The Wounded and the Slain

by David Goodis

  He heard her saying, “—if you’d tell me about it.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Sure, I’ll tell you.”

  But he couldn’t go on from there. He blinked several times, and gradually a vague grin drifted onto his lips. It was a hopeless and somewhat silly sort of grin. He let it stay there.

  “Please,” she said. “It’s very important that you tell me.”

  The grin went away. He nodded in solemn agreement. And then he started to tell her. It was surprisingly easy to remember the events of last night and his account was complete and accurate. “So I walked out of Winnie’s place through a side door and there was an alley. I didn’t see him coming at me. He made a few tries with a blackjack and I picked up an empty bottle. The bottle got cracked and then I was on the ground and he was trying again with the blackjack. He had his other hand reaching toward my inside pocket where I keep my wallet. It must have been just then that I jabbed the bottle and the broken edge went into his throat.”

  Again she closed her eyes. She gave a shudder. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, “but you said I should tell you.”

  “Yes, of course.” Then her eyes were open and she took a deep breath. She frowned somewhat technically and said, “Did anyone see?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  She went on frowning. After some moments she said, “I think it’ll be all right.” And then the frown faded and she was smiling at him. “There’s really nothing to worry about.”

  “I’m not worried,” he said. He tried to return the smile. But his expression was more of a sickly grimace.

  She studied his face. She said, “Please try to forget about it.”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll start right now. I’m checking it off—he snapped his fingers—“just like that.”

  But it was no good. The sickly grimace stayed there.

  “Now listen,” she said. “According to what you’ve told me, you did it in self-defense. The man was trying to take your money and you had every right to protect yourself. There’s certainly no reason to be so upset.”

  “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

  “The man was a criminal and he took his chance and lost. That’s the only way to look at it.”

  He nodded again. But the twisted expression wouldn’t leave his face.

  She said, “Later today I’ll take the clothes out of the bathtub and find some way to get rid of them. It shouldn’t be much of a problem. I’ll put them in a bag or something and throw them in the incinerator.”

  “No,” he said, “I’ll handle that.”

  “Please, James. Let me.”

  “You mean I’m liable to mess things up?”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “You mean I’ll get drunk again and make all sorts of mistakes and ruin everything. Isn’t that what you mean?”

  “Well—”

  “Come on, say what you’re thinking.” He said it softly, almost amiably. “It makes it easier when you tell me what you’re thinking.”

  She wasn’t looking at him. “I’m thinking you look so tired and worn out—”

  “And you feel sorry for me—”

  “You’re a nice person, James. You’re very nice, really.”

  “Ha-ha. That’s a nifty.”

  “If you’d only—”

  “If I’d only change,” he sang out, as though he were crooning into a microphone. “If I’d only stop the drinking, the ever dismal thinking, tra-la, tra-la, but it’s such a hard task that you ask—of me, tra-la. And—”

  “James—”

  “And so,” he went on singing, his voice very much off key, “there isn’t a chance to recapture romance—” “Stop it.”

  “You’re worse off than a nance, you can’t get hot pants.” He was pointing accusingly at himself. “You—” “Stop it! Stop it!”

  “O.K.” He smiled at her. He blew her a kiss. Then he rolled over face down on the pillow. In a few moments he was floating downward into sleep.

  It was fitful slumber. The rhythm of it was distorted, and instead of total blackout it was more like flashes of gray bouncing off a black screen. Although his limbs were motionless, his brain hopped around in circles trying to get away from big billboards. All the billboards read the same, and it wasn’t an advertisement, it was a public announcement. It stated: “This man destroyed a human being and it wasn’t an accident, and don’t believe him when he claims self-defense. He’s a dyed-in-the-wool slayer if there ever was one. He went out to spill some blood and he spilled it, that’s all. Can we let him get away with that?”

  “No,” he mumbled in his sleep. “Certainly not.”

  Cora heard it. She opened her eyes and looked toward his bed. Now he was resting on his side, and she could see his face all tightened up in the sickly grimace. It was as though he wore a mask and were trying to scare her away.

  And maybe that’s what I should do, she thought. Get away from him. Get out of this bed and get dressed and go away, far away. Because now it’s really catastrophe. It’s like the earth quaking and falling apart, the walls of your house collapsing, and if you don’t get away you’ll be crushed. Look at him, he’s crushed already. He’s a wreck, that’s what he is. What you see there is wreckage.

  Yes, I think he’s just about hit bottom. I think he’s reached the point of total ruin and there’s nothing you can do for him now.

  Do you pity him? she asked herself. No, you don’t pity him. He did it to himself. He brought it on by slow degrees and then faster degrees and finally it blew up in his face and knocked him for a loop. For many loops. For endless loops. To send him sailing far away to some dizzy, goofy place where every day is Halloween. Just look at him. He seems actually pleased. He’s saying he likes it there, he took the road going there and now he’s there and it’s very nice, he likes it. So you know there’s no reason to pity him.

