Damnation of Adam Blessing (4 page)

Adam had a dizzy sensation all through him. He hoped Billy would not notice anything was wrong. He managed to say, “How do you know all this?”

“My maid gets it from their cook. This will hand you a laugh,” said Billy, tapping Adam’s wrist. “My maid told me they punish those kids by making them sit out in the hall until they can be good. My maid says the halls are filled with kids sitting there masturbating.” Billy hooted over his own story. “My maid didn’t put it that way exactly. She said the kids sat in the hall ‘touching their privates.’ ”

Adam felt unbelievably dopey. He tried to laugh at Billy’s joke, but he could barely grin. He felt his eyes want to close, and he forced them to remain open.

“Luther Schneider owns Waverly Foods,” Billy said.

Those were the last words Billy Bollin spoke to Adam Blessing for over a year.

Adam was dreaming. Mrs. Auerbach was hanging by the rope in the storeroom. He took a knife from his pocket to cut her down. When he looked up at her, she was scaling a fence. He followed her. Then he hung to the fence. Below him was Billy Bollin.

“Regardez
Adam Blessing!” Adam shouted.

Billy made circles around his ear with his finger. “You’re cracked, Addie,” he said…. Adam thought: This is only a dream, and promptly woke up.

He was stretched out on the deck divan in Billy’s garden. He was shoeless, and his tie was loosened. It was not yet full evening, but the sun was down, and the chill of a dusk in early May made him shiver. His headache was even worse than his instant anxiety at what had happened. As he got up and crossed the flagstone, he had to hold his head with both hands to ease the pain.

He found the light switch in the living room. There in the room’s center was a piece of white typing paper on the rug, a large bottle of Remy Martin holding it down. As carefully as he could manage, jarring his head as little as possible, Adam bent over and picked it up.

Attached with staples were several mimeographed sheets with the heading:
TENTATIVE ITINERARY OF WILLIAM COVINGTON BOLLIN THROUGH SEPTEMBER.

Adam sank into the soft folds of the living-room couch, dropping Billy’s note and the itineraries on the pillow beside him. He was still quite groggy. His mind seemed unable to focus on anything but thoughts that strayed into senseless daydreams. He imagined his lawyer phoning to tell him the will was invalid; then imagined himself calling Billy’s lawyer; imagined Billy’s lawyer saying snidely: “But I thought you were part-owner of the business! You mean you were just a clerk?” … Then his thoughts concentrated on a plan whereby Billy’s itineraries would become misplaced, so that none of his friends would be able to communicate with him. He imagined Billy’s face, as day by day there was no mail for him. Billy was always so keen on the number of friends he had…. He started a new daydream about Billy’s sleeping pills having killed Adam, and Billy being tried for his murder. The prosecuting attorney was saying to Billy:
Isn’t it a fact, Mr. Bollin, that you were always bullying the deceased when you were growing up with him back in Auburn, New York?
Before Billy could offer his defense, the phone rang. He leaped up.

• • •

“Hello!” said a girl’s voice. “I’m calling Adam Blessing. Is he there?”

“I’m Adam Blessing.” For one self-deluded half-second, a fierce hope sprang up in Adam, but it was only Dorothy Schackleford calling.

Adam sank onto a white-and-gold Empire chair, sighing.

“Well,
you
sound enthusiastic. You’d think I was the local funeral director.”

“Very funny,” said Adam.

“Oh, gosh, Adam — I’m sorry. I keep forgetting Mrs. Auerbach.”

Adam said, “Oh well, it doesn’t matter…. It’s over now.”

“I got your number from the Y, Adam. Did you move already? Didn’t you go to work today?”

Adam told her about Billy’s offer, and as he did, he listened to her squeals of delight with a certain uneasiness. There was just enough about Dorothy Schackleford which was like Adam, to make him annoyed by her.

“Off Fifth!” she was exclaiming. “Ver-ree-rit-zee!” whistling for emphasis.

Her rhapsodic reaction made Adam tighten. “It’s not so grand,” he said, “and furthermore I can afford the same-now.” He stared across the room at a forgotten dirty breakfast plate which Billy had left under a velvet-covered chair. An Etrusan chair, Billy had called it, or what was it? Etriscan? Etruscan? … Tomorrow he would go to the library and take out a book on furniture.

