The Eye of the Beholder

by Marc Behm

  The kitchen door swung open, knocking a carafe out of her hand. It smashed to the floor.

  A loudmouth shouted. ‘Hit him again!’

  She brought him his salad. He tried to speak to her. He couldn’t.

  All the tables were filled. A line was forming behind the entrance rope.

  She brought him another salad, covering the table with a jungle of lettuce. ‘Two for the price of one?’ he quipped.

  ‘What?’ She stared blankly at the two huge bowls. ‘Oh, excuse me –’

  ‘It’s all right. I’ll eat them both. I’m starved.’ He swallowed a mouthful of greenery. ‘Famished.’ He climbed up to the top of a skyscraper and peeked down at the microbes of movement thousands of miles below. He almost vomited with vertigo. Then he jumped off into space.

  ‘What time do you finish work?’ he asked her.

  She just stood there.

  ‘Waitress!’ somebody yowled. ‘I don’t have any mustard!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  And she was gone.

  The lieutenant jumped out of his chair and held up his hand like an umpire. The Eye turned. Two men and a woman were standing in the entranceway.

  He spun around and looked out of the window, his balls retracting as if dipped in ice water.

  One of the men was Abdel Idfa. The other was –

  ‘Hey!’ somebody at the next table brayed. ‘Isn’t that Duke Foote?’

  It was Duke Foote indeed! Who else could it have been? He was wearing gazelle trousers, a Buffalo Bill jacket, snake boots, and a John Wayne hat. ‘Howdy!’ he yodeled. And he and Abdel escorted the woman to the lieutenant’s table.

  She was in a very simple RAF blue woolen dress and matching headband and carried a bag of striped hemp. A silver zodiacal disc hung from her neck.

  She was Dr. Martine Darras from Boston.

  The Eye watched them, frozen with dismay. He refused to believe that this was really happening. It was too stark. No disaster could be so colossal.

  Now they were shaking hands with the lieutenant, sitting down like old friends. Behind them, covering the entire wall from floor to ceiling, was a bright mural depicting George Washington crossing the Delaware in a fleet of longboats filled with ragged continental riflemen. The soldiers enclosed the table, rising among the four of them like a ballet of invalid madmen.

  ‘Duke Foote?’ someone was asking. ‘Didn’t he marry Michelle Phillips?’

  ‘No,’ somebody else piped up. ‘You’re thinking of Dennis Hopper.’

  ‘Well, wasn’t he with the Mamas and Papas?’

  ‘Dennis Hopper?’

  ‘No, Duke Foote!’

  ‘Nah, Duke’s a folker.’

  Joanna came out of the kitchen carrying a tray of ice cream dishes. The Eye cringed. Don’t drop anything, Joanna … please don’t make any noise … please!

  She didn’t, but another passing waitress dropped a metal tureen and it bounced on the floor, an echoing gong of pandemonium. Every head in the room turned.

  Old friends? Well, shit! Maybe they were! What the fuck, maybe the whole situation was just a farcical coincidence, a crazy quilt of hazards stitched together by some turned-on seamstress of fates. Yeah, why not? They’d all gone to Princeton together and met once a year in Trenton for an alumni dinner … or maybe Dr. Darras was Duke’s shrink and Abdel Idfa, the Arab prick, was her boyfriend and they were in town tonight for one of Duke’s CW concerts … and Duke was the lieutenant’s nephew or something … and Abdel was going into the record business and had contacted Duke to cut some albums for him, and they were all just having a bite to eat together before the show …

  Oh, God. He almost relaxed, the full horror of the disaster anesthetizing him. No, Jesus! It was an FBI setup all the way. A Fed would come out of the woodwork now, and the five of them would – yeah! There he was pushing through the crowd – the same shabby little motherfucker he’d had lunch with! There he was! He was shaved now and wearing a clean shirt, but he still looked grubby and unwashed.

  Okay. This was it. Wow!

  Washington was across the fucking Delaware! The Hessians were surrounded!

  Duke was here to identify Nita Iqutos from Nashville. And Abdel Idfa, the goddamned toad, could identify Dorothea Bishop from Chicago. And Martine could identify Joanna Eris from the White Plains concentration camp. In fact, by Christ, she could identify him, too! All she had to do was look in his direction and –

  Joanna was standing before him. ‘I’m off at nine thirty.’ She set his dessert in the middle of the salad leaves.

