Collected Fiction

by Irwin Shaw

  Strand put his arms around her broad shoulders. He could feel her trembling. “There, there,” he said helplessly. “It’s not your fault.”

  “I don’t know if Jesus has told anybody that I was the one who told him that Mr. Hitz was…” She couldn’t go on.

  “He hasn’t told anyone. Not me or Mr. Babcock or the police or his lawyer or anyone else. In fact, he made a point with me about its being confidential.”

  “If young Mr. Hitz hears that I was the one who set Jesus on him and he tells his father…Mr. Schiller and myself love it here and my husband would be a lost man if the father used his influence…he’s a powerful man, Mr. Strand, and he’s on the Board of Trustees…”

  “I’m sure Mr. Babcock would never let it get that far,” Strand said. “I don’t think you have to worry about it. I won’t say anything and young Romero seems determined to keep your name out of it and even if he reported what you said you saw, it wouldn’t be any kind of evidence in court…”

  “It’s not the evidence I’m afraid of.” She wiped at her eyes with both hands. “It’s Mr. Hitz and the Board of Trustees. Oh, well—” She tried to smile. “Crying won’t take back the words I said, will it?” She picked up her apron and scrubbed at her damp face with its hem. “I should be ashamed of myself. Making such a fuss, when you and Mrs. Strand’ve gone through so much, it’s a blessing you didn’t get stabbed coming between them the way you did. I guess I made a mistake about the Romero boy. You can’t get the leopard to change his spots, can you?”

  “He’s not a leopard, Mrs. Schiller,” Strand said.

  “A figure of speech, sir,” she said hastily. She looked at him warily. “There’s another thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was cleaning out the trash bin for papers in the basement this morning,” she said, “and I found some letters. In a girl’s handwriting. I’d heard already that Hitz said Romero accused him of stealing some letters and I took a look at them. They were addressed to Jesus. They were love letters, very frank, very explicit, very physical, if I may take the liberty to say so, Mr. Strand—girls these days use language that we never even knew existed when we were young. There’s something you ought to know—” She hesitated, as though making a decision, looked uneasily at Strand. “They were signed Caroline. Of course there are many Carolines these days, it’s a very popular name, but I know your daughter is named Caroline.”

  “What did you do with them? The letters?”

  “I put them in the incinerator, Mr. Strand,” Mrs. Schiller said. “I didn’t think you or Mrs. Strand would want to read them.”

  “Thank you,” Strand said. “It was thoughtful of you. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  Mrs. Schiller shook her head. “Just to tell Jesus that I appreciate his keeping my name out of it all.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “I understand Mrs. Strand has gone,” Mrs. Schiller said. “Her bags aren’t in the apartment. If I could fix you a bite to eat.”

  “That’s kind of you. It isn’t necessary, though. I can take care of myself.”

  “If you change your mind, just call me,” Mrs. Schiller said. “Now I better be getting back to work and see if I can’t scrub the blood off the couch.”

  She made a fat little bow, adjusted her apron and went out of the apartment.

  For the first time since he had read the note on the dressing table in the bedroom, Strand was glad that Leslie wasn’t there.

  4

  HE WAS AWAKENED BY the ringing of the telephone. He had lain down to nap with his clothes on just after his talk with Mrs. Schiller. As he got off the bed and stiffly started in toward the living room, he saw that it was already dark. He had slept away the afternoon, his dreams confused and menacing. He fumbled in the darkness for the telephone. It was Leslie. “How are you, darling?” she said. “How is everything?” She sounded calm, normal.

  “As good as can be expected,” he said. “How are you? I tried to call this morning.”

  “We had some last-minute shopping to do for the trip. We were out all day. We’re leaving from Kennedy tomorrow.” She paused. He heard her take a deep breath. “That is, unless you need me back at the school.”

  “No, darling,” he said. “You come back when everything has blown over here.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “It’s well…complicated.”

  “Is Romero there? In the house, I mean.”

  “He’s in jail.”

