Death Kit (21 page)

Diddy might just walk back to the Rushland. It's several miles to the center of town from where he is (now); which ought to satisfy his desire to stay out longer. Although he came here by taxi, he expects to find his way without asking help from anyone; relying on his excellent sense of direction. Having walked about ten blocks (now). Hardly anyone is out on the street—a few teenagers, some old men. The houses end, and Maplewood Boulevard becomes a shopping district, whose facilities indicate the low average income of the neighborhood residents: clothing stores and grocery stores, pawnshops, candy stores, liquor stores, appliance outlets whose windows are papered with signs. “No credit.” “No money down.” Most of the stores are protected by heavy iron grilles. Practically everything is closed, and what remains open is almost deserted. Except for one place at the end of the block; red-and-green neon spells out
SMALL'S PLACE
in vertical lettering, with a neon drawing of a cocktail glass superimposed over the “S” and the “P.” People going in and out. Diddy looks in the window, sees a bar that seems crowded for this neighborhood on a weekday evening at this hour.

Diddy sitting at the counter (now). Orders a double rye on the rocks. A thin blonde around thirty-five, wearing an earth-red sheath and matching shoes, is sitting on the stool next to him, chin cupped in the palm of her hand. She smiles at him over the polished tips of her nails, he smiles back mechanically. A few minutes later, staring into his drink, Diddy recalls her smile. Looks up to see if she's still there, wanting to play his smile over again, with more conviction. She moves her hand farther up her face, cradling her forehead.

“Anything wrong?”

She doesn't seem surprised that Diddy has spoken. “No, I'm tired. Maybe it's the jukebox. It gets on my nerves after a while.”

“Have you been here long?”

She looks at Diddy differently (now). “What kind of question is that?”

“I don't know. Forget it. Let me buy you a drink.”

The woman ordered a vodka martini. Diddy asked for a second rye. They aren't talking. Diddy because he can think of only one thing to say next. So sure is he of what the woman's response will be that he wants to think carefully, making sure he really wants to go off with her. Diddy silent, too, because the jukebox was playing something by the Beatles that he particularly likes.

“Now what?” said the woman, when he turned again to look at her.

“You're not a customer, are you? You work here, right?”

“You expect me to say yes to that?” she asked.

“Do I look like a cop?”

“Maybe. How do I know what a cop looks like?”

“Tell the truth.” He offered her a cigarette.

“You could be a cop. Though, I don't know, you're dressed funny for a cop.” She looked at all the wrong clothes. “You stick out in a crowd. Or, you could be just some poor misunderstood husband.”

“I'm not that, either.… Well, actually, I'm an ex-husband. I was fired three years ago.”

“Am I supposed to say I'm sorry?”

“No,” said Diddy, putting his hand on her thigh. “Listen, are you free now?”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now.”

“I suppose you want to know if I have somewhere for us to go, right?”

“Do you?”

“I don't know.” She took a compact from her bag—red satin, a lighter shade of red than the dress and shoes—and began powdering her nose.

“Listen,” said Diddy, “I don't want you to do anything you don't feel like doing. Understand? I'm not drunk. You can say no, and I won't go away mad.”

The woman closed her bag, swiveled on the stool. Putting her hands on her hips. “Okay. If you're on the level, I'll cut the comedy. There's a reason I've been sitting here so long tonight. The drinks are cheap, but I'm not.”

“I figured that. Don't worry.”

“Okay, lover. It's a deal.”

“Sure you don't want another martini?”

“No thanks.”

Diddy paid for their drinks, and when he slid off the bar stool and first felt the wooden floor under his feet became somewhat unsteady. Though he couldn't be drunk.

What's your name? “Doris.” Mine's Dalton. “Oh.”

“Coat?” said Diddy.

“Over there. The suède.” Diddy retrieved the coat, helped her on with it. “So long, Angelo,” she called to the bartender. Diddy's head felt swiftly unhinged at the jaw. Here was another Angelo, one who used his right name. No, better not look back at him; perhaps to see something he hadn't observed before.

Once in the street, Diddy's head clears a little. The woman slips her arm in his, and leads them four blocks down a side street to a three-story brownstone with a “Furnished Rooms” sign nailed to the door. “This what you expected?”

