Death Kit (36 page)

Starting at the end of the second week, Diddy gets into the habit of not turning on the lights after sunset. Unless it's decided he will read aloud. Man and wife, one flesh: Diddy doesn't need electric light in the evening any more than Hester does. Finds he can manage quite as well in the dark. It's never wholly dark anyway, thanks to the street lamps outside. But what Diddy wants doesn't require even that dim light. He wants to touch.

*   *   *

Idling. Becalmed. Like a pair of moist happy ducks.

Partly undressed, entangled together, silent, in near darkness. Lying full-length on the living-room couch one evening after midnight, some four weeks after returning to New York. The flatulent buzzer that announces a visitor downstairs. A guilty commotion in Diddy's heart. Paul? Incardona? No, take that back. Don't be a fool.

What is Diddy to do? In a way, he's safe. No one can just walk in on him; no one else has the key. If he doesn't buzz back, Paul can't ever know he wasn't out. Or, if there, in the darkened apartment, so deeply asleep that he can't hear the buzzer.

“It must be my brother.” No answer from Hester. Diddy sits up, pulls on his shirt. “Hester, are you asleep? Did you hear me before?”

“Yes, darling, I heard you. But you must do what you want.” She's awake. But still prone; has made no move to dress herself.

What kind of reply is that? Who is Diddy the Indecisive that he should do what he wants? Presumptuous enterprise! But wait, think of it this way. Whatever he does (now), he won't, strictly speaking, be doing what he wants. Since it's Hester who has given the master order, instructing him to do-what-he-wants.

Diddy gets up, goes into the hall, and buzzes back. Returns to the living room; kneels by the couch.

He'll be right up.

Gazes at Hester, wishing ardently that she could see. That she could mutely signal him with only her eyes what she advised him to do. The fluttering double pledge of love.

A knock at the front door. “You remember,” he whispered. “I've told you. He never lets me know when he's coming. I never even know when he's in town.”

The doorbell, pressed down impatiently. “Hey, Diddy!” Xan has darted into the small foyer, is barking and scratching at the door.

“Hester, do you want to meet my brother?” His voice faltered.

While the dog barks and Paul shouts, Diddy realizes, the thread linking Hester and himself has snapped. Another level of sound, another kind of energy is surging on both sides of that paneled door. Inimical to their contact.

“Are you there, Diddy? Wake up! Hey!”

“What's he calling you, Dalton?”

Too complicated to explain (now). Anyway, it's too noisy. Without answering, Diddy gets up. He's suddenly become afraid.

Afraid of Paul: of what will happen if he lets him in. Of what his brother will think of Hester. Will he see right away that she's blind? And of what he'll say to her. Maybe something coarse or enigmatic that will make Hester regard Diddy in a new, less favorable way. Or maybe he'll be rude to Hester, and wound her feelings.

Afraid of Hester: that she doesn't want to meet Paul but won't tell him that plainly. But Diddy can't read her mind, can he? Maybe he's wrong. Perhaps she does want to meet his brother; but considers it's for Diddy to make this decision and to take the responsibility.

“Paul?”

“For Christ's sake, Diddy, let me in.”

Wait a minute!

Diddy grabs his keys and shoves them in the back pocket of the unpressed chinos he's wearing. Then opens the door slightly, as far as it can go with the chain latch still on. Blinking at the brightness of the hall light, and at Paul's eager, sharply illuminated face, at the long blond mustache and the brilliant black of his tuxedo. “Hi, Diddy! What's the matter? Were you asleep? Oh, I bet you've got a girl with you.”

“Yes. And I can't let you in. But I'll come out.”

Unlatches the door; opens it quickly so Xan can't escape, too; slips out into the hallway; closes it behind him.

It takes a while for Diddy to get accustomed to the blow of light. His eyes smart, and he can't stop blinking. Meanwhile, Paul's talking.

“I'm sorry to barge in on you like this. But couldn't I come in? I've really got a load on, and I'd give anything to lie down and sleep it off. I won't bother you.”

Though his eyes are somewhat better (now), hurt much less, Diddy still glad he has other senses to work for him. That with his nose, for example, he could smell the alcohol on Paul's breath. As well as, with his sight, see. Notice Paul's swollen bleary eyes, and the slight disarray of his clothes. “I wish you could, Paulie. It's too complicated to explain, but I just can't let you stay tonight.”

