9:41

by Iannuzzi, John Nicholas;

  Carl breathed in fully of the fresh air about him and held his breath with his lungs filled to an overwhelmed capacity of cleanness. He exhaled, and a wisp of steam escaped from his mouth. Oddly enough, even in this wonderful environment of freshness, Carl still faintly detected Ruth’s perfume. He had been so close to her, to that fragrance that seemed always to hover about her; he could smell it in her hair, on her skin, on her bedclothes, … perhaps it was his imagination conjuring the sensation of her fragrance. He sniffed the lapel of his coat to determine if the perfume accidently embedded itself there when he kissed her good-night. His lapel smelled like moist wool.

  Funny, he thought, I swear I still smell that perfume. He continued his pace. What a great night, now remembering Ruth. The scent must be imagination. “I should have had the night attendant drive me home; damn garage is too far from the house”, he murmured.

  The wind, suddenly and without warning, arose from the ground violently, and swirled upward and around, carrying with it a bitter lashing cold that seemed to pass through Carl’s body. He bundled the lapels of his overcoat together, and leaned into the wind. It began to flail him, his face, his ears, it beat against his eyelids until he had to close them, opening them only blinkingly to see if he were headed straight. Finally he reached his stoop and bounded up the stairs over the white mantle from the skies. A renegade wind swept down quickly from the roof of the house, hugging the building, viciously lashing out at and carrying with it, Carl’s hat. He whipped his hand up to grab it; too late. It was torn from his head, and twisting through the air, thrown down on the sidewalk.

  “Son of a bitch”, he murmured, “just when you’re freezing your ass off”, he said to himself, annoyed, as he trudged down to the foot of the steps, picked up the hat, and hastened up the steps again, and through the door.

  He walked quietly down the flight of steps leading into the sitting rom so as not to disturb Ginger. Ginger was Carl’s wife. A most loving wife was she, as he was a loving husband. He walked lightly not so that she would not find out he was coming home late, but that she would not be disturbed. Ginger didn’t mind him coming in late, or even that he might be out with other women. One thing about this marriage, he made sure it was understood, that each of them must have their own friends, their own diversion. They understood each other perfectly, … and they understood their marriage perfectly, and no stilted or stagnant ideas of propriety ran their lives … quite the opposite. They ran their own lives and decided for themselves just what was proper, and what was not.

  Carl walked slowly and carefully, his eyes being unaccustomed to the dark—especially coming in from the snow outside. As he neared the candle that was left on the table in the living room as a night-light for him, he moved more easily. He gazed into the smoked mirrors on the wall behind the table, and with the complementary light from below flickering on his face, framed on the bottom by a loosened tie, and on top by imperceptibly disheveled hair, he thought how lucky women in general were that he existed. Most other men were not even a match for him. His looks stunned, his charm and tenderness overwhelmed. Ah Ruth, you lovely, sensual woman, you … how lucky you have been tonight, thought Carl to himself.

  Looking up he noticed in the mirror the reflection of the mobile design, the Christmas one, with colored balls and holly dangling from its suspended wires, was twirling, vibrating, twisting around, just as it did when he passed it and disturbed the air that surrounded it when he passed it on his way to the office every morning. A quick shock of air filled the room as the front door banged against its frame.

  Carl twirled. “Who’s there?” he called into the darkness. No answer. Peering blindly, he repeated his question to the room that seemed to close in upon him. Again there was no answer. Cautiously, not knowing what awaited him, who or what was there in the dark, he slid his hand slowly over the wall toward where he knew the light switch to be. He felt the switch, flipped it with trepidation and anticipation. The normal pieces of squat low furniture, the vivid pastels, were all that greeted him. It had sounded like someone going through the doorway, but who would it have been. Ginger? He walked back to the bedroom and flicked on the light. Ginger’s head lifted from her pillow. Squinting, she opened one eye, firmly holding the other closed against the glare of the light.

  “I just heard the front door bang shut. I thought you went out”, said Carl.

  She smirked annoyance. “Yes, I did”.