  “That’s good. At least for the time being. I don’t want to sound vindictive, but I wouldn’t like him to be roaming around the house in his state.”

  “The judge set bail at ten thousand dollars.”

  “Is that a lot?”

  “It is if you don’t have it. I’ll write you all about it. Where will you be staying in Paris?”

  “At the Plaza Athenée. The gallery made the reservations. Linda’s decided we’re going to travel in style.” She laughed a little nervously. Then she became serious again. “Have you spoken to Russell?”

  “I couldn’t reach him.”

  “Do you think he’ll put up the money?”

  “I imagine so. He’s bound to feel responsible.”

  “I hope you’re not feeling responsible.”

  “I’m feeling numb,” he said. “By the way, what time is it? I fell asleep right after noon. Last night was exhausting. I probably would have slept through until morning if you hadn’t called.”

  “It’s after six. I’m sorry I woke you up. Darling, are you sure you don’t want me to get in the car and drive back?”

  “I’m sure,” he said. “I doubt that I’ll be such good company for the next few weeks. You stay as long as you like.”

  “I wish I could do something to help.”

  “Knowing that you’re out of this business and having a good time will help me more than anything else.”

  “If you talk like that, I’m afraid I’ll break down and cry,” Leslie said. “You’re the kindest man in the world, Allen, and everybody takes advantage of it. Including me. Most of all, me.”

  “Nonsense,” Strand said brusquely. “How’s Linda?”

  “Twittering. You know how she is about France. Maybe she has a lover hidden away on a side street.”

  “Give her my regards. And have a great time. The two of you.”

  “What do you want me to bring you back from Paris?”

  “You.”

  Leslie laughed, a low, warm sound a hundred miles away. “I knew you’d say that. That’s why I asked. Je t’embrasse. I’m working on my French.”

  “I love you. Just don’t forget that in any language.”

  “I won’t,” Leslie whispered. “Good night.”

  “Good night, my dearest.” Strand put down the phone, reassured that all was well, at least with Leslie. He put on the lights, then went back to the telephone and considered it. Should he call Hazen now? He leaned over to pick up the instrument, then let his hand drop. He felt too tired to answer the questions he knew Hazen would put to him. He knew he should go into the common room and see what the boys were up to and answer their questions, too, but decided to let it wait until the morning. If he had to face Hitz again that day, he had the feeling that he would finally hit him.

  He heard the peals of the chapel bell for dinner and suddenly realized he had eaten nothing all day.

  He went into the kitchen and looked into the refrigerator. There was nothing much in there, just some eggs and bacon and a half container of milk. But it would have to do. Dinner at a table full of boys in the crowded dining hall was an ordeal to be avoided, even if it meant going to bed hungry. And he was not up to the long walk into town, where he might be recognized by someone who had been in the courtroom that morning. He was frying the bacon when the telephone rang again. He took the pan off the fire and trudged back into the living room and picked up the phone.

  “Allen?” It was Hazen.

  “Yes, Russell. How are y
ou?”

  “I just got in from Washington and I was told you called this morning.”

  “Are you standing, Russell?”

  “Yes, I happen to be standing. Why do you ask?”

  “Because it’s a long, complicated story and you’d better be comfortable when you hear it.”

  “What’s wrong?” Now he sounded alarmed. “Is Leslie all right?”

  “She’s fine. She’s at Linda’s. She decided she wanted to go to Paris after all,” Strand said. “It’s Romero. Have you sat down yet?”

  “I’m down.”

  “We had just gotten back from New York—were just in front of the house—when two boys came running out the door,” Strand said. “One was chasing the other. The one who was doing the chasing was Romero and he had a knife in his hand…”

  “Goddamn fool,” Hazen said. “They’ll kick him out of school for that.”

  “And the boy who was being chased was young Hitz…”

  “Christ,” Hazen said, “I hope I never hear that name again for the rest of my life…”

  “You will, Russell, you will…”

  “The old man has given some added lurid details to the Justice Department and that’s why I had to go down to Washington. But tell me the whole story. Don’t leave out any of the details.”

