by Henry, Kane,
“Which bottle?” Harry said.
“Scotch. You?”
“Me too.”
“If you’d prefer soda—”
“No, thanks. Water’s my specialty.”
“You’re nice. You’re very nice. You know, all my years, I used to think of insurance agents as small fat eager little men. You know?”
He poured. “How’s that?”
“I said small. I didn’t say infinitesimal.”
He added more.
“When,” she said. He added water. “When,” she said. He gave her the glass, made a drink for himself, sat beside her. She drank half of hers quickly, sighed. “I had a fitting. Right there near your office, next block, on Fifth. But outside your place, I ran into the most wonderful wonderful man, used to own one of our famous beauty salons, lives in Paris now. I cut my fitting and went over to his place with him, hadn’t seen him in ages, simply ages, has a little place over on Murray Hill. Well, between drinks, he insisted that I was wearing my hair all wrong, oh, a wonderful little man. So, Martini in hand, too many Martinis in hand, I have been transformed, and I am very happy you noticed it.” She finished her drink and gave him the glass. “Another, please. Oh, my, you’re slow. You’ll never catch up.”
He drank it, all of it, stood up to make more drinks, saw the hammer on the floor by the side of the sofa, picked it up. “What’s this?”
“Oh, fixing, fixing, a woman with a hammer is about as effective as a man with a bobby-pin. But, see—” She stood up, pointing. “I hung that mirror myself, only—my poor thumb.” She brought him her thumb like she was bringing a package to be opened and examined. “Poor thumb.”
He took it, appropriately solemn, lifted it, kissed it.
“Better,” she said, snug close, her eyes big now, one corner of her mouth tight, sardonic, a ridge of muscle breaking the smooth line of her jaw, twitching. Eyes grabbed at eyes; his hand holding her thumb was a fist, knuckles white.
“Please, you’re hurting me.”
“Sorry.”
“Love it,” she said, pulling her hand out of his, turning from him. “Look. Now, look, it isn’t a bad job, really, is it? I’d call that a well-hung mirror.”
It was a bland unframed rectangle, tilted forward on top, putting your head in the middle, a torso mirror, head and body, no legs, perfectly centered on a panel between two windows at the far end of the room. “Just look,” she said.
On the left was a black archway. On the right was a closed door. They stood in front of the mirror, talking to reflections. “Good, isn’t it?”
“Fine.”
“Hung well?”
“Couldn’t be hung better.”
“You’re tall.”
“You said that.”
“So very tall.”
“Tall.”
“So many men aren’t.”
“So what?”
“It makes a difference. It’s ridiculous, but it makes a difference. Ever wonder about that?”
“No.”
“Ever meet a woman who didn’t want a man tall?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s a fact though. Why?”
“How in hell would I know?”
“Naughty.”
“Excuse me.”
“How tall?”
“I don’t know. Six three.”
“You don’t look it. It’s the slouch, the lean hungry slouch. With these heels, I’m five ten.” She moved in front of him. “Sure,” she said. “Sure, enough.” Her hands came back, pressing him to her, pinching at his hips, hurting, her eyes watching his in the mirror, his mouth in her hair. “Tall,” she said.
He turned her to him, hating her. He leaned over her as she arched to the pressure of his arm, his knee between her knees, her white nakedness a blur against the straining silver gown, over, until his lips caught hers, soft, full, wet in his mouth, arch over arch, until she broke it, until the suffocating push of her elbow choked at his throat, until his eyes opened to her eyes, wide, watching. “With a hammer, yet,” she said.
He still had it in his right hand, wet as though the wooden handle had been washed, wet with the sweat off his hand.
“Here,” she said. “Put it here.” He put it on the telephone table near the archway to the black bedroom. She stood beside him. “Bedroom’s a mess,” she said. “I’m glad it’s dark.” She led him back to the coffee table. She poured Scotch into the small glasses. “I want mine straight,” she said. “Right now, I want mine straight. You?”
“Same.”
She poured water into the highball glasses. She held her little glass, like an offering, in the tulip-grasp of the tips of all her fingers. “Us,” she said.
He didn’t answer. There was a ticking in his head over the temples. He drank, grunted, set the glass down noisily, pulled at the water, seeing her smile through the big glass, distorted.