  What I’ll do is, I’ll leave him. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. You will? Of course. I will. What else can I do? Can I let it go on like this? I’ve had enough of it, too much of it. I just can’t take any more of it.

  Take more of what? You’ll need to pin it down before you try an answer. I think the answer is you’re taking only what you’re dishing out. You’ve been dishing it out for years and years, all the nine years of living with him and putting him through hell. A hell where it’s all ice instead of fire, a frozen hell where he tried and tried to bring warmth but you wouldn’t respond because you couldn’t respond. He reached out for you and you were cold. He held you in his arms and you shivered. Without sound you said to him, Don’t—please don’t. So finally it was like getting an idea across to him and he stopped trying.

  I think you’d better stop trying. I mean stop trying to make excuses for him. Let’s face it, girl. You know he’s on the weak side, very much on the weak side. If he weren’t weak-kneed and weak-brained he wouldn’t need all that alcohol. But he needs it, he can’t do without it, and that puts him down there with all the other weaklings, the lushes, the unfunny buffoons who are always getting into scraps, who are always adding difficulty onto difficulty. Yes, he’s down there in that category, and you can’t lift him up. There’s nothing to work with; there’s only that warped, silly grin on his face.

  If only he were more of a man…

  I mean, if only he were more on the order of what’s-his-name.

  What’s his name? Why can’t I remember? He sat there in the beach chair talking about Ibsen while all the time I couldn’t concentrate on Ibsen because I was looking at what he was showing me. He was showing me his bulging muscles and his rock-hard stomach and his hairy chest. I wish he were here now.

  What’s that again?

  What do you mean, you wish he were here now?

  You can’t mean that. If he ever tried to touch you, you’d freeze. And maybe scream for help. His hands are so large, the fingers so thick, and there’s so much strength there and you’re so afraid of him, so terribly afraid that he’ll try
to put his hands on you, he’ll try to—

  It mustn’t happen, she said to herself. I mustn’t give it a chance to happen. If he tries to talk to me, I’ll brush him off politely, that’s what I’ll do. You mean, you’ll try. The way you’re trying now to tell yourself it mustn’t happen but you want it to happen but it mustn’t happen, it’s so filthy and shameful and horrible to think about and will you please remember what Mother said? She said, “Don’t get yourself dirty.” Come to think of it, I feel like taking a bath. Yes, it’s so hot in here, it’s so awfully hot and sticky, I guess it’s close to a hundred out there. This bed is like an oven and you’re just like butter getting greasy in the frying pan. But I’ll tell you something, it isn’t a matter of the weather out there. Can we understand that? Yes, let’s understand that. And please, let’s get up and get out of this bed and take a bath.

  Chapter Five

  It was noon when she woke him up. He saw she was dressed. She looked as though she’d been up and about for hours. He asked her what she’d been doing. She said she’d had breakfast, and then she’d written some letters and postcards. Also, she’d got rid of his bloodstained clothes. She mentioned that offhandedly, as though the stains were fruit juice or ink, rather than blood. She wasn’t looking at him as she said it, and he made no comment.

  They went downstairs together. They walked into the dining room. Nearly all of the tables were empty. Lunch had not yet been announced and there were just a few late breakfasters. A waiter came over with a menu. Bevan was very hungry and he ordered figs in cream, scrambled eggs and kidneys, toasted muffins, and a pot of coffee. As the waiter moved away, Cora said, “I’m so glad you’re eating something. It’ll do you good.”

  He smiled at her. “You’ll have coffee with me?” “All right.”

  “They have good coffee here.” “Yes, it’s very good.”

  “It’s so much better than instant coffee.” “I’ll make a note of that.” She smiled at him. “When we get home, I’ll buy a percolator.”

  “They’ll think you’re old-fashioned,” he said. “Percolators went out a long time ago.”

  “Not really. They still sell percolators.”

  “But not like they used to. Now it’s instant coffee. The trend is toward speed. It’s all instant this and instant that, and quick freezing and so forth. We’re all in such a hurry.”

  She nodded. “That’s so true.” She was gazing past him. “We’d be so much better off if we took our time, wouldn’t we?”

  “That depends,” he said.

  “Depends on what?”

  “On how much time we have.”

  “You mean these bombs they’re inventing?”

  “I guess that’s part of it. But I wasn’t referring to that. It’s more a matter of individual cases. Some people are older at the age of two than they are at eighty-two.”

  She looked at him. “How is that?”

  “The two-year-old might never reach his third birthday. But Grandpa might live to be ninety.”

  She mixed a frown with a smile. “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Neither did I. Not until recently. Not until just now, as a matter of fact.”

  “What made you think of it?” Her head had turned slightly, and she was giving him a sideways look.

  He was quiet for some moments. And then, as he lit a cigarette, “I don’t know, it just hit me. Maybe these ideas float around in the air until someone gets in the way and gets hit.”

  She tapped her finger against her chin. “If that’s the case, anyone at all has a chance to make history.”