“… so I’m going to move in with these girls,” Dorothy Schackleford was chattering on. “You can’t live with your family all your life, can you, Adam?”

Adam said he guessed not.

“Nothing gets a rise out of you, Adam … I’m sorry. I know you still must feel just awful about Mrs. Auerbach!”

Adam felt like telling her that he did not feel anything about Mrs. Auerbach. He had tried, but it was hopeless.

“I have the perfect housewarming gift for you, Adam,” Dorothy was continuing. “A Pan-Trans ticket agent got me two forks and two spoons from the Excelsior in Rome. I’ll give you a pair.”

“Thank you,” Adam said.

“You really are taking it badly, aren’t you, Adam?” “No, I’m not,” said Adam. “I’m just — tired.” “Your voice is funny.” “Tired.” Adam repeated.

“I was wondering Adam … I know tomorrow’s a weekday and all, but, at this place I’m moving into, we’re having a little impromptu get-together tonight. Have you eaten?” Before he could answer, she forged ahead. “Oh, it’s nothing much — just spaghetti and a tossed salad, and we’ll be sitting around drinking wine and all, but I thought maybe you’d — ” and her voice trailed off.

“I don’t think so, thanks.”

“I suppose the people wouldn’t interest
you.
I mean,
any more.”

“Don’t be silly. It isn’t that.”

“We haven’t even got all our furniture either.”

“That wouldn’t bother me, Dorothy.”

“Adam … I agree with you about imitation fireplaces now.”

“What?”

“That time you criticized my girlfriend for having an imitation fireplace, remember? Well, I know I was awfully mad, but you were right, Adam.”

Adam said, “What do I know about furniture? I was just drunk that night.”

“These girls I’m moving in with aren’t like that, Adam, honest! They’ve all been abroad. I mean, they all work for the airlines. I guess they’re not big intellectuals or anything but — ”

“Sometime I’d like to meet them,” Adam lied.

“I just thought tonight would be nice.”

“Dorothy,” said Adam, and in the next breath Adam told her he would be there, shortly after seven.

After he hung up, he realized that the few times he had been out with Dorothy,
she
had asked
him.
He had always begun with a refusal and ended up accepting. Each time, too, he had vowed it would be the last time, but against a girl of Dorothy Schackleford’s ilk Adam had no more chance of keeping that vow than the Excelsior had of keeping its silverware.

Until his headache subsided, Adam read for a while. It was a guide to Rome he had found in Billy’s bookcase. He read an elaborate description of the gardens in the Pincio there, and he began to feel better. He thought that tomorrow he would perhaps arrange for a small memorial service for Mrs. Auerbach. He supposed very few people would even attend, but some of the merchants on Fifty-seventh might send representatives as a token gesture, and he might look up a few of her neighbors that would come, if only out of curiosity. Mrs. Auerbach would probably have hated such an idea, but Adam felt he ought to do something.

• • •

As he dressed for the evening, Adam was unable to resist wearing a pair of Billy’s cuff links. They were in the shape of poodles, with ruby eyes, and Adam was amused and pleased by them. He also chose one of Billy’s Countess Mara ties to wear, and these additions to his wardrobe gave him a lift. On an impulse, he also pocketed a package of Gauloises, Billy’s French cigarettes.

At Ninety-sixth and Madison, Adam paused at a newsstand to buy a copy of
Art News.
The inspiration for this choice he could trace back to his conversation with Billy last night in the garden. Billy had said he hoped to visit The Prado in Madrid.

“You know,” Billy had said, “they have the best Bosch in the world.”

Adam had thought he meant the soup, borscht; he had thought the Prado was a restaurant. He had made some stupid comment about thinking Russia was more famous for it, adding that he had tasted it several times in the Russian Tea Room, right here in New York. Billy had choked with guffaws, apologizing as he choked, and ended by explaining in a very supercilious way that Hieronymus Bosch was a fifteenth-century painter; that The Prado was one of the most famous museums in the world.

“It’s not your fault, Addie,” Billy had said, still trying to stop laughing. “I wouldn’t expect you to know about things like that.”

Adam had smarted under the ridicule. Before he had fallen into bed last night, he had drunkenly scribbled, “Learn more about ART,” across a back page of his Journal. Above it, in a sober script, there was a sentence which he had copied from
Of Human Bondage,
after he had read it two years ago: “Money is like a sixth sense, without which you cannot make use of the other five….”