“Can’t take it?” she said.
“No.”
“Don’t you like whisky?”
“I can take whisky.”
“But you said—Oh.”
Now he bent, pouring. She shook the cubes in the pitcher.
“Will you get some water? It’s there, kitchen.” She gave him the pitcher, led him to the closed door. “And break out some fresh ice cubes.”
The kitchen was clean, shining, meticulous. The handle of the refrigerator stuck. He pulled, angrily, the refrigerator moving from its base as the door opened. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pushed the refrigerator back into place with his knee, shook out an ice tray. He pulled the lever on the tray, ice jumping. The ticking in his temples clubbed to throbbing. He took two cubes, one in each hand, and rubbed them across his forehead, up, and into his hair. He dropped the cubes into the sink, took the rest of the cubes out of the tray and put them into the pitcher. He let the water run, refilled the tray, put it back. He filled the pitcher to the top, turned off the faucet. Annuities. What happened to annuities? He heard music scratch to new music to new music, as she slid stations on the radio, stopping finally at a rhumba with drums. Boom, boom, boom. Tap, tap, tap. Boom, boom, boom. Tap, tap, tap. He lifted the pitcher, drinking ice water from the neck, cubes jiggling, water running down his shirt. Boom, boom, boom. Get out of here. Out, out, out. Boom, boom, boom.
He brought the pitcher back.
“Well,” she said. “What were you doing, freezing the cubes?”
He set it down on the coffee table. She filled the big glasses with water, handed up the little glasses.
“Us,” she said, not waiting for him, drinking.
He gulped, gulped water after it, put both glasses down, watched her move in the middle of the room, her arms straight up over her, fingers wriggling, swaying.
“Oh, that music, that rhumba. Do you feel it?”
“No.”
“Rhumba?”
“No.”
Her hands came down flat to her waist, elbows out, fingers long. “Anything wrong?”
“No. I think—maybe—I’m a little drunk.”
“Well, don’t look so sad about it. That’s fine. Do you want to dance?”
“No, I—”
“A little drunk, that’s the time for rhumba. Here.” She went to him, into his arms. “Hold me,” she said at his ear.
Closely, they danced to the beat of the drums. He was a good dancer, moving to music instinctively, dancing now with his eyes closed: beat of drums, smell of perfume, sway of body to body. “Liar,” she whispered. “Tight, please. Hold me tight. Oh, good.”
His feet were heavy. The perfume was faint. The tickle of her hair in his face was gone. Murder, I’m drunk. I got to sit down, got to sit down. What happened to annuities? Signed, sealed, stamped, and delivered? When he opened his eyes, they were in a corner, near the black archway. Her arms dropped from around him. He looked for her; there, looking up at him, the narrow stripes of her eyes watching, watching, blue; smiling, near him; smiling, smiling. Near, he reached out for her
, the dark of the bedroom just beyond her, reaching, one hand to her neck, and one to her arm, blast of pain at his temples, reaching, and she was there, soft, the nakedness of her breasts beneath him. Whisky, he was thinking, damn whisky, damn blonde, damn, damn, damn… Her breath was sweet, but he couldn’t see her mouth. He remembered to hate her, to hate himself, as she wavered with him, a part of him, dimly. He crushed down on the sweet breath, where her mouth should be, hating, hot angry, and suddenly he could see again. He could see the white of her shoulder, and his hand tearing at the gown; he saw the silver sheen dissipate, not hearing, seeing only: the white shoulder, arm, breast, rise of hip; and she was lost in his arms, spinning…
And now, as the numbness came, he knew she was struggling, biting, hands writhing fierce, teeth in his face, twisting—as the dimness came—slashing; he felt the rip of her fingernails across his cheek, and he swore, grabbing at her, swinging, his fist heavy, and then she was gone. Then it was all gone. The last thing he saw was the hammer.
