“Well,” he said, “it’s natural enough. Healthy young boy. Pretty young girl.”
“That,” she said, “is beside the point— You speak to him, now, Henry. I’ll speak to her.”
“Done and done and Bradstreet,” said Mr. Robinson. He looked out the tightly closed windows. “Getting to be about that time of the season. Fact, it is that time of the season. Oh, I shouldn’t be surprised...any day now...Boy out to the shed?”
His wife nodded. As he started getting into his sweater and jacket, she said, “Button up warm now.”
Mr, Robinson stepped out the back door and started across the yard. The remnants of last year’s vegetable garden lay stark and dead beneath his feet. Looking down, he said, “Well, old friend, we’ll put new life into you very soon now.” He pushed open the door of a weathered and sturdy old outbuilding. Its smell was cold and faint. Hanging from a beam was a block and tackle and rope and chain. Mr. Robinson pulled, tested, made adjustments, grunted his approval, and went out.
The sound of sawing and chopping ceased as he appeared in the door of the shed. “You doing pretty good, Roger,” he said. “Yes, sir, you doing pretty good, Mr. Ames.”
Roger picked up an armful of wood and carried it over and stacked it. He wiped his face. He had on it a few freckles and a few pimples and a few hairs. Mr. Robinson put a hand on the boy’s biceps and doubled up the boy’s arm. “That’s good, too,” he said. “Better than lifting dumbbells.”
A sudden look of cunning came over Roger’s stolid face. He swiftly seized the older man in a wrestling hold, heaved. They swayed together for a moment. Then, suddenly, Roger lay on the sawdusty floor and Mr. Robinson was pinning his shoulders to it. “Can’t do it yet, can you?” he asked.
“Hey,” said Roger. The grip relaxed, the boy started to get up, Mr. Robinson flopped him down again. “Pretty good for an old man with one foot in the grave and another on a banana peel...Now ... I got something to tell you, young Roger Ames, and you are going to listen to it, too. You were trying to sneak into Betty’s room last night. Weren’t you. Yes you were.” Roger’s face, only faintly flushed, still, from the wrestling, now flooded as red as his shirt. “Now you listen. I am not some old prune who doesn’t know that females are built different from men. I know all about that. You ever learn as much about that as me, you be doing pretty well. I know what’s fun and natural between the sects. But. And here’s the point, you see, boy. There is a time. You been told that. And when that time comes, why fine. That’s what makes the world go round. That’s what makes the grasses grow. The flowers bloom. But that time has not yet come for you. You just wait, now, till it does. I waited. It won’t kill you.” He got up.
Roger scrambled up as well. He looked embarrassed and, at the same time, respectful. And, for the present moment, just a bit uncertain. Mr. Robinson said, “Well, now. You’ve cut wood. You’ve wrestled. So now let’s see you practice catching for a while.” And for a while there, in the winter-stale garden between the old house and the outbuildings, he watched and instructed Roger as Roger practiced catching. Somewhere in the house a little bell rang.
Mrs. Robinson was putting things on a tray with attention and dispatch at the same time as she was speaking with Betty. “Toast, butter, jam, honey, cocoa,” she counted. “Bless me, how that woman does eat. It’s a pleasure to behold...cookies ... is there any piece of crisp bacon, cold, from breakfast? She is very fond of that...What was I saying...Oh, there’s always so much to think about and to do at this time of the year...”
“About Roger and, you know,” Betty said: a slim young girl, rather blossomy about the bosom, with a pale-and-pink and shiny face. “Well, I never encouraged him. I don’t even...well... oh ... I guess I do like him okay, but, oh, sort of like a brother, if you know what I mean, Grandma Robinson.” The little bell rang and rang.
Grandma Robinson said that she did know what Betty meant. A little smile crinkled the corners of her mouth and eyes. “As for ‘a brother,’ well, my, many a girl says that, until a certain time comes, and then her mind gets changed quick enough.” She deftly laid a neatly ironed napkin over the tray and picked it up. Betty went ahead and opened doors. “Oh, I’ve no reason to complain of you, dear,” said the older woman. “You’ve been as nice as any girl who’s ever lived with us. And I’m sure your mother will be pleased, too. Because it’s just as she said, child, it’s just as she said. It’s hard raising children right, in the city, teaching them the right ways, the old ways, the things to know...todo...and, for that matter, not to do...”
Betty said, “And all those things, you know, in the woods, too...”
Mrs. Robinson turned her face, slightly creased with the effort of carrying the tray, and nodded over her shoulder. Betty knocked on the last door. There was a noise from inside, and she opened the door, standing aside for the other to go in.
“Well, Mrs. Machick,” said Grandma Robinson, cheerfully, “and here we are, with your half-past ten snack.” The room was clean, but it did not smell so.
“Half-past ten? You mean more like half-past twelve the woman sitting on the bed said. She was fat. She was very, very fat. Betty deftly pulled up a little table. Mrs. Robinson set the tray down. “No, dear, it’s only half-past ten,” she said.
