by Jim Powell
Like every year, we would put a ‘Closed’ sign on the door and give Steve the night off. The question was, ‘What costume do we wear?’ and the answer had become, ‘The same one as last year.’ It was a lot cheaper. This came in for criticism. Our friends recognized us. People said it wasn’t playing the game: the point was not to be recognized, at least not at a hundred paces. So, this year, we thought we’d change things around.
I remembered an old campaign badge from when Eugene McCarthy was running for the Democratic nomination: ‘McCarthy! McCarthy? McCarthy.’ That had always tickled me, but then I was an English teacher. I didn’t see how we could impersonate a full stop. However, an exclamation mark and a question mark would be fun. Also appropriate, I thought at the time. Right now, a full stop seemed more to be desired.
Marcie knew a dressmaker who said she’d stitch some sheets round wire frames. Black stockings and white shoes would complete the effect. Slits and holes for eyes and mouths. No one would know who the hell we were. Now, this cornucopia of costumes lay spread on the table before me.
‘Come on,’ said Marcie; ‘let’s try them on.’
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘I’ve got something to ask you first. Please will you take me to Colorado with you next summer.’
Marcie was taken aback for a moment.
‘Of course I will,’ she said. ‘What’s brought this on?’
‘Nothing in particular,’ I said.
15
We had a ball at Halloween. It was one of the best ever. Gazing down at the throng on Main Street from the balcony of the de Ritter hotel, it seemed that a good part of town must have come. Looked like a bunch of kids had run riot with the dressing-up box. This was the night when people could be anything they wanted to be. They could also do it any other night, I suppose, but this night it was permitted. In fact, it was expected. All the ambiguities of the world were on show. All its joys. Somewhere beneath, out of sight, all its sorrows too.
Marcie and I had a few drinks at the hotel, then went out to join the crowd. Took us a while to get used to walking in our costumes, aligning our eyes with the slits. I tripped over a kerbstone early on, and a guy dressed as the Statue of Liberty had to help me up. As you would. We watched the moon play hide-and-go-seek with the leaves of a tree, first transfixing the revellers with its glow, then plunging them into darkness. There was no telling where the next chance of light would strike, what tableau it would illumine, or what pose it would catch. All you could be sure of was that, a moment or two later, it would be something different.
We thought we’d conceal our identities completely. We talked to people we knew in Mickey Mouse voices, to see if they recognized us. No one did, except for Steve, and he knew what costumes we’d got. We talked to Arlene and Franky. Arlene looked as if she was meant to be Elizabeth Taylor, which wasn’t much of a stretch for her. I had a feeling she wouldn’t come in anything that hid her looks. We thought she’d kitted Franky out as Errol Flynn. It was hard to be sure. He was wearing a neckerchief, leather jerkin and fancy pants, flashing a cutlass at anyone who came too close. They made a fine pair, damn them.
At one point, a group of guys dressed as Union soldiers ran into a group of guys dressed as Confederates. That could have got nasty. Nothing like fighting old battles, especially when the issues have never been resolved. Another guy was dressed up as the bastard town next door. I appreciate that you can’t actually dress up as a town, but he had the name of the town on his head and his body appeared to be consumed with flames. You see, I’m not the only one round here to bear a grudge.
The town clock struck midnight. With a thousand other people, we swayed and surged up Main Street in a collective danse macabre. We coagulated outside the town hall for a last hurrah, alive to the night, dead to the world, and mostly dead drunk, so far as I could tell. Then, two by two, couples slipped off into the fluorescent darkness, like into the last red sunset in a Western movie. Later, we’d take off the masks we’d worn for the occasion, pack them away, and put on our usual masks the next morning.
Well past midnight, the party over, we began to stroll home, arms around each other like they hadn’t been in a while. We were about halfway back when we saw an apparition. On a bench, alone, sat a woman. She looked like she had been Ginger Rogers earlier in the evening. As we got closer, we could see that it was Mrs Riessen. She was in tears. Rouge and mascara streaked her face. She was running fingers through her hair, and it was a mess. We went over to her, took off the tops of our costumes and reminded her who we were.
