The Rib From Which I Remake the World

by Ed Kurtz

  Strange.

  “You get to the pictures much these days?”

  Betty startled him, appearing beside him like Charles had done earlier. He shivered, cursed himself for getting so jumpy, imperceptive.

  “No, not really. I sleep when the matinees are on.”

  Which was true, though not the complete truth. Jojo did normally sleep through the day, since he normally worked through the night, but even when time and finances permitted he almost never set foot in the Palace Theater anymore. This was, of course, Irene Dunne’s fault. And by proxy, Beth’s fault. But the full truth of the matter was that it was Jojo’s fault, like all his hard luck was, and the picture shows did nothing but reinforce that ugly fact in his already guilt-ridden mind. Beth hadn’t been so bad, as wives go, though Jojo never really was the marrying kind. She never fussed much and she was a swell-looking babe, a hell of a woman to be honest, which was a great deal more than most cops could ask for in a mate. She was, in fact, the ideal woman for him. Every piece fit perfectly into place when it came to Beth. All the more reason he did everything in his power to forget all about her, and that goddamned Palace sure as hell wasn’t going to help with that.

  “That’s too bad,” Betty went on, dissolving his reverie. “They had this show the other week, The Outlaw, it was called. Boy, you shoulda seen it. But the real show was Russ Cavanaugh’s old lady—man, was she hot he showed that picture! You know that Jane Russell practically shows her—”

  The telephone on the wall by the pie display jangled, cutting her off to Jojo’s great satisfaction. Betty rolled her eyes and stamped off to get it while he lit yet another cigarette. His pack was getting low; he reminded himself to ask Betty for a fresh one before heading back to the hotel.

  She came back round, her teeth bared in an embarrassed grimace.

  “How ’bout a package of Old Golds for the road, kid?”

  “That was Jake on the horn, Jojo. Says you’d better get back.”

  “Christ.”

  He grabbed his hat and smashed it on his head as he slid out from the table. Betty scrambled to the back for a second and then came huffing back with a pack of smokes that she jammed in his hand.

  “Pay me later, Jo,” she said. “You’d best get.”

  Jojo got.

  The woman sitting cross-legged in the threadbare lobby chair was closely examining her fingernails and otherwise looked bored. Jake was anything but bored, enraptured as he was by her long legs and criminally plunging neckline. If the woman noticed his wolfen gaze she didn’t let on. She just kept eyeballing her nails and giving the occasional sigh.

  She’d come in with a group of six, all the rest men, who apologetically wanted to know if the hotel could spare three or four rooms at that dreadfully late hour. Jake felt like being ornery about it, sat back in his chair like he was the boss of the place and said he didn’t really know, it was awful late, and how long were they planning on staying, anyhow? Then the lady came in—floated in, more like—right by the cashier’s cage and straight to the beat up chair like she’d been sitting in it all her life. She lifted her right leg like a preying spider and angled it down over her left. She hadn’t said a word to anyone, but Jake could tell she was part of the late crowd.

  That changed things significantly.

  “Two bucks . . . er, dollars a night, sir,” he now stammered. “Three and fifty if there’s two to a room.”

  He wondered about the woman, whether she’d be bunking with any of these men. Jojo would want to know about that. His eyes widened and he excused himself to go place that call.

  Jake spoke to some waitress with a long drawl and had barely returned the receiver to the hooks before Jojo came plodding into the lobby. He looked tired and damp. Jake gestured to the circle of men in the middle of the lobby and noticed for the first time that one of them was dressed like a surgeon with the white coat and the little Van Dyke beard and everything. Jojo’s face registered shock and perhaps a touch of dismay. He went slowly over to the cashier’s cage and leaned in close.

  “Just saw these clowns over at the Palace.”

  “I thought you went to the Starlight.”

  “It’s right across the street, genius. Listen: did they mention anything about what they’re doing? I mean why they’re in town.”

  “They just asked for rooms. Four of ’em. The tall drink of water, the one with the tweed jacket, he’s the one did the asking. And man, did you see the girl yet?”