  He glanced at his watch. It was only eight thirty! ‘Can’t you leave now?’ he asked.

  ‘Darling!’ a woman at the next table whined. ‘You have got to be kidding, doll! Where’re my clams?’

  ‘Miss, don’t you have any influence at all in the kitchen?’ someone else japed.

  ‘Wait for me outside,’ Joanna murmured. And she rushed away.

  A whole fucking hour to go!

  The Eye watched the quintet on the far side of the room. They hadn’t seen her. Or him. The place was too crowded, and they were in the wrong corner. Martine was lighting a cigarette. Duke was autographing menus. The lieutenant munched a steak. Abdel and J. Edgar Hoover were drinking screwdrivers.

  He was just one night too late. It was infuriating! Yesterday would have been perfect! Perfect! The ball-breaking capriciousness and inconsistency of fortune outraged him. Fuck all!

  Eight forty.

  It was true, there were winning streaks and there were losing streaks, and when the jinx freaked you there just wasn’t anything you could do about it. Or was there?

  He considered a number of desperate ways of breaking this shitty deadlock. He saw a fuse box over there in a corner by the John. Maybe he could kill all the lights, then go into the kitchen and smuggle her out the back door … Yeah – then what? Or he could come up shooting with his .45, firing blanks at the crowd. That would send these assholes stampeding like steers in all directions, and he could grab her and make a run for it … but run where?

  The lieutenant and that little Fed fink would have Trenton boxed up within ten minutes.

  He needed at least three hours … two hours … all right, one hour to get her away from here and out of town. And furthermore, he had to take a leak first!

  ‘That’s her,’ the Fed whispered.

  Martine looked across the room. ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there by the kitchen.’

  ‘What in the world is a Yankee Doodle French Fish Course?’ Abdel Idfa asked.

  The Eye got up and started for the men’s room. The hostess intercepted him. ‘Are you leaving, sir?’

  ‘No, I’m just –’

  ‘We’re absolutely jammed tonight! It’s awful! There just aren’t any tables available! I’ve never seen anything like this!’

  ‘Neither have I.’

  He got as far as the fuse box, then changed his mind. Fuck it! He came back to the table and sat down, every nerve in his body clanging. It was ten to nine!

  ‘That’s not Joanna Eris!’

  ‘Please keep your voice down, Doctor.’ The Fed turned to the lieutenant. ‘Do you have somebody watching her house?’

  The lieutenant nodded, chewing a piece of pie.

  ‘I tell you it’s not her,’ Martine insisted.

  ‘We have reason to believe it is, Dr. Darras.’

  ‘Which one is she supposed to be?’ Duke popped out of his chair and looked around.

  ‘Sit down, Mr. Foote. I’ll point her out to you later.’

  ‘As I told you before,’ Abdel Idfa nibbled a sole aux raisins à la Thomas Jefferson, ‘I cannot assure you categorically that I am capable of recognizing the woman after all this time.’

  ‘We realize that, sir. We just want you to have a look at her.’

  ‘Well, I’ll sure as hell be able to recognize ol’ Nita.’ Duke sawed a slab of roast. ‘Just drag her over here.’

  ‘Are you sure I’m watching the r
ight girl?’ Martine asked. ‘That one wearing glasses?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It isn’t Joanna.’ She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Which?’ Duke turned. ‘Whereabouts? Who?’

  ‘By the door there.’

  ‘Her?’ Duke hooted. ‘You fellers bird-turdin’ me or what? That there ain’t Nita!’

  ‘Knock it off, Duke,’ the lieutenant growled. ‘Stop hollering.’

  ‘Turn around, Mr. Foote,’ the Fed muttered. ‘Don’t stare at her.’

  ‘I cannot see her from here.’ Abdel dabbed his lips with a napkin. ‘Can we have some more wine?’

  Then Martine looked through the crowd and saw the Eye.

  Nine five.

  He fumbled with the Trenton Times, ripping it open clumsily, almost tearing it apart. He read Joanna’s horoscope.

  Take advantage of this

  period of bliss and plenitude.

  You’re one of the fortunate

  people who can do no wrong.