‘Can we help you in any way?’ I asked.
‘No, it’s all right, thank you. I’ll be fine.’
‘You don’t look fine,’ Marcie said. ‘Can we walk you home?’
‘Thank you. Please don’t trouble yourselves,’ said Mrs Riessen. ‘I’ll be all right in a moment. I’ve had a nasty shock, that’s all.’
‘At the parade?’
‘No. A little beforehand. It upset me rather. It was silly of me to have come, really. But I’d been so looking forward to it, and I’d got my costume and everything. I came with a friend, but she became ill and went home. I thought I’d be able to manage.’
‘What upset you?’ I asked.
‘It’s a private matter,’ said Mrs Riessen. ‘To do with family. A man came to see me and asked all sorts of impertinent questions. About my husband, and other things. It was very distressing. I really don’t know what to make of it all.’
‘Are you sure we can’t walk with you to Pine?’ asked Marcie. ‘It’s not far out of our way.’
‘Well, if you’re sure it wouldn’t be any trouble, that would be very kind. I don’t like being out on my own at this hour.’
So we walked Mrs Riessen home, and she thanked us, and we thanked her for giving us shelter the previous Sunday. Then we headed homewards ourselves.
‘I guess that was Franky,’ Marcie said.
‘What good does he think that’s going to do Arlene? She’d be furious if she knew.’
‘Depends what he found out,’ said Marcie.
I’d told Marcie about Franky’s visit the previous day, and about our conversation. Well, I’d told her a quarter of the conversation: what Franky had said about Riessen and Jack and his engagement to Arlene. And that Franky was planning for them to live in Mr Hammond’s house. You could say that a lead balloon would have felt like helium after that announcement.
Just after seven o’clock the next evening, Franky and Arlene bounced into the bar, a few minutes apart. Franky swaggered in like he’d won the state lottery. Marcie may have been right that his charm had a sell-by date of five minutes, but the five minutes were metaphorical. They had already extended to several weeks, with bookings likely to be confirmed for a further season. Possibly for a lifetime. Arlene looked jubilant too, triumphal even. It seemed like they were in honeymoon mode already. Arlene stared up at Franky as if he was her hero, and Franky pretended not to notice, as if he got that look regularly.
I haven’t given much impression of the passion between Franky and Arlene, because they mostly kept it private, which was decorous if disappointing. You could sense it, though. You mightn’t get to see the film, but the trailer played in the bar room each night they were there. Some nights, the trailer was short: the two of them had barely met up before they left again, pawing each other like kittens. It was nothing like how Arlene had been with Davy. I handed Arlene her cocktail and was about to pour a beer for Franky, when he stopped me.
‘Save it for later,’ he said. ‘I need to do something at home. Look after Arlene for a while, won’t you? Don’t do it too good, mind.’
Sounded like he was about to take Arlene to their new home later that night. Maybe he’d gone to put the champagne on ice. I tried not to think about it and turned my attention to Arlene.
‘You’re looking good tonight,’ I said. ‘I mean, especially good.’
‘Why, thank you,’ said Arlene. ‘I’m feeling great.’
‘Did you enjo
y Halloween?’
‘I loved Halloween. It was fabulous. Worth waiting for all these years. Were you there?’
‘You bet we were.’
‘I didn’t see you. There was such a crowd. Franky and I went as Elizabeth Taylor and Clark Gable.’
‘We thought he was Errol Flynn,’ I said.
‘No. Clark Gable. You saw us?’
‘We talked to you.’
‘You did what? I don’t remember that. How were you dressed?’
‘I was an exclamation mark, and Marcie was a question mark,’ I said.
‘So that was you!’ said Arlene. ‘You were in those white sheets. You meanies. You put on silly voices. I hope we didn’t say anything bad. We thought you were the Ku Klux Klan.’
‘Your grasp of punctuation is poor,’ I said. ‘Tell me why you’re feeling so good.’