Diddy shrugged. “Come on, baby. Stop treating me like some kind of hick in reverse.”

“You don't like being kidded, huh?” They were climbing the stairs (now).

“What do you mean?” said Diddy. “I love it. I'm just crazy about it.” Puts his hand on Doris' behind and keeps it there the rest of the way up the stairs.

“Sure, sure. I can see what
you're
crazy about, lover.”

“I'm crazy about a lot of things,” said Diddy, grinning. Giving her ass a hearty squeeze.

Standing still. She was unlocking the door of a room on the third floor.

Inside the room. Shades down on the two windows, minimal furniture, walls of an indeterminate color. Years since they were last painted. “Well, here we are. What do you think of it? Some dump, huh?”

“I don't get you, baby,” said Diddy. “Why are you always asking me what I think of things? What do you care
what
I think? I'm here, aren't I?”

The woman, taking off her coat. “Who says I care anything about what you think? You must be off your rocker.”

“But you do, baby. Don't try to cover it up.”

Diddy knowing he shouldn't pursue this line of talk. Doris isn't supposed to be a person. Get on with it. But he can't resist.

“I don't mean you care about me as me,” Diddy says. “You don't know me. And maybe everything works better if you pretend not to notice the guy you're with, and if you think he's not really looking at you. But I do see you, I can't help it. In the bar I noticed how depressed you looked. And I noticed you seemed anxious as we were walking here, and that it got worse as we came up the stairs. And that's why you asked me a couple of dopey questions. Isn't that so?”

The woman looked at him. Incredulity. The softness in her face, the light in her eyes. A flash of genuine contact. Diddy smiled, without touching her.

Could that have been a mistake? A misreading. Because, right after, her face tightened again. And when she smiles back, it was a professional smile (now) that didn't address Diddy at all.

“Where do you come from?” said the woman. Diddy saw what happened. Saw it born, live, and die. In less than a minute. Back in the dead world (now).

Since Diddy didn't answer right away, she added, “I know you're not from around here. Are you from New York City?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.” She was straightening the bed. “You're the quiet type. That's how I knew. There are a lot of quiet people in New York City.”

Diddy laughed softly. Poor Doris, poor people. “Have you ever been to New York City?”

“A couple of visits. With an old boyfriend of mine. I never lived there.”

“And you'd like to?”

“Like to? You bet! Jesus, would I ever like to get out of this dump! You wouldn't believe what comes into this room. A lot of pimply college boys begging you to make a man of them, and wop railroad workers who are so plastered they forget why they ever came up here.”

“Then clear out of here. Why don't you move?”

“Maybe I'm scared of how I'd make out competing with big-city hookers.”

Diddy, leaning against the chest of drawers, watching this Doris begin to undress, reached out and took her in his arms. “You'd do all right, Doris.”

The woman turned out of his embrace. “Can we, uh…”

“Oh, settle about the money?”

“Yeah. You know how it is. I can trust you, lover, I can tell that. But I meet all kinds of men…”

Diddy covered her mouth with his hand. “Don't explain. Is thirty all right?”

“Is that all you have?”

“I could give you forty.”

“Deal.”

Takes the money out of his wallet and gives it to her.

They moved onto the large bed, and Diddy set about peacefully making love to her. “Hey, you're really ready, aren't you?” are the last words she said, and those right at the beginning. From then on, she did little, lying quite still in his embraces. Diddy wanted to ask if there were something which particularly gave her pleasure that she'd like him to do. But his experience with prostitutes had been slight, mostly in Europe on his vacations, and he didn't know whether she might take his insistence on pleasing her, as well as himself, as an impertinence or an imposition. Well then, Diddy will please himself. It's not that this Doris appears to mind, or even that she's unappreciative. Only that she seems very far away. Diddy must draw her as close as possible, making her the right size. He must be here, and not in his head. Doris is here. As long as Diddy doesn't let his mind stray to Hester's full body and eager way of taking her pleasure, it's enough. Even a kind of blessing.