  Jake grinned and licked his lips.

  “Forget about that,” Jojo said sharply. “Get him to sign the register and make sure he fills in the bit about occupation, all right? Can you manage that, kid?”

  Jake frowned but nodded.

  Jojo sauntered over to the group and surveyed their faces, their clothes, the suitcases at their feet. Charles was lingering anxiously nearby, unsure of how to handle them. Jojo presumed they’d carried their own luggage in, which must have irked Charles to no end. Easy way to get out of a tip. Strike one, Jojo thought.

  He put on his best fake smile and insinuated himself into the circle, making direct eye contact with the man in the tweed jacket.

  “Welcome to the Litchfield Valley Hotel.”

  The man knitted his brow and drew in a long breath.

  “I gather that we are in Litchfield,” he said at length, “but where exactly is the valley?”

  “There isn’t one,” Jojo admitted. “Used to be called Litchfield Palms. No palm trees, either.”

  The man stared for a moment. So did everyone else, apart from the woman in the chair. She just leaned back and rubbed her temples in tiny circles with the tips of her fingers.

  “I see,” he ultimately answered. “Are you the manager? When will our rooms be ready?”

  “I’m not the manager, no, but your rooms will be ready as soon as you sign the register up front and pay the kid in the cage.” Jojo stuck a cigarette in his mouth and patted himself down, searching for the matches he’d left on the table back at the diner. “Listen, though—before you do that, let me ask you—are you the folks setting up over at the Palace?”

  The one in the doctor’s getup darted his glance between Jojo and the guy in the tweed jacket. The latter smiled slightly and bounced on the balls of his feet.

  “That’s right. We’re doing a roadshow, see? Town to town, like.”

  “Sure,” Jojo said. “Saw Birth of a Nation that way when I was a kid. What sort of picture are ya’ll bringing to Litchfield?”

  “Say, you’re starting to sound like the law,” the man said. “I hope there isn’t a problem.”

  “Nope, no problem at all. Not as far I can see, anyway. I’m just crazy for the pictures, that’s all. Figured I might catch yours, if it’s up my alley.”

  “Well, then,” the guy said in a drawn out sort of way. His smile broadened and he shot a knowing look to the doctor. “It’s a hygiene picture, as a matter of fact. Educational.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “It is, yes. See, we tour the heartland and spread the gospel, as it were. Our boss wants the young people to know the facts of life, the best ways to keep their noses clean. That sort of thing.”

  “Clean noses. I like ’em, too.”

  Jojo fiddled anxiously with the unlit cigarette in his hand and scratched his cheek.

  “I guess I’d better let you folks get registered, then. It’s awful late for an interview.”

  “That it is, detective.”

  “Just Jojo,” he corrected the man. “Two questions before you go, though.”

  The fellow raised his eyebrows circumspectly and awaited them.

  “That boss of yours, would that be Barker Davis?”

  For a moment, the inquiry seemed to suck all the air out of the lobby. The men exchanged anxious glances. Even the woman in the chair looked up. Jojo betrayed no tho
ughts on the subject, just waited for an answer.

  “Why, yes,” said the man. “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Only from the announcement on the Palace marquee. Hard to miss.”

  “Ah, of course,” the man said with a peculiar shiver. “I hadn’t realized you’d seen it yet.”

  “Motherhood Too Soon,” Jojo said. “With an exclamation mark.”

  “Like I said, Jojo, it is a hygiene picture.”

  “Like you said. Fair warning to you, to all of you—Litchfield doesn’t have a League of Decency contingent, but if there’s anything remotely objectionable about your little hygiene film you can expect a visit from Reverend Shannon before too long.”

  “The local clergyman, I take it.”

  “He is.”

  “Nothing we haven’t dealt with before, I assure you. There are many men whose views remain locked in the dark ages, who would rather their impressionable young people learn life’s harsh lessons the hard way. We are here to ease that burden.”