‘You remember that night when Franky first came in the bar? I said I wanted a twenty-four-carat, rock-solid hero, and Marcie said that Franky wasn’t the one. Well, she was wrong. Franky is Batman and Superman and Captain America rolled into one. He’s the hero to end all heroes.’
Marcie was standing a few feet away from me at the time, talking to someone else. It didn’t stop her hearing. Wisely, she decided not to comment, and satisfied herself with the raise of an eyebrow.
‘What’s he done to deserve that notice?’ I asked.
‘He’s such a wonderful man,’ said Arlene, ‘and he did such a wonderful thing. He found out about Jack for me. Would you believe it? And then this morning, I found out for myself.’
‘You did? You met him?’
‘No,’ said Arlene. ‘I discovered all about him in a newspaper piece. Wait till you hear it. You’ll be so surprised!’
‘About what?’
‘I can’t say now. I must tell Franky first. But I’ll tell you soon.’
‘Is Jack alive?’
‘No,’ said Arlene. ‘He’s dead. But at least I know who he was.’
‘And who was he?’
‘That’s complicated.’ Those were the same words Franky had used when I’d asked him about Hammond’s house. ‘There may be money involved. Quite a lot of money, I think. Why do things always turn out complicated?’
‘Because they are,’ Marcie would have said. In fact, I could hear her saying it under her breath at that moment. I hope the other customer didn’t think she was listening to him.
‘Stop being mysterious,’ I said. ‘It can’t be that complicated. Why don’t you tell me?’
‘Not till I’ve told Franky.’
‘You will be careful, Arlene, won’t you?’
‘Careful of what? Of Franky?’
‘Amongst other things.’
Arlene reached over and tweaked my nose. ‘You’re jealous,’ she said. ‘You and Marcie can say what you like about Franky, but he’s a generous man. Look what he gave me.’
She stretched out her hand. A large ring adorned her finger. Could have been diamond. Could have been paste. I don’t know enough to say. Either way, it was an engagement ring. It didn’t give me a good feeling. I felt my hard-earned cash had paid for it.
‘Come into some money, has he?’
Arlene smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, he has. And a house. In fact, we’re going to be living there. You really are jealous, aren’t you?’
I let that one go. I was beyond jealousy where Franky was concerned. But I was feeling mad at him. Mad that my stolen money was being flashed around the bar. Mad that it now looked as if we’d got Franky as a long-term neighbour. I’d had enough.
‘Have you seen Franky’s house?’ I asked. ‘Do you know where it is?’
‘No,’ said Arlene. ‘He’s taking me there tonight.’
‘Just be careful, Arlene.’
‘What’s there to be careful about?’
‘Just be careful.’
She got up from the stool and paced around the room. I think I’d unsettled her, which was the intention. Over at the window, she looked into the parking lot.
‘Franky’s car is there,’ she said when she returned.
‘That’s strange,’ I said. ‘He usually parks it round the back.’
‘Not when I’m with him,’ said Arlene. ‘And not tonight. Why would he park it round the back? And why is it here at all? He said he’d gone to do something at home. Why hasn’t he taken the car?’
Should I tell Arlene? Why shouldn’t I tell Arlene?
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Franky’s house is Mr Hamond’s house. He’s been living there for about three months now. Technically, I suppose he’s squatting, but it’s more than that. He’s doing the place up. He’s making it into a proper home. For you, it would appear.’
‘What? Are you sure?’ Anxiety was replacing the exuberance.
‘Quite sure. I went with him when he first looked inside the house. Davy came too. It was after the visit that Franky decided he’d take the place over. He didn’t want anyone to know, so he’s left the front gates bolted and uses our parking lot to get in and out.’
Arlene said nothing. She looked disconcerted.
‘That’s not all,’ I said. ‘What’s Franky’s surname? Do you know?’
‘Albertino,’ said Arlene.
‘Not anymore, it isn’t. He changed it to Hammond when he moved into the house. Changed it officially, I mean.’
‘Are you sure of that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why would he want to do that, change his name?’
‘I should think it’s either a scam to make him look like the legal owner . . .’ I paused. I wasn’t sure if I should mention the other alternative. Arlene could figure it out for herself.
