Collected Fiction

by Kris Neville

“You know so very much. About the strangest things—about these people.”

  “I come here often,” he said.

  “. . . We’ve been walking for a long time,” she said.

  “Are you tired?”

  “Not very.”

  “Neither am I,” he said.

  “No; you only get tired when you’re lonely; and we’re not . . Her voice trailed away. “Look, Nicky! A tree . . . It seems funny to see a tree here, among all these buildings: like it was growing out of the pavement instead of the ground.”

  “Yes; it does seem like that,” he said.

  “I wonder if it’s a happy tree; do you think so, Nicky?”

  “I guess it is . . .

  “Look: Mona?” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “I . . . Look: Are you hungry?”

  “. . . Are you?”

  “Yes,” he said, “Let’s go eat.”

  “All right.” She laughed lightly. “That sounds like fun.”

  When, shortly, they arrived at the door of a restaurant, he said, “Go on in.”

  “It’ll be all right?” she asked doubtfully.

  “Of course.”

  He guided her to a table and, when they ordered, she followed his lead, saying what he said, watching the waitress cautiously, out of the corner of her eye.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” she said, looking up after the girl had left their table. “I’d be afraid to death, if you weren’t with me.”

  “You get used to it,” he said.

  “Of course you do . . . Nicky? I’d love to live here—where I could come into the city—do all these wonderful things—whenever I wanted to.”

  “Would you really like to live here?” he asked, and his voice sounded dry and strained.

  “Oh, very much, Nicky. I’d love to live here—almost better than anything.” And having said that, she was suddenly very shy; she looked down at the snowy tablecloth and ran her fingertips over it.

  He was not sure what to say; the palms of his hands were moist. And he was glad when the lunch arrived.

  After the waitress left, they looked up and stared into each other’s eyes. “Well,” he said, looking down at the food, “it looks all right to me.”

  “Yes,” she said, “it’s just fine.”

  There was a motionless silence.

  “Well,” he said. He picked up his water-glass and sipped, watching her. She picked up her glass and sipped, watching him.

  He put the glass down and speared into the salad with his fork.

  She imitated him. She chewed the salad carefully. She said, hesitatingly, “It’s very good, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said, “it sure is.”

  “Ummmm,” she said.

  He broke off a piece of french bread, buttered it.

  She broke off a piece of french bread, buttered it.

  “Look—?” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing.”

  She took more salad. “Does it snow often, here?”

  “Snow?” He put down his knife across the edge of his plate . . . Hasn’t for years. Last time was thirty-three, I think.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I remember, now.”

  When the lights in the theater went off, she stiffened. And, with the first trumpet jar of the newsreel music, she said, “Ohhhh,” very softly. After that, for a few minutes, she was on the edge of her seat, watching wide-eyed. Once she said, “Oh, Nicky, look!”

  But soon she settled down and rested her head on his shoulder. He slipped his arm around her. It seemed natural that he should. She moved closer to him; her hand found his. She made a little noise, deep in her throat, like a purr. “I like this,” she whispered. “Better than anything I’ve ever done.”

  He kissed her silken hair, knew the electric nearness of her, and nothing else mattered.

  When the movie was over, they walked again; sunset brooded in the west: the air was warm and exotic, as if blowing from the far away, from a never, never land of strange, perfumed flowers. And the day had been long and sweet.

  The cab swung into the paved semi-circle before the tall building. They got out. In the dim light, her dress glowed whitely; she stared up and up, her eyes widening with the vast height of the building.

  “It’s on the roof,” he whispered to her, as soon as he had paid the cab.

  “I’m—I’m afraid,” she half whimpered.

  “It’s only a dance,” he said.

  They walked into the hotel and through the huge lobby, feeling, in that moment, alone against the world. She pressed to him as if for protection. Beautifully dressed people moved around them, so rich with assurance.

  They crossed the foyer; they entered the elevator with an elderly man in a tuxedo; “The Top,” the man said, as if he were accustomed to saying it.

