want some strawberry ice cream? It’s still sittin’ out there in the ice box.” Diddy shook his head. “Or I could fix you a whisky and soda. There’s gin, too. And there’s a couple of bottles of Dago red stashed in the broom closet. Joe liked that stuff, but I know I’m never gonna drink it up myself.”
“No thanks. It’s nice of you, but I’m just fine. I’ll be going in a few minutes.”
“Well I dunno,” she said archly, leaning back in the chair and crossing her legs. “I never met a man yet who didn’t like somethin’ nice. And there’s a lotta nice things around here.” She looked at Diddy quizzically. “But I can see you’re a very particular fella who ain’t satisfied by the first thing that comes along. Am I right?”
Diddy suddenly very tired. A prodigious wave of fatigue that seems to have knocked him down; was pulling him under.
“Right?” she asked again.
“Right,” said Diddy in a dull voice. Feeling faint, overpowered. As if he’d been drugged. Would it be a mistake, he was wondering, to ask Mrs. Incardona to let him lie down for a few minutes?
“You know,” Diddy said, “I don’t feel well all of a sudden. Would you mind if I took off my shoes and lay down over there on the sofa for a minute?”
She got to her feet. “Why sure, go right ahead. Maybe you ate somethin’.” Diddy shook his head; still didn’t get up himself. “Want me to get you an Alka-Seltzer?”
Again Diddy said no. “I just have to lie down for a minute. I don’t want to put you to any trouble. Please don’t let it worry you, because I’m sure it’s nothing.”
The woman alongside him as Diddy reached the couch. “I’m not worried. And you ain’t puttin’ me to no trouble. Listen, I got an idea. The springs in that couch are shot and it ain’t really comfortable. Why doncha go upstairs to my room ’n lie down on the bed?” She put her hand on Diddy’s sleeve as he sat on the edge of the couch; unlacing his shoes. “It’s a whole lot quieter up there. You can rest for a while, long as you like. I’ll see that Tommy gets to bed. Then I’ll come see how you are and if there’s anythin’ I can do for you.”
Diddy sitting; looked up at her enormous face. As with a magnifying glass saw the large pores in her nose, the badly applied rouge on her cheeks, the folds of flesh along her jaw, the creases on her neck. And the scary dead expression on her face—not at all the look of someone who wants to make love.
Although he’s about to lie down (now), perhaps that’s not what he wants. The feeling of faintness was passing; what Diddy started to feel (now) was nausea. Afraid he is going to throw up. And embarrassed that she would understand why. Perfectly true that the woman was atrocious. But she was also a human being; probably, like most people, perishing from lack of being touched and being able to touch. Diddy wished he didn’t find her so unattractive and oppressive.
“I don’t think I want to lie down after all,” Diddy said firmly, and started lacing up his shoes again.
“Hey, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Diddy. “It’s passed, that’s all. I told you it wasn’t anything. What I need now is fresh air.” Didn’t have the kind of metallic resolve that would permit him to look Myra Incardona in the face at this moment; a moment he knew she took to be one of rejection. Nor the hardness of heart to walk straight to the front door (now) and leave.
“Are you goin’?”
“In a few minutes. I’ll have one more cigarette. Let’s sit over there again.”
Diddy suddenly angry with himself. For the last half hour he has almost forgotten why he’s here. Why? Because Diddy has killed this woman’s husband. And because Diddy has to know how and in what sense he, Diddy, is guilty.
Seated again in the pair of identical high-backed easy chairs. “I suppose there’s still some information you want,” said the woman sullenly. “But I don’t know if I feel like answering any more questions. Maybe you better come back another time.”
Was there really anything more to ask? Hadn’t Myra Incardona told Diddy all that could be of use to him? True, she hasn’t resolved Diddy’s contradictory view of himself—as guilty and as innocent, as the aggressor and as the victim. But at least the information she’s supplied has kept the possibility of choice alive; prevented it from being closed down for lack of evidence on the other side, and an unequivocal verdict of Guilty brought in on Diddy. In the light of the man’s consistently brutal character as revealed by his widow, Diddy can spare himself in the future the thought that Incardona couldn’t have meant him any real harm.
Is an even more weighty exoneration possible? Until this evening, Diddy had scarcely dared to think that possible. But perhaps he’s been too quick at self-condemning. Given the right kind of reli
able information about Incardona’s character and habits, it’s possible that Diddy’s act could be construed as self-defense. Even without any witnesses to the act.
With a start, Diddy realizes he has been staring at his trousered knees, but without seeing a thing; has neither heard nor spoken a word. Looks up to find the woman’s eyes upon him, an opaque gaze that he can’t decipher. “Say, do you want to ask me any more questions or not? It’s gettin’ late and I ain’t got all evening to waste.”
Diddy knows she’s bitter (now), but can think of nothing to say that won’t make matters worse. His plan: to get Mr. Paul Dalton out of this smelly shabby house, reeking of staleness and brutality and self-deception, as quickly as he can. But, as long as he’s still here, has to play out his role of sleuth and impersonator, to build a dossier for the attorney who will defend Mr. Dalton Harron at his trial.
“I believe there’s only one more question I was supposed to ask you. I saved it for last, I guess, because I thought you might take it the wrong way. Did your husband drink?”
The woman’s face changed, darkened. “Whad’ya mean?”
“I don’t mean just a beer now and then. Did he get drunk?”
“Are you tryin’ to prove that Joe was drunk on the job? That that’s how he got killed? Of all the low-down—”
“Wait a minute, Mrs. Incardona.” It was vital to stave off the woman’s rage. If she gets angry, he won’t be able to come back another time, if he thinks of any more questions. Diddy held out his hand. “I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m just asking you some routine questions.”
“And I’m answerin’ them, ain’t I? I’m being cooperative, right? You said so yourself. You know, I could sue you people. I could probably collect a million dollars for Joe’s death. I seen cases like this in the papers. Tommy and I would be sittin’ pretty for the rest of our lives. I’d get the law on my side, and that crooked railroad of yours would just have to shell out, Mr. High and Mighty—”