“Why, is she someone I know? It isn't Joan, for Christ's sake, is it?”

What a thought! “God, no.”

“Oh, I bet I know. It's that actress you had around when I came up last August. She lives on this floor, doesn't she? What was her name?”

“Paul, listen. You don't know this girl at all. But I do want you to meet her. It's serious. We've been living together for about three weeks, and I'm hoping we can get married soon.”

Paul, looking angry (now), started to unfasten his black bow tie. “Now, I really don't get it at all. It's not some married woman, right? Not a piece of jailbait. And not someone I know who doesn't want me to know that she's—” Paul's speech becoming slurred, indistinct; he grabbed Diddy's collar, then let go—“with you. Right?” Liquor always made Paul prattle. “In short, not just a lay, but the real thing.… So, I ask you, why can't you let me in right now? This is as good a time as any to meet her.”

Diddy shrugged his shoulders. Paul straightened up, suddenly seeming almost sober. Not so drunk after all. Was he pretending? Oh, Paul was a clever one. Knows more games than Diddy had ever been able to figure out. (Now) seemed quite lucid and casual. He'd removed the tie; stuffed it in his pocket. “Um, I get it. You've been having a fight. Well, guess it's just my tough luck tonight.” Or was that pretending, too?

“I'd like to explain, Paulie. But I need a little more time.”

“Okay, okay. No hard feelings. I'll come by again soon.” Paul, heading for the stairs, but then turning back. A deeper tone in his voice. “Listen, Diddy, is everything all right? You know, you look terrible. How come you've lost so much weight? Are you sick or something?”

Diddy, wary of some new gambit of Paul's. But the posture of wariness is hard to maintain, since he's genuinely startled by what Paul has just said. When had he started to lose weight again? Since Hester had taken over the cooking? And didn't notice because he hasn't put on a suit in weeks. Wears only chinos or loose-fitting corduroys, a T shirt or denim shirt or a sweater.

“I'm not sick. Don't worry about me.”

“But you look awful,” Paul insisted from one step down. “And you didn't go to work today looking like that, did you? I bet you haven't shaved for five days.”

“It's been weeks since I've been to work.”

“That's what I told you. You're sick.”

“No. I quit my job.”

Paul stepped up to the top of the landing again. “What in hell did you go and do that for?”

“Don't shout, Paul!” Diddy whispering. “I told you, I can't explain now. But it's all right.”

Paul leaned against the wall, near Diddy. He was having a little trouble standing erect; at least, standing still. Out of courtesy and embarrassment, Diddy bore his blurred gaze for a while.

“Diddy, are you taking any stuff? You know what I mean?”

Diddy laughed. “You mean drugs? Don't be an ass.”

“Honest? You can tell me.”

“I've told you.” Is Paul going to fall down?

“Well, then, do you need some bread? You know I make piles when I'm on tour. My own brother's got as much right to it as the government or my agent or those chicks I've been balling.”

“When I need you to support me, Paulie, I'll let you know.”

“Okay, okay, don't get mad. I'm just trying to be helpful.… Besides, if I unload some of the money on you, I'll have less for booze.” He started giggling. “That's funny, huh?” Began to bend over, swaying, holding his stomach. “Because, you know,” he said with a silly grin, “I'm a little tight right now.…”

Diddy remembering the pretty, off-Broadway actress in the apartment across the hall. Left the doorway and came over to Paul. “Listen, I'll walk you down. We're going to wake up everybody in the building.”

Follows Paul downstairs, out on the street. A blast of icy air pregnant with snow. Suddenly, Diddy feels dizzy. Had to grab a railing, then sit on the stoop. Paul leans over him. “You
are
sick, Diddy-doo. You've got to call a doctor.”

“Cut it out, Paul. I'm not sick. I just forgot to eat today, so I was feeling a little faint. And right now I'm freezing my ass off, sitting here. So you get going now. Find yourself a cab, and go sleep it off at one of your girlfriends' apartments. And call me tomorrow, don't forget. Maybe I'll have figured things out by then and you can meet Hester and I'll explain everything.”

“Hester?”