After making love, Diddy has no intention of falling asleep. He was lying on his back. The woman on her left side, her head resting on his chest, her bent right leg thrown across his thighs. If stillness and even breathing mean sleep, Doris is asleep. To move would be to wake her up. The room is dark: no flashing sulphur-yellow light, and the bed fully as comfortable as the one in the Rushland. Diddy can take a quick nap. No hurry. Only a synthetic home awaits him, a room inimical to his true comfort. Since there's nowhere else he has to be, he might as well be here. A little longer.

Diddy hugs the damp, sleeping woman closer to him. Mumbling something. He tries to catch the words. “In the door,” she says. “Don't wait.”

“Doris?”

An odd noise, a kind of groan.

Diddy waits to hear more. Black silence (now) in the room. Feels something cool and wet on his chest, and realizes she must be drooling slightly between parted lips. As some people do when sleeping lightly. Joan and he often fell asleep like this after making love. Remembers that spot of wetness on his chest.

“Doris?”

Diddy closes his eyes. Soon after, he slept, deeper than he'd intended, and fell into a poorly lit, claustrophobic dream. One of those dreams in which scenes aren't clearly articulated. Not staged. At least, what the dreamer is left with upon awakening is not an adequate scenario which indicates movement in space and supplies dialogue; more a kind of summary. An unproduced dream.

The theme is Diddy making decisions, in dim light and in indistinct surroundings. It started with feelings, wishes, resolutions, all the fruits of the will. Then, in order to give Diddy's feelings the necessary lifelikeness, the background was hastily assembled or sketched in.

Decision first. Diddy had decided he would marry Myra Incardona and become Tommy's stepfather. Where had he proposed to the widow? In the front hallway of her small home, it seemed. But that wasn't clear. Maybe an afterthought.

Next came the wedding, which took place in a Catholic church. Officiating was someone who resembled the priest on the train Sunday afternoon. Standing with the buxom woman at the altar, head bowed, Diddy wonders if this is necessary. But before he has time to back out, the reconstituted family is installed in their house.

In what follows, the dream rapidly condenses a whole lifetime into a series of revulsions.

A life of shouting and screaming and whining: Myra's and the boy's.

A life of broken dishes and the stench of fried fish.

A life of ceramic ashtrays spilling over with cigarette butts,

dirty laundry piling up by the foot of the uncarpeted staircase,

TV that's never turned off,

a thousand filaments of copper hair embedded in the parlor carpet,

battered comic books wedged under the cushions of every chair in the parlor,

empty beer bottles in the back porch,

cockroaches in the coverless sugar bowl,

sour milk in the icebox,

ants in the cornflakes,

tubes of toothpaste squeezed askew and their caps misplaced,

corsets and brassières and stained underpants heaped on the closet floor,

hair curlers scattered between the infrequently changed sheets.

Doris?

Naked, thrashing about in bed with the bovine Myra, Diddy worries that someone hostile is watching. Even so, he can't stop. Brave Diddy, sturdier than he thought. The woman cries with pleasure, digs her fingernails into Diddy's lean shoulders. (Now) Diddy is on his back. The woman lying to his right on her side, her head, right arm, and right leg thrown across his body. How heavy she is. Diddy pushes her off, then rolls over on his left side, drenched in sweat. Who is watching?

Does he dare to try to fill Incardona's place as husband and father, compounding the criminal annulment of a life with the theft of an identity? Tommy doesn't seem to object. Diddy makes sure the scrawny boy has a plateful of strawberry ice cream at dinner most evenings, and tries to work up a stepfatherly interest in the Cub Scouts. But what about the murdered workman? Having lost his heavy body through the imprudent rite of cremation, Incardona can scarcely be tangible enough to make even a ghost. Yet the man is also too recently dead to be as faint, faded, and impotent as a ghost. Even boiled down into a little puddle of ashes, Incardona remains something more substantial. Still powerful. And pitiful. Like some sailor husband, given up as lost at sea, who steals back years later, unrecognized by his fellow townspeople because he's grown a beard and his hair has turned white, to stand shivering in the snow outside his shabby old house. Then to creep forward, to peer in through the icy window in order to witness his beloved wife, still youthful and unlined, contentedly embracing her new husband and their baby. Yet, even as a heartbroken or embittered Enoch Arden haunting this house, Incardona must appreciate that Diddy gains nothing by his new life. Nothing. Diddy only means to make restitution.