  When Strand told him that three hundred and seventy-five dollars had been stolen from the box in Romero’s room, Hazen exploded. “Three hundred and seventy-five dollars! Where in hell did he get three hundred and seventy-five dollars?”

  “Hitz says he ran a crap game in his room several nights a week after lights-out.”

  “And you knew nothing about it?” Hazen said incredulously.

  “Not a thing.”

  “What in blazes goes on in that school?”

  “I imagine the usual.”

  “Go on,” Hazen said icily. He broke in again as Strand was telling him that Romero said that he had reason to believe that it was Hitz who took the money. “What reason?” Hazen asked.

  “He wouldn’t say. He said it was confidential.”

  “Confidential,” Hazen snorted. “If I’d been there, it wouldn’t have been all that confidential, I assure you! Not for five minutes. Do you have any clues?”

  Strand thought of Mrs. Schiller’s pleading, tear-choked voice. “None,” he said. He didn’t mention her story about finding the letters. If Hazen wanted to come down to the school and try to break Mrs. Schiller or Romero down, he would get no help from him. “You want me to go on with the rest of the story?”

  “I’m sorry,” Hazen said. “I’ll try not to interrupt again.”

  It took fifteen more minutes before Strand came to the last scene in the courtroom and he was telling Hazen about Romero’s refusing to testify in his own defense.

  “The school lawyer, a Mr. Hollingsbee, pleaded with him,” Strand went on. “But he just stood there and refused to change his mind. He told the judge he didn’t recognize the jurisdiction of the court.”

  “Mr. Hollingsbee must be one hot lawyer,” Hazen said ironically, “if he can’t even argue an eighteen-year-old kid out of making a horse’s ass of himself like that. No wonder he can’t get out of that little hick town. Where’s Romero now?”

  “In jail,” Strand said. “The bail is ten thousand dollars.” He heard the sharp intake of breath at the other end of the line.

  “That’s damn steep,” Hazen said. “But in the judge’s place I’d have made it twenty. That kid deserves to have the book thrown at him, if only for ingratitude. I hate to say this, Allen, but I’m afraid you’ve been a little remiss in disciplining that boy and at least making sure he couldn’t get his hands on any weapons.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Strand said, not showing that he was offended by the rebuke and the tone in which it was uttered. “I’ve been remiss about many things and undoubtedly will be remiss about many more. But it’s stretching the point a bit to call a pocketknife a weapon. But that’s past history. Right now, a boy whom we plucked out of his own environment and put here…”

  “With the best of intentions,” Hazen said loudly.

  “With the best of intentions,” Strand agreed. “But he’s behind bars now, with no family to look to for help, and unless someone with a charitable turn of mind”—he knew Hazen wouldn’t like this, but continued—“and the ability to raise ten thousand dollars comes up with the money, he’ll stay there till the trial, which may be months from now, and…”

  “Are you suggesting, Allen, that I put up the money?” Now Hazen was frankly angry.

  “I’m in no position to suggest anything.”

  “That’s wise,” Hazen said. “Because you’d be suggesting that I act like a damned idiot. If you had the money would you do it?”

  “Yes.” He was surprised that he had said it. The sleep had erased his anger and all he remembered was Romero, small and defenseless, being led down the courthouse aisle by the policeman.

  “Then it’s a good thing you’re poor, because you’d be plucked naked in less time than it would take the ink to dry on your I.O.U. I’ve been in the business world since I was twenty-three and one thing I’ve found out is that anyone who throws good money after bad is a fool.”

  “Russell,” Strand said, “I don’t like to do this, but I’m asking you to lend me the money. I understand why you feel it’s not up to you. If it hadn’t been for me, you’d never have known Romero was alive. If the burden is on anybody, it’s on me. I’m just as mad as you are, but I still feel responsible. I’ll repay the money one way or another. We can save more than we’ve been doing and Leslie’s parents would probably be good for some part of it and Jimmy’s got a good job…”

  “As a friend, Allen,” Hazen said, “I’m going to refuse. You know what that miserable little gutter rat would do if he was turned loose—he’d vanish. You’d never see him or your money again. Nor would the police. He’d disappear into the ghetto like a ghost, with a million of his countrymen ready to swear that they never even knew him.”