  “You know, I saw a hygiene picture some years back, in St. Louie. All about white slavers and that jazz. The folks what put that one on were selling the same bill of goods, that it was all for the public good, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t just old fashioned bunco. This ain’t a wild town, mister—we don’t got but population twelve hundred and eighty—but I expect you’ll fill some seats all the same.”

  “Clean noses, Mr. Jojo,” the man responded with a mask of indifference.

  “Right,” Jojo said. “Go on and get registered. I’m sure I’ll see you all around.”

  With a limp salute from the brim of his hat, Jojo turned on his heel and headed back for his office.

  “Oh, Mr. Jojo?” the man called to him.

  Jojo paused and turned back.

  “You said you had two questions. What was the other?”

  “Almost forgot,” Jojo said. He held up the cigarette, now crumpled from the constant handling, pinched between his forefinger and thumb. “Any of you got any matches?”

  The man displayed the palms of his hands in a gesture of helpless apology.

  “I’m afraid not. None of us smoke.”

  “Natch,” Jojo said grouchily.

  He tramped to the back and disappeared into his office.

  Chapter Two

  As softly as the front door closed and the latch turned, Theodora heard it and sat up in bed. She had not yet fallen asleep, despite the late hour. Theodora never slept when Russ wasn’t at home.

  Downstairs, her husband shuffled around in the dark, knocked something over, cursed quietly. Theodora sat back against the headboard and wove her fingers together. She wondered if Russ had been drinking, though she recognized how little it mattered in the larger picture. She was almost certain he’d been with Lana, the cigarette girl at the theatre.

  She hadn’t much to go on, no solid or substantial evidence to back up her anxiety, but it only made sense given the widening distance between them these last few months. More and more Russ stayed at the Palace long past the end of the last feature, much too long to explain away with counting receipts and getting the theatre in order for the next business day. Towns far larger than Litchfield might have had regular midnight shows on the weekends, but the Palace could never convince people to stay up that late for a picture. The last reel always reached its end before midnight. Three in the morning just didn’t make any sense, not unless . . .

  Russ wasn’t coming up, so Theodora got out of bed and slipped into her robe. Now that her blood was moving again, she felt hot immediately. She padded out to the hall and went quietly down the steps. Halfway down, she heard Russ’s voice, floating sonorously from the kitchen.

  “Who, Jim Shannon? Sure, I know him—why, who told you that? Oh, well Christ, he can make a fuss all he wants . . . it’s not like he can go to the law about it or anything. But then again, I had that Jane Russell show not too long ago and I was sure I’d hear about . . . turns out only my old lady wanted to piss and moan about it.”

  Theodora bristled on the steps, squeezed her lips into a wrinkled frown. She’d reckoned that discussion was long over and done with. All she’d ever meant was that the picture might make the theatre look bad, anyway—Litchfield was a small town with small town values. Folks might not want to spend their money at a place that exhibits trash like that, she’d told him. Duxom isn’t but an hour away, and they could just as easily make day trip of it just to show you how distasteful they find it. It was them she was thinking of, she and Russ, their standing and their reputation and, of course, the state of their already shaky finances. She never meant to fuss, and she certainly wasn’t judging her husband by the types of pictures he chose to exhibit. Russ was free to do as he liked. He wore the pants, didn’t he?

  She crept down to the landing and paused there, listening.

  “You ever see that Garbo picture, Two Faced Woman? Hell’s bells, I almost lost my shirt over that one, and Shannon led the party to take it off my back. Glorified adultery, he said. Violated God’s will, or some such poppycock. Now that was two years ago, and I told him in no uncertain terms then that the next time he tried to make trouble for me I aimed to make plenty of trouble right back . . . well, yes, Mr. Winston. No, Mr. Winston, I don’t suppose anyone ought to give him hell before he does anything. I’m just saying . . . sure, of course. I guess I’m a leading businessman in this community—I don’t figure on stirring up a hornet’s nest, but the Palace ain’t what it used to be. . . .”