• • •

On the bus, and then on the subway, Adam tried to concentrate on the magazine. Instead he found himself wondering about Charity Cadwallader. With the fatuous license of the daydreamer, he found himself honeymooning with her in Rome. He saw himself walking into the Pincio with her, seeing it all as it had been described in the travel guide. He sat across from her in the Casino Valadier, while they sipped sherry, with the swallows darting about the balcony terrace, and the superb view of Rome in the distance. He heard himself suggesting a walk along the edge of the Piazzale del Pincio, and he felt her hand tighten in his as they stood looking up at a summer sky, as pink as flamingo feathers.

The subway jerked to a shaky stop at One Hundred Eighty-first Street, just as Adam was kissing Charity by the Fountain of Moses.

As he made his way through the dank underground station, he decided a honeymoon in Rome would probably only bore a Charity Cadwallader.

“Everyone’s going to Russia these days,” Billy had said last night, “or the Orient! … Europe’s been had! I suppose this will be my last trip there.”

He tried to imagine himself somewhere in the Orient on his honeymoon with Charity, but even in dreams he was a captive of his limited experience. The Orient looked oddly like the pictures Adam had seen of Europe, and when he tried to fill in for himself, everything looked like upstate New York. He could see Charity Cadwallader yawning in his mind’s eye, as he went through the subway stile.

When he arrived at Dorothy Schackleford’s, Dorothy was already a little high. Her lipstick was worn away and there was a purple wine mark along her lower lip. She was wearing toreador pants and a Venetian gondolier’s shirt; she was barefoot and her toenails were painted scarlet.

“Adam!” she said, gripping his hand in a hearty shake,
“Alors,
Adam!
Entrez! Mucho
welcome,
Adamo!”

There were sling chairs and burlap curtains, and Chianti bottles with candles stuck in them; bare floors, and few people. Everyone was playing Charades; everyone was assigned to a team. Dorothy handed him a paper cup of sweet port, and Adam sat on a pillow on the floor, until the round of Charades was over.

On the glass-top coffee table beside him, there was the ashtray from the Stork Club, which Adam had given Dorothy. There was one from Maxim’s in Paris, too, and the matchbooks on display were from places in Germany, Switzerland, Italy and France…. For some reason, a girl opposite Adam was answering
“Mais oui!”
to everything; and beside her, another girl was wearing a Japanese kimono. Adam and a chubby, bespectacled young man with a bald head, were the only males present.

After Charades, someone put on “Gypsy.” The fat man danced with the girl who said
“Mais oui,”
and Dorothy turned to Adam and smiled.
“Alors,”
she said,
“wie gehts?”

“Fine,” said Adam.

Dorothy pointed to the girl in the Japanese kimono. “Remember her, Adam?” “No.”

“That’s Shirley Spriggs. We ran into her one night at the Blue Mill. Remember that night we went to the Village for steaks?”

“I guess so,” said Adam.

“Poor Shirl,” Dorothy said, without elaborating.
“Beaucoup
troubles.”

Adam could think of no response. He noticed as Dorothy sat with her bare legs crossed, that the soles of her feet were black with dust. Wine was spilled down the Venetian gondolier’s shirt, and the nailpolish on her right hand was chipped. He remembered suddenly that Charity Cadwallader had worn no nailpolish; that her hands were long and soft-looking, clean and quiet.

“Hey, did you meet Norman yet?” Dorothy pointed at the other male present. He and his partner were busy with the Charleston.

“Norman’s in tickets at World-Wide,” said Dorothy. “I met him in Madrid two summers ago when I got my three weeks off. Course only one week was with pay, but I took the other two. He really has a fabulous sense of humor.
Très
funny, is Norman.”

Adam said, “He’s good for a fat boy.”

“I don’t think that’s very nice, Adam.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Norman’s sensitive about his weight. He’s tried everything.”

“Look, I was fat once. I was very clumsy. I just meant — ”

“His
is glandular,” Dorothy Schackleford persisted. “He couldn’t do anything about it if he wanted to.” “I’m sorry.”

“Sometimes you’re really not very nice, Adam. You think you’re better than most people just because you read up on things.”