  “I’d take that chance,” Strand said quietly.

  “Not on my money. And I hope not on yours. I think this conversation has gone on long enough.”

  “So do I, Russell. Good night.”

  It sounded as though Hazen had smashed down the telephone on the other end of the line.

  One thing is certain, Strand thought as he went into the kitchen, there’ll be no Hamptons this Christmas. He put the bacon back on the fire and broke two eggs into another pan. Tomorrow he would ask Mrs. Schiller to do some shopping for him. He didn’t know when Babcock would insist that he go back to his regular duties, which included dining in the hall with the boys assigned to his table, but he knew he was in no hurry to take up the routine again and he knew he would not volunteer. And no matter what else might happen, he had to eat.

  After he had finished his meal he was still hungry and for a moment he thought of going up to Rollins’s and Romero’s room and raiding Rollins’s cache of cookies, but, he thought, grimly, there had been enough crime recently to last the school through the year.

  He was reading in the living room when there was a tentative knock at the door. He opened it and saw Rollins standing there, bullnecked and wearing the tie and jacket that was compulsory apparel for the evening meal at the school, a condition of which Strand, who had been annoyed for years with his son’s haphazard style of dress, approved. Rollins’s brown, dark, fine-down athlete’s face, which always seemed too small for the massive shoulders and the thick neck, was grave. “I don’t like to disturb you, Mr. Strand,” he said, his voice low, “but if I could talk to you for a moment…”

  “Come in, come in,” Strand said.

  In the living room Rollins folded his long thick legs under him as he sat in a chair facing Strand. “It’s about Romero.” It seemed to pain the huge boy to get the words out. “He acted foolish and if he’d have woke me up I’d have taken care of it and there wouldn’t’ve been any cutting. I know Hi
tz and a little threat from me would have settled matters satisfactorily to all concerned without any knives. There might have been a slap or two, but folks don’t go to jail for fighting or get expelled or anything like that. But I know Romero and he’s a good man, Mr. Strand, whatever he’s done he don’t deserve jail. I went down there to see him but the man said only family. Well, I’m the only real family that boy has, according to some of the stories he’s told me about his mother and father and sisters and brother, they ain’t even worth a telephone call and they’d gladly leave him to rot until he’s old and gray. You’re a smart man, Mr. Strand, you know what jail’ll do to a boy like Romero. When he came out he’d be on the streets for the rest of his life and he won’t be satisfied with any knife, either, not where he’d been hanging out, he’d have a gun in his belt and God knows what sort of dust in his pocket and he’d be better known to the cops than their own mothers…. You know as well as I do, jails don’t turn out citizens, they manufacture outlaws. There’s too much to that boy to make him into an outlaw, Mr. Strand…” He was pleading earnestly, speaking slowly and solemnly, an underlying tone of desperation in his voice.

  “I agree with you, Rollins,” Strand said. “When it first happened I was angry with him, very angry…”

  “He knows how much you’ve done for him, Mr. Strand,” Rollins said. “He’s told me time and time again, even though I know he hasn’t told you. He’s not a thank-you kind of boy. It goes against his character, I imagine you guessed that.”

  “I guessed it,” Strand said dryly.

  “But he was grateful just the same. Deeply grateful.”

  “He has a queer way of showing it.”

  “Hitz beat up on him. Over two hundred pounds. I’m not saying I go along with knives, but Romero—well—the way he was brought up, the places he was brought up, the things he had to do keeping from being thrown off a roof or being found dead in the river, he was—well—he has a different code from the gentlemen here. I’m sure you could find it in your heart to forgive him.”

  “It’s not up to me to forgive him, Rollins,” Strand said gently. “It’s the headmaster and the faculty and Mr. Hitz’s father and Hitz himself and finally the Board of Trustees.”