“Sure it is,” said Mrs. Machick, in a low, tight voice. “Oh, sure.” She had a small, tight, tiny-tiny mouth, set into the middle of a vast, loose face. Her eyes darted quickly between the lady of the house and the girl, but she didn’t meet their own eyes, and then she had eyes only for the tray and what was on it.
“Now. Is that all right?” Mrs. Robinson cocked her head.
“Could you spare it?” the woman on the bed asked. Her brows made quirky little motions. She sighed. She shrugged. All down the front of her nightgown were food stains.
“Now, if there’s anything else you’d like, just ring your little bell for it,” Mrs. Robinson said, without the slightest trace of annoyance. “If we have it, we’ll be glad to bring it to you.”
“Sure you would,” Mrs. Machick said. “Oh, yeah.” She fluttered her nostrils with the breath of the long-suffering, gave her frowzy head a little shake, and began to feed.
Betty and Grandma closed the door and exchanged faint sighs. They were halfway across the front room when a low whistle was heard from outside. They looked at each other, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, then turned and tiptoed swiftly to the windows, not touching the lace curtains. A bird was on the ground in front of the house, investigating the sere remains of last year’s grass. Out from behind an evergreen came Roger. It was a marvel how, body crouched, on the tips of his toes, hands out just so, how swiftly and how silently he sped; for all his size and all.
It was over in a matter of seconds.
Everybody cried out, but not very loudly. Roger, followed by Mr. Robinson, turned toward the house. Grandma and Betty bustled about, taking things from drawers and closets. The men came in, Roger with a wide and surprised-silly grin on his face. “Welcome, welcome, first harbinger of spring,” said Mrs. Robinson; and, “Sir, we bid you welcome,” her husband said, with a slight bow. She poured wine into a silver goblet. The bird’s head peeped out between the boy’s fingers. He held them over the goblet, as though he were offering the bird a drink. Mr. Robinson took its head between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and with his right hand he took the shears Betty gave him and cut off its head. The bright blood made little swirls in the pale wine, till Mrs. Robinson, with a silver spoon on the handle of which were quaint and curious engravings much more than half-obscured, stirred the goblet. Then the liquid turned pink. She gave everybody a spoonful of it.
For a moment the house was utterly still.
Then Betty gave her lips an absentminded smack. Then she went absolutely pale. Her eyes flew to Roger. From her now white lips came a sound like the rim of a glass being squeaked. His mouth fell open. His eyes bulged. She fled the room in an instant. The door to the hall slammed behind her. Then another door slam
med—the back one. But in between the two times, Roger, uttering a noise between a growl and a howl, had begun his pursuit. There was a crash. (“Didn’t even try to open that one,” Mr. Robinson said.) There was a cry, first shrill, then full-throated. There were two noises, quick together, as it might be thud-thump orthump-thud.
“Well, now,” said Mr. Robinson, gently. “He did wait. And it didn’t kill him.” There were some more noises. A lot more. “Isn’t killing her, either, presumably,” he added.
“It always pays to do things right,” his wife said. “You’ll get some good greens and potatoes and garden truck this year, I shouldn’t wonder.”
He gave a slow, reflective nod. “You decided what kind of annuals you want out front?” he asked. She started to reply; then, with a tongue click of self-reproof, flung open the front door and emptied the goblet in a wide-scattered toss. Her lips moved. “There,” she said, after a moment, closing up. The two older people looked at each other in quiet contentment. They sighed. Nodded briskly.
“Plenty to do,” he said. “Even before those two are ready to help us. Got to get all those knives and cleavers out of the cabinet and sharpen— Oh. Oh, yes. Before I forget.” He fetched a pad and an envelope, ink bottle and pen, sat. “To the Editor, Dear Sir,” he wrote, in his neat, slow hand. “This morning at”—he pursed his lips, consulted his pocket watch, considered—”at about a quarter-to eleven we sighted the first robin of spring in our front yard. Wonder if this is any kind of a record for recent years? Would be glad to hear from any devoted ‘robin-watchers’ and followers of other good old ways and customs, who may write me directly if they care to.”
In her room across the other side of the house, fat Mrs. Machick rang her little bell.
<
* * * *
THOM LEE WHARTON
THE BYSTANDER
Harry Van Outten was sitting on the tall stool behind the bar at Decline And Fall when the chunky man with the straw snap-brim and the attaché case came in. He stood blinking as his eyes got used to the dark, and Harry got a good long look at him and decided who he was. The man ambled over to the bar and Harry took the usual deep breath and waited. The case was put down gently between the man and Harry, and of course the man did not sit down.
“If it’s about the fire policy, you’ll have to go see Pardie in the Maritime and Commercial Building. Suite H, tell him I sent you.”
“Mr. Van Outten?”
“Doctor. DDS. No matter. Listen, I’d like to help you, but the lawyer said I wasn’t to mess around with this insurance mess.”
“Dr. Harry Van Outten, Orthodontic Surgeon, NLP, 22053 Oceanic Avenue, Bournemouth, N.J.” (He said it “EnJay.”) “This address.”
“NLP.”
“No Longer Practicing.”