‘. . . or?’
I think she wanted me to say it for her.
‘Or he’s Mr Hammond’s son. That’s my take on it, for what it’s worth.’
Arlene looked like she’d been poleaxed. She scrunched up her fingers and closed her eyes tight shut. She was breathing heavily. She said nothing.
Then she stood bolt upright, walked over to the window and looked out of it for a while. She was calmer when she came back to the bar.
‘No, he isn’t,’ she said. ‘He can’t be.’
‘How come you’re so sure of that?’
Arlene exploded. ‘Because you’re lying to me, you shithead!’ she shouted.
Marcie was standing by my side now. Arlene was silent, her brow clouded, her mouth pursed. She was breathing even more heavily.
‘Arlene,’ I said, ‘talk to us. For once in your life, open up. Don’t be afraid of telling people things. We want to help you.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not now. Not ever.’ She stared at us. ‘Bastard. Bastard.’
She was now incredibly angry. I had never seen her angry.
‘What’s the problem, Arlene?’
‘You’re the problem, you bastard!’ she screamed at me. ‘How can you stand there and say that Franky is Mr Hammond’s son. Have you any idea what you’re saying? As for you –’ she turned toward Marcie – ‘I know you hate him. Franky’s told me the lies you’ve spread about him. Now you stand there and tell me that you want to help me. You don’t give a shit, the pair of you.’
Her face was red, her hands shaking. I was going to speak, but was stopped by the reappearance of Franky.
‘What’s up, sugar?’
‘This man,’ she said. ‘These people. They think that Mr Hammond was your father.’
Franky looked at us. Then he looked at Arlene and smiled.
‘He was,’ he said. ‘I was going to tell you when we got to the house.’
‘No!’ screamed Arlene. Tears were streaming down her face now. ‘No! No! No! He isn’t. He can’t be.’
‘Why not?’ asked Franky.
‘He mustn’t be. Don’t you understand?’
Arlene was shouting at the top of her voice. The bar was full that night. All other conversations stopped. All eyes were fixed on Arlene.
Then the anger subsided. Her shoulders sag
ged. She sat down on a stool, her stool, put her head in her hands and began to sob.
‘No,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Of course you don’t understand. I haven’t told you yet. How could you understand?’
Franky had been watching Arlene with a look of bewilderment, like he couldn’t begin to guess what lay behind this outburst. I don’t think he was acting.
‘Told me what?’ he said.
Arlene got to her feet and wiped her cheeks on her sleeve. She stood very still for a moment. Then she took Franky by the arm and led him slowly out of the bar.
Franky freed his arm and tried to put it round Arlene, but she pushed it gently away. They both turned their heads back toward us.
‘So long, Steve,’ said Franky. ‘Good to have met you.’
No farewell to Marcie or me; just to a guy he barely knew. They were the last words I heard him speak. Arlene didn’t say anything as she shook her head slowly from side to side.
I’m truly sorry that this should have been my last memory of Arlene. It was ineffably sad.
I don’t think she meant what she said to us. I don’t think that her reaction had anything to do with me, intrinsically. She would have learned what I told her a few hours later in any case. I happened to be the Western Union guy. She wasn’t angry with me for telling her that Franky was Hammond’s son. She was furious with the information itself.
That was Marcie’s take on it too. Marcie felt that Arlene had suddenly understood something, everything. We didn’t know what Arlene knew, so we couldn’t make the connection that she made. Or not till later, anyhow.
I watched them through the bar room window, standing opposite each other in the parking lot, close to each other. It was too far to hear what was being said. I guess they were talking softly, and our double glazing was too good. We could see though, because the lot was illuminated. We watched two silhouettes act out a mime show.
It was Arlene who did the talking. She seemed to be explaining something to Franky. It took a while. Then she produced something from her purse and unfolded it. It was large, like a sheet of newspaper. She showed it to Franky, standing back a little, leaving him his own space to read it. Franky seemed to be struggling with the information it contained. He read it, then put the paper to his side, then read it again. He looked at Arlene and shook his head. They were both crying.