  Nick wondered if he had enough money. He had heard that this was an expensive place.

  “Ohhhhh,” she said as the elevator began to move.

  The elderly gentleman looked at her strangely.

  Nick patted her arm and smiled at her; she smiled back, uncertainly.

  When the elevator sighed to a stop, the operator slid open the door. The three passengers stepped out.

  The sight of the room; the music; the muted sigh of conversation; the lights; the women with their jewelry; the reflection in the curved mirror of the bar; the smell of food; the deep, blood-red, silencing carpet.

  She seemed overcome with the bright glitter of it. He felt cold and a little frightened with the strange glamor of it. It was something like a movie set; unreal, like that, to him. He wondered how the men moved with such poise.

  After a few moments, the head waiter came to them; he raised his eyebrows as if to ask if they had a reservation, then he seemed to reconsider. “A table for two, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes. Please,” Nick said.

  “If you’ll come this way, sir . . .?”

  They followed him.

  And they were seated. The table was small and secluded.

  He sat very stiffly, waiting, very conscious of his shiny suit. She turned immediately toward the dance floor. She watched the dancing bodies mold together in waltz rhythm; she swayed with them, and her eyes were wide and starry with rapt attention. She turned back to him. “I never knew it was this wonderful,” she said, “and it almost makes you wish . . .”

  “Wish what?” he asked, after a moment.

  She studied his face as if memorizing it; her eyes seemed suddenly turned sad. “Nothing, Nicky,” she said.

  Eventually, the silent waiter handed them huge, elaborate menus.

  He glanced at his and felt a momentary sickness; it passed, and he was ashamed of it.

  “Would you like to eat?” he asked, but his voice sounded thin to his ears.

  She stared across the menu at him. “Silly! We’ve already eaten: have you forgotten?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” He tried a smile at the waiter that didn’t quite come off. “A drink, then?” he asked her.

  “Should we?”

  “This once,” he said. “What would you like?”

  “Whatever you’d like.”

  “Champagne,” he said, because he had read that men who felt like he felt should buy champagne for the girl they felt that way about.

  The waiter bowed. “Yes, sir.” He began to name champagnes.

  Nick listened, repeated the fifth name after the waiter; he hoped it would be all right.

  When they were alone again, he looked across at her.

  “Darling,” he said, surprised at his own courage.

  “Yes?” Her lips were shining red.

  “Darling, I . . . I . . . I . . .” He knew perfectly well what he wanted to say. He was annoyed to find that his voice refused to respond. The moment passed. “Do you like champagne?” he finished desperately.

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  “It’s—all right.”

  “If it’s what you like, I’ll
like it too,” she said.

  After the wine was in their glasses, he raised his and sipped to her.

  “It’s all funny-bubbly and sour,” she said. Then hastily, “But I like it, Nicky; I really do.”

  His hand curled the stem of his glass; the vessel seemed springily cushioned on the heavy whiteness of the tablecloth.

  “Nick,” she said. “Every minute’s been wonderful.” Color came into her checks.

  He looked down at the rising, breaking bubbles and spoke to them softly. “I don’t know how to say this. I’ve never said it before. I wouldn’t say it to any other girl, ever.” He was surprised to hear the words; and glad and afraid. “Mona,” he said, “I’m in love with you. I’ve known it for hours.” He did not look up.

  There was silence; he thought he heard her sigh, wistfully.

  “Nicky, Nicky. I knew I loved you when I saw you there, fixing that poor, little bird.”

  He looked up, then.

  “But Nick,” she said, “I’m afraid that you . . .”

  “No. Don’t spoil it. Don’t say anything. Right now. We’ll have to say things later. Be still and listen, now.”

  They listened; and then they danced; they danced on a carpet of clouds.

  “Hold me tight,” she whispered, very tight, and say that you love me.”

  She danced airy and delicate and snuggled warmly, and her white dress flowed in animated grace, coming alive around her.

  The room glided away and back, to the dip and swoop of the waltz, and she followed him, her head thrown back slightly, her lips half parted, her eyes lightly closed and fluttering.