Whirling…
Falling…
He opened his eyes to immense blackness, groping. He was lying prone, his right hand sticky. He slept again, for a moment, opened his eyes, shook his head, hurting himself on the floor. He pushed down on the sticky hand, leaning on the hammer, turning his head back slowly, peering down his own length. He was half in the bedroom, half out. What? What now? Annuities. Rhumba. Alice. What am I doing here, spread out on a floor, half in a bedroom, feet out in another room? Other room? Orange lights. Rhumba. Lady on the make. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. He brought his head back, dropping on his forehead, hurting himself again. Sleep. He slept for a moment. He pushed up to his knees, his right hand holding, his left hand groping, touching ankle, cold ankle, up, cold leg, smooth cold leg, up, thigh, cold thigh, smooth cold thigh, up, up! He lurched to his feet, dragged out of the room, knees bent, tired. Cold, cold. The orange room was out of shape, broken in focus, as though his eyes had opened too quickly from a dream. He shuddered, righting himself, saw himself in the mirror, frightened, hair down over his face, eyelids puffed, three deep scratches on his cheek. Cold. Cold. Stiff smooth leg. Cold. Sticky, holding a weight, sticky, his right hand hanging, sticky, he brought it up—a scream burst inside of him, noiseless, insane. Red! Thick, blood, fibrous red. Red hammer. Red hand. Thump in his temples, thump in his chest, thump of the hammer as it fell out of his hand. Red hand. He held it away from him, his head moving wildly. He went away from the mirror, toward the sofa. He leaned against the arm of the sofa, sitting, holding his hand away from him, his head drooping. Silence. Tiny noises from the street. Tinkle of noise from the street. Silence.
He pushed himself toward the black archway of the bedroom, the hanging hand crippling the rhythm of his movement. He leaned against the flat edge of the doorway, forcing, pivoting his body into the room. He heard his breathing, loud in the silence, rasp of ragged breath, sound on sound, like the puling frantic wheeze of sickness. He probed with the red hand, smearing the wall, seeking the button for light, scraping the wall, fingering the button in the smoothness of a metal bracket; pushing. The scream burst again, tearing in him, noiseless, insane; a hollow pain formed in his stomach; he squeezed back nausea. No face. She lay on the floor of the splattered bedroom without a face, red, gaping, broken, smashed, where the face had been, the silver housecoat torn down one side, her hair curiously undisturbed. He whinnied in illness, trembling, rooted; then he turned and ran. He tore the silk cover from a pillow on a divan, wiped his hand, tore another, wiping. He seized his coat, running. In the corridor, he brushed his hair with his left hand, put his coat on, collar up. He waited for the elevator, biting down fear.
It was the same girl. He got behind her quickly. No one else rang. They went down rapidly, sinking, pressure in his ears. It stopped so suddenly, he almost fell. The girl adjusted the car to the lobby floor, opened the door. Slow. Slow, now. He walked out, looking away from the desk, marched through the long quiet lobby. Slow. He marched, sedately, long stride, tautly erect, gulping air through his mouth. He passed the same old man in the same armchair, dozing now without cigar smoke. He went down the one step into the cool wet street, opening his coat, beginning to trot. He got into the car, turned right on Broadway, stopped in front of a tavern. He went in, said, “Scotch and water,” drank it, said, “Another,” drank it, paid, said, “Where’s the men’s room?”
“Back, to the left.”
It was small, cramped, dirty, evil-smelling, without a washstand. He went out, through the bar and into the street. He looked up and down, saw the lighted marquee of a restaurant. The narrow side of the restaurant, screened by an ornate high partition, was an alley for drinking over a carved shining bar. “Scotch,” he said. “Where’s the men’s room?”
“Through the door in the back, downstairs.”
This was better. There was an attendant, a long line of sinks, and a white-glaring mirror. The attendant said, “Accident? Fix you in a jiffy.”
“What?”
“Your face.”
“Yeah.”
The attendant dabbed a towel at his face, hurting him.
“All right, all right,” Harry said. “I’ll wash, huh?” The attendant pointed to the towels and retired, disinterested, whistling.
He hung up his coat. He took off his jacket and hung it away. He opened his shirt collar, pulled down his tie, stuffed it high between buttons of the shirt. He rolled his sleeves up, washed, suds to the elbows, washed his face, hair, sloshing, grunting, washing, soap again, splashing, letting the water drain out, re-filling. He used four towels to soaking, combed his hair, rolled his sleeves down, closed his collar, pulled up his tie, put on his jacket and topcoat. He gave the attendant two dollars. The scratches had begun to bleed again in tiny leaky drops that coagulated without running. There was a blue welt on his chin. He went upstairs and drank his Scotch.