  “That’s funny”. Carl turned back into the sitting room. He walked through the room, up the stairs, opened the front door, and looked outside. The street was empty and white. Turning to go in, he saw many footprints in the snow on the steps, many more than he would have made walking over the purely driven snow. It must have been someone, he thought. I heard the door bang, … and now the footsteps, the mobile moving, as if someone had passed by and gone out. A faint gleam of suspicion flickered into bloom within him.

  “Ginger, baby”, he called in a somewhat knowing way as he walked back to the bedroom, “are you sure you didn’t hear anyone?”

  “Course I’m sure. You were the only one I heard when you came in.”

  “You heard me come in, but didn’t hear anything after that?” he asked doubtingly.

  “No!” said Ginger, exasperated.

  “That’s strange. The door slammed, the mobile was moving, there were more than one set of footprints on the stoop and there weren’t any before I got here”, he said sarcastically. “Perhaps your lover was a little hasty in his departure, eh?”, said Carl, jokingly serious. This flickering suspicion began to obsess his thoughts. He didn’t mind her having friends and all that, but an affair, … and in his own bed. He slyly studied more closely Ginger and the bed, as he leisurely took off his jacket. The bed was completely disarranged and rumpled as if there had been much activity thereon. He now meticulously observed the room as he began to undress, feeling that he was shrewdly uncovering a poorly concealed affair.

  “You’d better tell your friend to be more careful next time”, said Carl. “You almost got caught”, he said, affecting detached amusement.

  “What in God’s name are you talking about now? Can’t you just shut up and let me get some sleep. I haven’t been able to sleep all night”.

  “He must be pretty good, hanh?”

  “Yes, he’s very good”, said Ginger sarcastically, trying to agree with Carl, to silence him, “so much better than you, in fact, that we were making love without a rest all night”.

  “Are you serious about this?’ Carl said, suddenly outraged. “I mean, I don’t like fooling around about this sort of thing …”

  “Then shut up and stop being such a child. I haven’t been able to sleep all night, and now you come home and start some nonsense about my lover being here … grow up. Do you think I’m crazy to have someone here?”

  “I heard the door slam, … there are footsteps on the stoop—come out and see them yourself, and you tell me it’s nonsense. You’ve got a hell of a nerve, you, you, goddamn tramp, bringing somebody here while I’m out”.

  “Why you nervy son of a bitch”, screamed Ginger angrily. “You rotten, hypocritical bastard … to stand there and call me a tramp”, her voice was reaching an emotional peak. Tears began to well up in her eyes. “You, big understanding man, so mature, such a great lover, … ‘we must all have our own friends, dear’”, she said mimicking his words in a cutting, invective way, “‘you know, to sort of keep up with the styles. This way we’ll always be interesting to each other’”.

  “I told you we should have our own friends”, Carl said defensively, “but I don’t intend to have you in bed with all sorts of guys, … my own bed, … what the hell do you think I am a fool, … cuckolded in my own house?”

  “Well, if you spent more time in your own house, maybe you wouldn’t have so many stupid suspicions. Come home once in a while instead of taking some of your little chippie friends to bed. Where the hell were you tonight?”

  “I was out with Tom Jorda
n and Billy Gregor …”

  “You’re a goddamn liar and you know it. Don’t hand me that nonsense. You still smell of perfume, you dope”, she said groundlessly.

  Carl wasn’t sure he smelled of perfume; he had thought he smelled the scent about himself. His consciousness of guilt and Ginger’s unwitting but ever so deft thrust put Carl in a defensively uncomfortable situation.

  “There are other women in the world you know. We were at the Club Lido and we met a couple of girls from Billy’s office. They sat and had a drink with us, and that’s about it. So don’t try to shift the blame to me. You had somebody here, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” asked Carl, who seemed prone only to an affirmative answer. Trust between men and women is a very incomprehensible thing. A man feeling a woman has done wrong will not completely believe her if she says she didn’t, … he will always have a lurking suspicion he has been lied to, … and if the woman says she has done him wrong, he’ll believe her and be completely crushed. Trust is something that has to come from within. In order to trust another, we have to trust ourselves first.