“Yes, that's her name.”

“How long have you known her?”

“Long enough, Paul. Mind your own business. Why don't you tell me where you think you're heading now, and how long you'll be in town.” Diddy stood up.

“I'm worried about you, Diddy-doo. Maybe you ought to let me come upstairs.” He belched. “'Scuse me.”

“Look, there's a cab. Run for it.”

“He's got his off-duty sign on.”

“Come on, you know that doesn't mean anything. Go ask the nice man if he'll take Paulie where he wants to go.”

“Okay. I guess I'd better. I'm ready to drop.” From across the street, as Paul got into the cab: “Call you tomorrow!”

Shivering, Diddy climbed back up the stairs. Two flights up, remembered he hadn't commented on the new mustache. When had he grown it? Not exactly flattering, but it made him look ten years older and that's to the good. Even Paul must have tired of being a boy genius forever.

On the fourth floor. Diddy let himself into his apartment. In what seemed to him (now) utter darkness, felt his way to the couch. Which Hester had vacated. Then, with his hands probing and groping outward, to their bedroom. She must be there. And she is. Already in bed, the covers drawn just above her waist. Diddy leaned over her, felt her arms reaching up to encircle his neck, pulling him down upon her naked breasts. Lay down on top of her. In a moment he would get up and undress himself. Not yet. (Now) annealed to Hester from head to foot, even though their flesh is sundered by the blanket and Diddy's clothes, he relayed to her, at first wordlessly, the sorrows of his fraternal condition. How, whenever he asked him to be a brother and a real friend, Paul was never there. But when Diddy had learned his lesson and pulled away, it wasn't long before Paul would come round, ebullient but mutely reproachful; intimating that Diddy had neglected him, laying gross claim on Diddy's thwarted need to bestow affection. Until Diddy was again persuaded he'd misjudged Paul; believed he could depend on him after all. Returned to Paul the solicitous love he had nowhere else to put. Whereupon Paul would vanish again.

“Paul is a lousy human being.”

“You may be right,” she says. “I don't know.”

“The hell of it is that I don't know either whether he's really good or bad,” Diddy continues. “And it's eating away at me. If only I could just hate the bastard and be done with it.”

“But you want to make Paul into a thing instead of a person. A thing whose measurements you can take once and for all.”

“Oh, darling, please! Don't start that. It sounds awful, sure. But I just can't spend my whole life being perpetually astonished by people, by the way they behave, by how mean and rotten they are. And feeling all the time like a prize dope.” He hesitated, struck by the self-pitying ring of his last words.

“Dalton darling, don't make everything too simple. It's all wrong. You're leaving too much out.”

“Well, it
is
simple,” he says doggedly. “People make things seem complicated when they're stalling. When they don't want to make up their minds. They're damned good at it, too.”

Hester sighed. Does Diddy believe a word of what he's saying?

“Maybe I'm just dumb,” he continued, “but then dumb people also have a right to take measures in their own self-defense. And that's all I'm doing with Paul. Jesus, I'm not setting myself up as his judge. Anyway, doesn't everyone say that the few people like him in each generation, people with such extraordinary gifts, aren't to be judged by the same standards as everyone else? I don't like that idea myself, but it doesn't matter.
I
know how special Paul is, and I wish him well, and all that crap. But I'm tired, baby. And full of unattractive old wounds.”

“So you don't judge him. What then?”

“Not much, I guess,” Diddy replies. “Except that I know nothing Paul could do now or in the future would make me trust him. Ever again. I don't trust Paul.” He rubbed his cheek back and forth across her naked shoulder. “I don't trust anybody except you.”

“I don't trust someone who doesn't trust anybody.”

Is Hester angry? What a strange thing for her to say.

Diddy raises himself on his elbows. “Hey! Just a minute ago, you were talking me out of judging Paul. But look at you now, sitting in judgment on
me.
” He wishes he could see her face. But the tone was familiar and unmistakable: reeking of certitude. Diddy (now) angry that he has apparently been dealt out another one of Hester's irrefutable, crushing chunks of wisdom. Which don't seem to leave Diddy room to breathe. However right she is. Diddy angrier still. If she doesn't defend herself, he'll go on. “You're being highhanded and unkind, Hester.”