  Everything you touch today

  will turn to gold.

  Gold! He was giggling. Gold! Giggling like an idiot! The diners at the adjacent tables smiled at him. He swallowed, almost choking on the thick bile filling his mouth. Christ, he was going to puke! No, he wasn’t … no … no … Hold right. Nope! Cool! Why spoil everybody’s meal? Unwind your abdomen! Stay insensible … comatose … numb …

  He lowered the paper, his eyes sweeping across the room to meet Martine’s gaze.

  They glowered at each other.

  Great! She’d spotted him! Bliss and plenitude!

  Joanna passed, serving the next table. A man handed her a menu.

  ‘Would you ask Mr. Foote to sign this?’ He slipped her a quarter.

  ‘What?’ She stared at him blankly.

  ‘Duke Foote over there,’ he pointed. ‘Get his autograph for me.’

  ‘Duke Foote?’ she looked dazed.

  The Eye pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his streaming face. An autograph! That did it! This was the Apocalypse! The gas chamber, the firing squad, the electric chair, ruin, total havoc … he looked up.

  The hostess was hovering over him.

  ‘You’re all alone!’ she snapped at him accusingly. ‘Would you mind …?’

  ‘I beg your pardon …’

  ‘Your table …’

  ‘My table?’

  ‘Could you share it, please?’ She beckoned, yelped. ‘Over here, you newlyweds!’ A boy and a girl, crimson with embarrassment, sat down before him.

  ‘Thanks,’ the boy smiled shyly.

  ‘I’ll be … be …’ The Eye tried to rally what was left of his sanity. ‘… be leaving in just a minute …’

  ‘No rush,’ the boy said. He held the girl’s hand. She touched his face, grinning, shining, in a coma of happiness. ‘Gosh,’ she whispered. ‘I could eat a horse!’

  At least a hundred people waited behind the ropes now and the hostess flew around the tables, devastated. She pounced on Joanna, standing there, still holding the menu, peering around myopically.

  ‘What are you doing, girl?’ she hissed.

  ‘Gentleman wants an autograph …’

  ‘I’ll get it.’ She snatched it away from her.

  Nine ten.

  ‘What time does she get off work, Lieutenant?’ the Fed asked.

  ‘Nine thirty. She’s looking over here. I think she’s on to us.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Martine turned to him. ‘You asked me to cooperate with you. All right, I’ve cooperated. It isn’t Joanna Eris. You can take that as a formal statement. Now I want to go back to Boston.’

  ‘In due time, Dr. Darras.’

  ‘I want you to know that I find this whole business sickening. Altogether sickening.’

  ‘Would you care for a dessert?’

  ‘I would.’ Abdel Idfa finished his sole. ‘I think I’ll try some of this Bill of Rights Fudge Sundae.’

  ‘Y’know –’ Duke started to say. The hostess handed him the menu. He scribbed his name on it.

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Foote!’ she cried.

  ‘Not at all, Ma’am. The pleasure’s all mine.’ He grabbed her hand and kissed it. She crowed with delight and soared back across the room. ‘Y’know,’ he mused, ‘if it is ol’ Nita … I’m not sayin’ it is or it isn’t, formal and positive, mind, not like the doc here … but if it is her, I’m kinda lookin’ forward to meetin’ her again. She was a nifty little ol’ girl.’

  ‘I think you’ll meet her again, Mr. Foote,’ the Fed said.

  Martine leaned back in her chair, holding her Virgo disc, squeezing it tightly.

  The Eye studied the newlyweds. They were in their twenties, fresh and clean, unscarred, untarnished, as yet uncontaminated. God Almighty! Which one would betray the other first? Would they have a daughter? What cornucopia of anguish and woe and loneliness and repulsion had they been given as a wedding present by the hymeneal pixies?

  It was nine twenty.

  ‘We won’t bust her here,’ the Fed whispered to the lieutenant. ‘It would only cause a fuss. We’ll wait till she gets outside. Or better still, back to her place.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I remember just one thing about Dorothea Bishop,’ Abdel Idfa told them. ‘When Mr. Argyle introduced us, in Chicago, I asked her if she was a virgin. And she said –’ He turned to Martine. ‘Excuse me, Doctor – she said, “That’s none of your fucking business.”’