  “Look, you fool”, said Ginger in an enforcedly calm, but nonetheless emotional way. “I was here all night, tossing and turning, trying to sleep …” She began to cry softly. “You were out running around, and you tell me that someone was here? You miserable bastard, you rotten, rotten”, Ginger slumped on the bed, crying vehemently.

  “Now, Ginger, … it’s just that I came in and the door slammed, and the footprints, and the mobile, and all, … well, what’s a guy supposed to think? I mean …”

  “If you don’t believe me, ask Mary”, cried Ginger, lifting her head. “I called her up to come over and stay with me for a while because I couldn’t sleep. Call her up and ask her who was here. Go on, call her … call her”, sobbed Ginger as her head slumped down on the bed and she cried all the more in her pillow.

  “Baby …”, said Carl entreatingly as he crossed the room and sat on the bed next to Ginger. He stroked her hair. “It’s just that … well, it’s just that I’m so afraid someone will steal you away from me. I’m sorry I said what I did. I didn’t mean it. I just jumped to a conclusion. I’m sorry baby. Please stop crying”.

  But Ginger’s crying persisted. “You miserable bastard, you miserable bastard”, she sobbed over and over. Carl began to feel shameful and terribly childish.

  After about thirty minutes her crying subsided into a whimper and Carl lifted her into the bed, and slid in next to her. “I’m sorry, baby, please forgive me”.

  “It’s all right, … forget it”, Ginger said with that nasal quality that comes after lamentations.

  Carl switched off the light, and put his head back on the pillow. From the living room came the faint flickering yellow glow of the candle that he forgot to extinguish when he came in. He folded back the covers, slid his feet into his slippers and scuffed into the living room. The wind that had begun to wail sent blasts against the window panes and door, banging them in place. Hanging above the candle, the mobile was still twirling as it had been when he came in. He couldn’t comprehend the reason for the movement. It was dangling and turning as if someone had brushed into it. He looked around, but there was no one. Putting his hand up, he stopped the motion of the mobile, and when it was perfectly still, loosened his grip on it. Immediately it began to slowly twirl again. He put his hand up to stop it again and as he did, he felt the current of warm air rising from the flame of the candle. Now he realized that it was the heat waves, the expanding of the warmed air, that was moving the mobile. Slowly, he blew out the candle, the instigator, the fuse for his powder keg of guilty suspicion, and walked back toward the bedroom.

  As Carl entered the room, he heard Ginger softly whimpering. She was crying again. Carl slipped into the bed and whispered, “I’m sorry baby”. He slid his arm around her shoulder, but she twisted away. Perhaps, he thought it would be better to let her cry. It is so difficult to argue with the flowing tears of a woman. He turned up and stared at the greyish, purplish ceiling, … and as he dozed off, he could hear the continued sobbing of his wife as she lay next to him.

  The warm water was running over his head, and Carl was thinking to himself how foolish he was to suspect Ginger. The thought of her being unfaithful disturbed him, to say the least, although it wasn’t really the infidelity that bothered him, but the idea that his wife would need another man, and the fact that if found out, well, … it always hurts a libertine’s pride to find out his wife is unfaithful. No, Ginger wouldn’t fool around, she’s too good for that sort of thing, he thought hopefully as he dried himself off. He dressed and walked into the bedroom. Ginger was awake, lying in bed, visibly showing signs of a sleepless, crying night.

  “Darling, let’s forget about last night. I’m sorry …”

  “That’s all right, Carl, I’ve forgotten it already”.

  “Thanks dear”, he said as he kissed her forehead. “I’ll try to give you a call from the office later. I don’t think I’ll be home till late tonight … have to meet one of the boys from the New Jersey office”.

  “That’s all right. See you later”.

  “So long”, said Carl as he mounted the stairs and went out the door. The slamming door sent a slight shock through the house, but Ginger was already too occupied dialing the phone to pay much attention to the percussion. She waited as the number she called rang.

  “Hello Frank, Frank Darling”, she said as tears began to well up in her eyes. “I’ve been so miserable without you”. Tears flowed down her cheeks. “Please let’s never fight like that again. I don’t think I could stand being away from you for two days again”.