“Find it all right?” the bartender said.
“Yes, thanks.”
He paid and left, walked until he found a liquor store. He bought a pint bottle and brought it back to the car. He pushed all the buttons, closing himself in. He worked at the bottle with his teeth, opening it. He gurgled a long drink, shoved the cork back into the bottle, put it into the glove compartment. He started the car, swung left, humming. He got onto the Highway, pushed hard on his right foot, flying. He looked out on the river for boats. It was dark. He moved his sleeve up for his wrist watch. A quarter to seven. My God, a quarter to seven. I thought it was midnight, midnight at least, at least midnight. He opened the glove compartment, pushed his hand in for the bottle. Hand. He drew it out quickly, looked at it, the car swerving. He got out the bottle, drank, drank again, threw it back. All right, I’m crazy. Real plumb crazy. When I’m drunk, I’m crazy. It used to be I’d get into a fit or something, pass out, and forget about it when I’d come to. Lots of people like that. Nothing bad. Nothing vicious, just guys that can’t take it, shouldn’t drink. Nothing bad. Nothing to worry about, just one of those guys, get rambunctious, maybe, with one too many. Get sensitive. Get gallant. Get out of line. But this time I went all the way. This time I snapped it. This time I went out of my head. Crazy. What do we do, boy? Wind up in the booby hatch? No. No, sir. What the hell happened? Oh, what happened? He pushed it out of his mind, pieces remaining, fragments, humming his song, no song, driving blankly, fast behind the bright beams of the headlights. He turned off the Highway, came to where he lived, ripped up the brake, got out, bent back for one more drink, slammed the door, and went home.
Alice opened the door as he was trying to put the key in. “I heard the jingle. You’re early, darl. Oh. What is it, Harry? Harry.”
He sobbed, falling on her, his hands around her, his mouth at her neck, sting of tears by her hair.
“Harry.”
“In a minute, hon, a minute.”
She held him tightly, her smile remaining, stuck on like the smear of a clown, clinging to him as he trembled. “All right,” she soothed, touching his che
ek. “I know. All right, all right, my darling.”
He moved back, the palm of his hand squeezing across his mouth, contorting his face.
“Take it easy, darl. Let’s have your coat.”
“No.”
“Mamma won’t spank. Mamma won’t even scold. It’s been a long time. Now there, now there. Let’s have the coat.”
“No.”
“Harry.”
“Where’s the kid?”
“Asleep.”
“Can I see him?”
“What is it, Harry?”
“Can I see the boy? Please?”
He followed behind her. He stood in the doorway as she put on the night light. He went in, looked at the boy sleeping on his stomach, touched him, ran his hand across the warmth of his back, snatched the hand back. He went out, hearing her switch off the light. He went directly to the study, pulled the closet door, squatted, opened the safe.
“Harry.”
“I’m going, hon. I’ve got to go.”
“Harry, for God’s sake. Stop it. You’ve gotten drunk. All right, you’ve gotten drunk. It’s the first time since we’re married. I don’t mind, Harry, I really don’t mind. Maybe you’ve had it coming to you. I’ll make some coffee, and you’ll sleep it off, and we’ll forget it. Just don’t do it again.”
“No good, baby.”
“I know how you feel. I know how hard you’ve tried.”
“It’s not that.”
“What is it, Harry?”
“I’ve done it. This time I’ve done it.”
“Done what, Harry?”
“I’ve ripped it. I’ve torn it all apart. I’ve been leading up to it. Now I’ve done it.”
“Please, Harry. Please, Harry.”
“I killed a woman.”
“Please, Harry—”
“I killed a woman.”
“Harry!”
He sat on the floor, in front of the open safe, looking up at his wife. “I killed a woman. I got drunk and it happened to me the way it’s happened before. Only this time I wasn’t taking a sock out of a guy, and passing out, and not remembering. This time, I wasn’t Harry the wise guy, thinking he owns the world because he’s tossed off a few. This time I tore it. I murdered a woman. And I’m running now. Nobody’s holding me. No jail, no electric chair, no booby hatch.”