“How’d you know that? Would you like a drink?”
“My name is Roseboom,” said the chunky man, and pulled out a little vinyl card case with his picture and thumbprint set into it. The card had “Federal Bureau of Investigation” printed across the top.
“Oh, yeah,” said Harry, leaning forward on the stool. “What can I do for you, Mr. Rosenbloom?”
“That’s Rose-boom.” The man looked at Harry’s hand and took it and shook it.
“Sorry,” said Harry. “Drink?” He clinked the rocks in his gin-gin.
“Maybe later.” He looked closely at Harry for a moment. “You know, Doctor...Mister...”
“Call me Harry,” said Harry.
“You know, Doctor, you don’t look very much like your description.”
“I’ve been sick. What description?”
“Bureau files description.”
“Why would the FBI have a description of me?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” said Roseboom vaguely. “Could I talk to you? For a while?”
“How long? What about?”
“A while. Some of your...associates.”
“Which?”
“Your business associates.”
“You mean Joe the Nuts?”
“I hoped you’d come to the point.”
“We’ll come to the point of an icepick in here,” said Harry in a raspy whisper, “this place is bugged to the ears. We’ll go for a ride.”
Roseboom led the way out the door by several yards, and Harry gimped across the parking lot after him. “Slow down,” he called, “this hot blacktop is murder.”
“You could’ve gotten your shoes. I’d wait.”
“Never wear ‘em. Here.” Harry jumped up on the running board of an absolutely mint 1934 Packard Twin Six Phaeton, in buff aluminum with red piping and gray watered-silk upholstery. He twitched his scorched toes for a few seconds and scraped his feet on the running board, then deftly swung the door open and fell behind the towering wheel. “Come on.”
Roseboom walked cautiously around the beast and climbed up and in the passenger’s side. Harry piloted the big silver car out of the parking lot and turned north on Oceanic Avenue. Roseboom craned his neck to look behind, then slowly turned again to the front.
“That second windshield keeps the wind off your neck if you’re riding in front and is vital if you’re in the back.” Roseboom looked over the dash, which was real ebony, taking in the expanse of dials and instruments. “This hickey here is a stopwatch for testing your speedometer, this is a brake fluid gauge, this is a...now what the hell is this? Might be a manifold pressure gauge, but then again....”
“What would a car like this cost?”
“Invaluable. Priceless. Therearen’t any more, you see.”
Roseboom looked straight ahead through the tall windshield. “You are a successful orthodontist,” he said. “Yet most of your income comes from that gin mill we just left. You command a very great deal of money. But I think a toy like this might be beyond even you.” He looked over at Harry.
“The car was a gift,” said Harry.
“From whom, may I ask?”
“Why?”
“I’m wondering—this is for the record—if any taxes were paid on this gift.”
“I honestly wouldn’t know,” said Harry, glancing back at Roseboom for an instant. The agent narrowed his eyes but saw no guile in Harry’s face. “My lawyer takes care of the money.”
“Which brings us back to the source of the gift.”
“Oh, Joe saw the thing at the opera one night—parked outside the opera house, that is—in Hollywood, I think it was. Said it reminded him of The Untouchables.” Harry gave one soundless snicker.
“And he bought it then.”
“I’ve got a bill of sale, title, everything’s in order.”
“I know,” said Roseboom after a time. He sat quietly, watching the honky-tonks on Oceanic Avenue fly past. Shortly, Harry noticed that the agent was inspecting him again.
“Something the matter?”
“This nags at me. There are only two elements of the description we have of you that jibe with your actual appearance. The height. The glasses. Now, it says here”—and he was not looking at any paper—”six feet, two thirty-five, brown hair, gray eyes—”
“Gray is right,” said Harry.
“If you like. And you are about six feet. The stoop fools you. White hair now, and you weigh”—a pause and a sidewise glance—”about one sixty, one fifty-five.”
“I told you I was sick.”
“Also, the beard. And mustache.”
“I quit shaving when I sold my practice. Only psychiatrists get away with beards. Who brings their kids to a dentist with a beard? You know, that poopsheet you have on me sounds like about four, five years ago.”
“At date of compilation, subject forty-two years of age.”
“I’m forty-six. This birthday.” He thumped the wheel with the heel of his hand. “You must’ve gotten that stuff from my driver’s license or something.”
“Mmmm,” said Roseboom, nodding vaguely, “I concede that you were sick.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Harry.
“What with?”
“Gastroenteritis,” said Harry, after a pause. “Recurrent. Gets worse as you get older, I guess.”
“I knew dysentery was recurrent. I never heard that about gastro-whoozis. When contracted?”
“You sound like a doctor.”
“Small talk. I don’t care—professionally—what you’ve got. What illness.”
“I picked it up in the Caribbean about four years ago,” said Harry, softly. “Somebody forgot to wash their hands Before Leaving This Rest Room and went and put together our hors d’oeuvres.”
“’Our’?”
“My wife and boy. They died of it. The boy on the island, my wife in Miami. After she heard. Never eat raw fish.”
Orbit 8 - [Anthology] Page 5