  “Yes, I guess that’s what it amounts to. Only thing is, before you can come out with something new, you’ve got to take it in. Or rather, you’ve got to be in a position to accept it. Like what they say about the apple falling off the tree—our boy Newton was in exactly the right position. It hit him smack on that part of his bean that retaliated with the theory of gravity”

  “You don’t give him much credit.”

  “I give him a lot of credit. I rate him summa cum laude in spades.”

  “But you’ve just finished saying it was nothing more than luck.”

  “The luck is maybe thirty per cent. The other seventy is diligence and gumption, adding up to long hours and hard work.”

  “Or call it willpower.”

  “Yes, that’s probably what it is. It amounts to willpower.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, then decided to hold it back.

  He nodded, as though she’d put it into words. He said, “I’m strictly a bush leaguer when it comes to that.”

  “I wasn’t thinking—”

  “You were thinking there isn’t a chance in the world that I’ll do anything with this theory. I mean this theory of the life span that tells people they can’t ever know how much time they’ve got. And of course you’re right. I’ll never develop the theory, I’ll never put it on paper, as Newton did, I’m too lazy for that. Only thing I might do is use it as a guidepost.”

  She was leaning forward intently, a look of fervent hopefulness in her eyes.

  He went on with it, talking more to himself than to her. “A guidepost that says, You don’t know how much time you’ve got. You only know you’re here, and while you’re here you might as well make the most of it. Make the best of it. And try to be nice about it. That’s the most important thing. Be nice.”

  “Oh, good,” she breathed. “That’s awfully good. Keep thinking that way.”

  “Well, I’ll give it a try.”

  “Will you make it a resolution?”

  “I guess it’s something along that line.”

  The waiter arrived with the figs in cream and the silver-covered plates, the swan-necked coffeepot. He put his napkin on his lap, smiling at Cora and seeing something maternal in her expression as she looked at the food set before him. And then their eyes met and without sound he said to her, I’m your boy and you’re my girl, and no matter how much hell we create for each other, there are always moments like this when the unity is so real and you’re so poignantly precious to me. It’s so far away from obligation when it’s like this, so softly and tenderly and yet with a kind of revelry we exult in our togetherness. Yes, we’re really celebrating and it doesn’t need confetti or balloons or the funny little hats. When it’s like this it’s something too idyllic. Like one time I remember…

  He remembered one time when it had been like this, a time that caressed his memory with such soft, sweet tenderness that it brought a sigh from his lips. It was in the summertime a couple of years ago. It was the beginning of a weekend and New York was stifling and they’d decided to join some friends at a mountain resort in the Adirondacks. But they never got there. The car developed trouble in the fuel pump and there were no mechanics around. He was starting to worry about it and she smiled and told him not to worry. She pointed to a lake nearby and a field of daisies and clover and she said, “It’s nice here. It’s so nice and quiet, and we can stay at that little motel we saw down the road. It’s only a mile back. And while you’re checking in I’ll be calling the AAA.”

  So that night and the next night they stayed at the little motel. In the daytime they swam in the lake and walked in the field and picked flowers. Nothing exciting happened, but it was a really wonderful weekend. It was forty-eight hours of floating away from everything and having only each other, feeling so near to each other that they talked mostly with their eyes, saying in unison, You’re all there is for me, there’s nothing else I really care about, only you.

  There were other times like that, but he remembered that time especially as he looked at her now and said to her with his eyes, You’re all there is for me.

  For then and now and forever, he said to her with his eyes, you’re my Grecian goddess who floats me up and away from a world jam-packed with stumbling blocks. Oh, Cora, my adorable, try to see it through with me while I give it another try. I’ll try so hard this time to stop the drinking and the rattle-brained think
ing and all the carrying-on. I’ll really try this time. I’ll try.

  She was nodding slowly, and smiling. And then, her voice soft, she told him to start eating his breakfast.

  It was excellent food and he went at it somewhat greedily. In very little time the plates were empty. Cora poured more coffee for him and for herself. They sat there sipping the coffee and smoking.

  She said, “Look out there, through the window. Look at that sunshine.”

  “It’s like summertime,” he said.

  “It must be freezing in New York.”

  “That’s a comfortable thought.”

  “But rather selfish,” she admitted. “We mustn’t wish bad weather on them.”

  “Let’s get some of that sun,” he said. “Let’s get out and do something today. What should we do?”

  “I don’t know. What would you like?”

  “Well, we haven’t seen much of the island.”

  “Or the city either, for that matter.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen the city,” he said lightly. “I’ve seen quite a bit of the city.”

  “Would you like to go sailing? They have boats leaving from the hotel.”

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s go sailing.”

  She was getting up from the table. “I’ll go up to the room and change into slacks. Won’t take me a minute.”

  He sat there watching her as she walked out of the dining room. Now the dining room was getting busy as guests came in for lunch. Some of them smiled and nodded to him and he returned the pleasant greetings, feeling glad that he could do it without forcing it. He told himself he was beginning to feel at home in the Laurel Rock, more of a participant than an observer. It was a soothing thought, and he felt friendly toward everyone at the other tables. And then it occurred to him that there was more to it than that; he was starting to feel sort of friendly toward himself.