  Russ went quiet except for a few punctuated grunts and the occasional click of his tongue, and Theodora took it as her cue to come silently into the kitchen as though she hadn’t heard a word of it. Her husband flashed a startled grimace at her and turned away, toward the sink, nodding and saying uh-huh and sure, sure and yes, Mr. Winston.

  Theodora poured a glass of water from the tap and sat down at the kitchen table, sipping it methodically until her husband finished his call at last. He returned the receiver to its hooks and emitted a heavy sigh.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked as cheerily as possible.

  “Long day, that’s all.”

  “You want I should make you something to eat? I can whip up some scrambled eggs. . . .”

  “No, no I don’t want any eggs.”

  He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar, gasping as though it had been choking him to death.

  “You know, I rather liked that Garbo picture,” Theodora said. She immediately wished she hadn’t.

  Russ’s face bloomed red and his shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths.

  “Can’t you mind your own business?” he barked. “A man works a fifteen hour day—fifteen hours, Theodora—and he’s got to come home to a nosy woman who can’t mind her own business? Is that fair?”

  “I didn’t mean to be meddlesome. . . .”

  “Then don’t be, for Christ’s sake. That was a business call, you hear? My business, not yours.”

  “I’m only taking an interest, dear. . . .”

  “An interest,” he mocked as he lumbered out into the living room. “Sure, sure. An interest.”

  He switched on the lamp and opened up the liquor cabinet by the bookshelves, from which he extracted a bottle of rye and a chipped crystal glass. Theodora mousily followed behind as he poured three fingers, downed it in a single gulp, and then poured three more. She lingered behind the divan and twiddled her thumbs while he drank.

  “Who’s Mr. Winston?”

  Russ emitted a gravelly gasp from the liquor.

  “An exhibitor,” he said. “One of the folks come down with the new picture.”

  “What sort of picture is it?”

  “Christ, Theodora . . .”

  “I’m only asking.”

  “It’s a sex hygiene picture, if you must know. The sort of garbage they sell as socially rel
evant, but all it is is pure exploitation.”

  “Oh.”

  “They got this fellow in a doctor’s getup, and he does a spiel before each showing. Sells some books they got printed up. Then the show, it’s all about some girl who goes and gets knocked up by a kid on his way to the war, see? Says he’ll come home and marry her, then I guess they get the letter says he’s been killed and the girl, she’s stuck with the bun in the oven.”

  Russ tipped the mouth of the bottle against the lip of the glass, poured two more fingers. He paused for a moment like he was really thinking it over, then poured two more.

  “Thing is, the last reel is a real whopper.”

  “That so?”

  Theodora was loosening up a bit now that Russ was, too. He was getting drunk, and fast, but at least he was speaking to her.

  “Live birth,” he said with some disgust. “I haven’t seen it—don’t want to, really—but that’s what it’s got, right at the end. A real honest-to-Christ childbirth just as plain as the nose on your face.”

  Theodora blushed, her eyes bulged.

  “But, Russell . . .”

  “Yeah, I know. Jim Shannon’s gonna get wind of it and bring half of Heaven’s Christian soldiers down to give me hell about it. But Winston, he’s not worried about it, see? Tells me it happens in nearly every town, and it don’t but help sell tickets in the end. It’s the young people, mostly, and in towns like this where nobody tells them anything . . . well, I guess they just want to see it for themselves. I don’t reckon it can hurt.”

  “But do they . . .”

  “What, Theodora? Spit it out: do they what?”

  “Goodness, Russ—do they show, you know, it?”

  “Why do I have to guess at what you’re driving at? Are you talking about the vagina? Is that what you can’t say? For Pete’s sake, she’s got one and she can’t even say the damn word.”

  Russ laughed, a harsh, short snort, and dumped the remainder of the glass down his gullet. For her part, Theodora was embarrassed. For him, and for herself. He did not normally talk like this, not even when he was in his cups like now. He could be a bit crass, she knew—she’d heard plenty of crude male talk whenever he played cards with the boys from the lodge—but never like this, never to her.