  She listened to the voice on the other end of the line. “Yes, … yes, I couldn’t sleep all night, just thinking that I might never see you again”. She hesitated, listening. “I love you too. I’ll get dressed and come right over”. She puckered her lips, sending an electronic kiss, then she hung up, and swung quickly out of the bed.

  A NIGHT AT THE CARNAL-VILLE

  Roger’s large figure pushed up a long bulge in the bed covers that resembled a miniature mountain range, like the fake mountains that you can buy for the settings of electric trains. You would almost expect a little black locomotive, with its searching head beam, its frantic little wheels spinning, to come steaming out from behind his feet, one of which stuck out from beneath the covers into midair only to swerve and disappear in the dark cavernous tunnel that was dug in under the highest mountain near his hip. It was a dark shadowed spot where gently sloping folds of covers cut off the light of the moon which passed through the window and between the parted curtains, with a shining blue-grey luminance. Roger lay on his side, asleep, his thin-frame glasses still clenching the small of his nose, his arms folded over the evening papers, which were strewn over the floor as well as the bed. Soft shadows fell fleetingly across his sleeping countenance, as the face of the moon became shadowed fleetingly by small silvery translucent clouds in silhouette, … emerging brighter than before—making all the world blue-bright and extremely quiet.

  It was about 1 a.m., and in Tylersville everyone, or at least all the nice people were quite asleep. The ancient boards of the front porch, as someone walked slowly across them, pierced the crisp quiet of the house. Roger turned restlessly in his bed. He was a light sleeper at times, times, that is, when he sleepily waited for Nancy to come home. He could awaken at the slightest sign of her return, and after she was safe, after his thoughts were turned only to sleep, he slept with the determination of a tired bear at the dawn of winter.

  The squeaking stopped, only to be replaced by the whine of the front door opening slowly. It closed quickly, and feet shuffled across the threshold into the living room which stood behind the sliding doors to the left of the staircase.

  “Shhh”, rasped Nancy, who was Roger’s only child, a fair haired, attractive—when all dressed-up—girl of nineteen, “watch out for that chair … shh …” she rasped again as the fellow she was directing tripped into the cha
ir she had warned him about. Nancy contained her laughter only by putting her hand over her mouth. She motioned her follower forward again, still containing her laughter with her hand.

  Upstairs, Roger heard the slight whump of the chair as it slid against the floor. His eyes opened, but his body moved not. Now he could distinctly hear the living room doors slide open, then slide closed again. He slipped his feet down and into the slippers which were under his bed. He. kicked the newspaper out of the way and found the one slipper that was buried beneath it. As he took his robe off the chair by the window, he saw a light snap on from the living room, throwing a square of greenish white on the shadows about the house. It must be Nancy, he thought, but even so, it wouldn’t hurt to check. Besides, he wanted to tell her to come up to bed soon. He didn’t like her sitting in the living room with men until all hours of the night. It just wasn’t proper. The way those college men from the school were these days, a good girl just isn’t safe, anywhere, not even in her own home.

  A long slit of light was the target to which Roger’s eyes were drawn as he made his way stealthily down the stairs. Not that he was trying to be stealthy, but the dark and the night and the quiet invaded his descending figure. He did not know who it was down there, that was it, it could be a burglar. He wasn’t trying to sneak up on his daughter and her date. He didn’t know who it was. He reached the door. Beyond he heard the rustle of silk and crinoline and nylon. It was Nancy, after all. Silently, he slid the door open, and there, sitting on the couch was the couple, kissing. Nancy’s date was embracing her, with his back twisted toward Roger.

  “Hhhhrrmpph”, sounded Roger, as he stood at the door. Nancy’s date, a fellow that Roger had never seen before, twisted around quickly, as Nancy’s hands smoothed her dress and her hair in one motion. They both sat surprised and somewhat shamefully looking at Roger. “Well, what’s the idea of this?”, said Roger, fiercely indignant. He stood confronting the pair, waiting … “Well, what the hell is going on here?” repeated Roger, his head bobbing to emphasize his words.