  The boy said something. The Eye turned to him. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You’re eating my radishes.’

  ‘Your what? I am? My apologies. I … I’m a nervous wreck …’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘My daughter … my daughter ran away and I can’t find her.’ He gaped at them. Why had he said that? Shit and corruption!

  ‘Hell,’ the boy said.

  ‘Is she in Trenton?’ the girl asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He smiled sillily, his fingers scratching the tablecloth. ‘She could be. She could be anywhere. Anywhere at all. There are so many places to hide. So many back streets and lanes and suburbs and little towns and crossroads … and locked doors … and … and freeways going everywhere –’ His voice cracked.

  ‘The last I heard from her, she was – she was in school and she just –’ Jesus Christ! He was crying! Holy Moses! He was coming apart! Ape shit! This was the fucking end! ‘What time is it?’ he blubbered.

  ‘Nine thirty.’ The boy looked desolate. ‘But I think my watch is slow.’

  ‘Good – yeah – okay –’ the Eye gibbered. ‘With a little bit of luck, maybe we’ll make it. Listen –’ They stared at him. ‘I wish you all the happiness in the world. I mean that from the bottom of my heart. Let me bear all your sorrows – give me your grief and your loss. I’ll take them with me now, and you two just keep the joys and blessings of life. So long.’

  He got up and fled.

  18

  She was waiting for him in the parking lot. She had removed her awful Hessian disguise and was wearing a raincoat over a skirt and sweater. It was the same sweater she’d bought in Philadelphia.

  ‘They wanted me to stay another hour.’ She pulled off her glasses and put them into her purse. ‘I told them I had to meet my brother.’

  ‘It’s never been this crowded before.’ He led her over to the Porsche. ‘What’s the occasion?’

  ‘It’s D-Day. There’s going to be a big thing at the War Memorial Building tonight.’

  They drove up West State. He could feel her warmth burning beside him. He forced himself not to think of her presence. He was afraid he might crack up again. ‘Duke Foote was there having dinner,’ he said. ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘Yes.’ She stiffened. ‘I saw him.’

  He felt a tremor run through her body. Fine! She was still reacting, anyway. Maybe her survival instincts weren’t as low as he thought. ‘He was with those cops.’

  ‘What cops?’

  ‘The lieut
enant or whatever he is. And the other one.’

  They were on East State now, but heading in the wrong direction.

  ‘Where would you like to go? How about a drink?’

  ‘I could use a drink all right. Cops, you say? In the restaurant?’

  ‘Yes. I pointed them out to you.’

  ‘You did?’

  Good! She was really coming out of it now. Her fright was palpable. Alarms were ringing.

  ‘I’m a stranger here. Do you know any quiet bars anywhere?’ The words shocked him. He loathed the role he had to play and the dialogue he would be forced to speak for the rest of the evening.

  ‘Please, no bars. I look too ghastly.’

  ‘My place, then?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He turned north and drove up the river toward Washington’s Crossing.

  He wondered if she hated him.

  He pulled into the motel yard and parked beside the Chevette.

  It won’t work, he told himself. They walked to the unit, two basket cases playing in a bumpkin production of Samson et Dalila, a wheezing, bald tenor and a colorless mezzo-soprano smelling faintly of kitchen grease.

  He unlocked the door, and they went inside. He turned on the lights, set the attaché case and the Porsche’s keys on the table.

  ‘I think they have the place staked out,’ he said.

  ‘Who?’ She took off her raincoat. There was a hole in the sweater’s elbow.

  ‘The cops. The restaurant. Probably going to arrest somebody.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘One of the customers who eats there regularly, I suppose. Or somebody who works there.’ He took a bottle of Martell from his valise. ‘Or maybe they just like the food.’

  She sat down and crossed her legs. There was a run in her stocking. She saw it, tried to conceal it.

  He uncorked the bottle, took two ponies from the bureau, moved back and forth around the room so he wouldn’t have to look at her.

  ‘This is all I have. Do you like cognac?’

  ‘Cognac? I never tried it.’

  Excellent! He poured two drinks.

  ‘I’ve seen you somewhere before,’ she said suddenly.

  His knees gave way beneath him, and he sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘You have? I thought you never noticed me. I’ve been in the place every day now for the last –’