  He found himself dancing slowly toward the door and out of the room, onto the open terrace, into the pale moonlight of the waning moon. It seemed, almost, as if, somehow, she had led him, very gently.

  They stopped dancing and walked to the edge and looked down on the city sparkling there under them.

  She was warm in his arm.

  He turned to her, looked down into her wonderful eyes, and the stars of the city and the sky, too, were there.

  Her face seemed alive with the moment, in a life drawn from all the wonderful, eloquent silences of vast nature; her delicately molded features were impossibly perfect; and her skin was smooth and life-blood warm. And yet, there was sadness there, too.

  “Mona,” he whispered, “will you marry me?”

  “I—don’t know,” she breathed softly. “Oh, Nick, I do so hope so!”

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “I—want—to,” she said very slowly. “Only I couldn’t come down here. You see, I only know one job. But maybe, in a little while, in just a few years, you could get a transfer and come to Nebraska.”

  “Mona,” he said, “you wouldn’t have to work.” He felt her stiffen in his arms. “Of course, at first, it might be hard.” He went on talking, but he knew she wasn’t listening. “But I can get promotions; I know I can, if I have you to work for . . . I’m not making very much now, but maybe in a couple of years, I’ll be a foreman, and then . . .”

  She drew away. “Oh, Nick, oh, no.” Her voice was a choked sob. “I thought . . .” She checked herself. “And then I was afraid that you . . .” She looked up at him and said, in a whisper, “Nick, what is your job?”

  “It isn’t much, now, darling, but . . .”

  “Please, Nick. What is it?”

  “I’m a mechanic,” he said; it made him feel miserable; because he knew that was not what she wanted to hear.

  She moaned. “I—I was—afraid . . . No. I guess I knew, down deep, from the first, that you weren’t . . . But I wouldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t let myself believe it. In the city, I was almost sure, once, but I couldn’t ask you. When—I saw you—in the park—with that—that bird, I thought your job was to—to fix all the little birds and animals that got hurt—and then when you said, ‘before the people come to the fountain’, I was almost sure, for a little while, and then afterwards, I was afraid to ask, when I wasn’t sure any more. But . . .

  “You weren’t; you aren’t,” she finished hopelessly.

  “Mona,” he said, “please don’t say those things. You’re talking nonsense.”

  She shook her head. “No, Nick. Not nonsense.”

  She began to cry. She stood very still and very straight. Her lower lip trembled. “Nick,” she said, “it’s been the most wonderful day ever; and I’ll never forget it. Not ever.

  “Nick,” she said, very softly, “I’m sorry I did this to you.” She started to put out her hand to caress his face, and then she drew it back without touching him.

  He swallowed and wanted to touch her and take her in his arms and say, “It’s a dream, what you’re saying, you don’t mean it, you’re just teasing me and you . . . But he said, “Mona, Mona, what is your job?” And he said it so low that she could scarcely hear him.

  She looked deep into his eyes, and her lip was quivering.

  “Oh, Nick, Nick. Darling.” Her voice was an eerie whisper now. “Nick, I make snowflakes.”

  Suddenly he was alone.

  He turned his eyes up to the mute stars. And he felt something soft and wet strike against his hot face; they were like gentle kisses; and he knew what they were.

  BIG TALK

  Alf was no psychiatrist, but it was easy to figure out a guy who was always boasting about all the women in his life.

  WHEN Gil Bratcher, the photographer, first came on the night shift, he told Alf Sweeney, the reporter, “We’ll get along all right, Sweeney. Just don’t go around covering flophouse cuttings. I hate them scabby winos. And stay out of fag joints. I hate them swishes even worse than the bottle babies. They make me sick in the gut.” On each shift, from his first one four nights ago, he usurped the wheel of the radio car and clung to it with his huge, meaty hands until morning. “I’ll tell ’em where they can stuff it if they think I’ll stay on this damned night shift,” he said.

  The city—lying beyond the car like a smoked-out cigar butt, stale and dead—was wholly without compassion. Only in tomorrow’s headlines would the crimes and accidents and domestic tragedies of the night assume color and depth and the breath of life.

  As if in answer to some obscure problem he had been silently considering, Gil announced emphatically, “They ought to put all them pansies and winos on an island out in the Pacific somewhere, and then drop one of them hydrogen bombs on ’em. Blast their damned guts halfway across the ocean.”

  “The emotionless voices from the police radio murmured above the monotonous rhythm of the motor. “You agree?” Gil demanded.

  Alf Sweeney spat through the window. “I thought you were going to get off the night shift,” he said. “I’ll get off it. Give me time.” Alf shrugged heavily. “I’ve been on it for two years.”

  The collar of the white shirt Gil had worn for three shifts was unbuttoned beneath his crudely knotted tie. Above damp lips, his tiny eyes were heavy. During conversations, he scrutinized defiantly the texture of the speaker’s skin, the movement of the speaker’s lips, the pulsing of the breath in the speaker’s nostrils. When he entered unfamiliar buildings, his dark eyes darted about suspiciously, marking out avenues of retreat in the event he were set upon by superior force.

  When the “woman screaming” call came over the radio, the photographer grunted, “Want it?” His tone was surly. His face was bloated from lack of sleep.

  Alf, the reporter, was watching the darkened buildings flow past from shadows and silence into shadows and silence. He wore a green sports jacket over a solid blue sports shirt. On his bony, loose-jointed frame, the jacket seemed no better than a hand-me-down from an elder brother, and the pencil and yellow copy paper that bulged from the pocket gave his whole body an appearance of desolation and futility. His sensitive, unhandsome face was colorless but for the heavy black of his eyes and beard and eyebrows. Without looking around, he said, “Not one a week are copy.”

  Gil bent forward slightly. “You want it?”


  Alf blinked myopically. “Let it go.”

  “It’s up to you,” Gil said. “Whatever you want to do.”

  “Go over there if you want to.”

  “You give the orders. What do you want to do?”

  “Let it go, go over there,” Alf said. “I don’t care.”

  “Okay,” Gil said disgustedly. “Let it go.”

  “Not on my account,” Alf said, still watching, beyond his reach, the city slide past the car. “It’s over on Temple, that’s all. It’d be gone anyway.”

  “You give the orders.”

  “Let it go, then.”

  The car moved two blocks.

  “You want me to drive now?” Alf asked.

  “I’m all right,” Gil said.

  Calls were coming in on the radio with increasing frequency. There was a prowler at 3971 Highland; a fight outside a Hill Street bar; a drunk down at 6th and Manton; a minor traffic accident on La Brea. Car 302 out for coffee.

  “I thought you might be tired,” Alf said.

  Wearily, Gil said, “I’m all right.”

  “Small stuff tonight.”

  “Bars close in a little while. Maybe we’ll have some bloody damned traffics.”

  There was a drunk in a car at Wilshire and Burlington; there was a missing child, seven years old, blue eyes, brown hair, dressed in a pink frock, last seen in the Vermont area; there was a suspect number three who had a felony record but who was not presently wanted; there was a speeder heading south on Santa Monica Boulevard pursued by car 97. There was a suspect number one: no record, no want.

  The car telephone began its muted whirr.

  Alf’s skinny neck craned alertly. He unhooked the instrument. “Yes? … Yes, uh-huh. Right away, right … Yeah, okay, I will.” He returned the receiver to its prongs. “Mulvey Hospital, Gil.”

  Gil made a U-turn on the deserted street and headed back downtown.

  “Some woman just been beat up,” Alf said.

  “That was the Temple Street call a while ago,” Gil said. “I told you we should’ve gone over.”

  Alf spat a shred of tobacco off his tongue.

  “She won’t want her picture in the paper,” Gil said, and laughed softly to himself. “Motel row. Maybe if she acts right, I’ll see to it that she don’t get any publicity.”