Hare in March (15 page)

At three fifteen, Shepley and Hagerman set off for New York in Hagerman’s car.

Hagerman drove very slowly. The vaunt, the puff, the bluster were gone from him; he was sniveling and obsequious. His face had taken on a pinched look, and as he sat behind the wheel of the Corvair, with his short little legs working the brake and the gas pedal, he seemed suddenly very tiny, which he was, which until now he had always managed to camouflage behind a facade of bravado.

Shepley felt sorry for him. It was only a feeling, and not a thought, for he was not thinking of anything at all anymore, but doing whatever came into his head, as he had since leaving his family last night. What he had discovered about the contrivings of everyone did, it was true, go through his mind, but now as indifferently and lifelessly as an item of foreign news read in a newspaper. He was equally indifferent to his own stratagems, except to see that he was successful at them; thinking about all of it came too hard and was so futile.

“I don’t know how much I’ll be able to get, Shepley.” “Do the best you can. Then we’ll see.” “I don’t know what my family’s going to think.” “We’ll soon see.”

“They might not give me anything; what if they don’t give me anything?”

“They’ll give you something.” “They’re different from what you think.” “They couldn’t be. I haven’t thought about them.” “I mean, they’re not devoted to me. They’ve never liked me.”

“They love you. Don’t ask for the moon.” “Love me? Nobody’s ever loved me but Janice.” “I don’t want to hear about it.” “All right, I won’t talk.”

“I don’t care if you talk. Just don’t give me your life history.”

“They might not even be home. I know my father won’t be home.”

“We’ll soon see.”

They went on like that, almost politely. Hagerman was chain-smoking, and Shepley rolled down the window rather than complain about the smell of the Gauloises. He leaned his head out and took a deep breath of the warm March air, and periodically he noticed the view of the river and the varying blues in the distance, intertwined with the stark gray arms of leafless trees and the green of pines and evergreens.

“Shepley?”

“What?”

“I have to make a stop.” “What kind of a stop?” “I have to find a john.”

“Pull over and go behind a bush; do we have to make a production out of it?”

Hagerman looked embarrassed. He said, “I can’t. I have to find a john. There’s one near here.”

“All right. You have to make boom-boom, huh?”

“There’s one right off this exit. There’s an abandoned filling station about five minutes off this exit.”

“My family used to call it making boom-boom. What was your family’s word for it?”

“I don’t remember.”

Shepley laughed.
“You
remember. But it embarrasses you, doesn’t it, Hagerman?”

Hagerman said, “No. Why should it?”

“What’d they call it?”

“I said I didn’t remember.”

“You’re just another poor jackass, aren’t you, Hagerman?” “Aren’t
you,
Shepley?” “Yes. Yes, indeed.”

Hagerman swung off at the exit.

“What do you mean it’s abandoned?” Shepley said. “It’s abandoned, that’s all.”

“Well, now, there won’t be any toilet paper, Hagerman.”

“It’s the nearest one.”

“You really have to go bad, huh?”

“Does that give you pleasure, Shepley?”

“Hagerman, I liked it better when you called me mother. This new you is very colorless, Hagerman. Can’t you do something about it?”

“I wish you’d lay off, Shepley. I don’t feel well.”

“I wish you’d lay off, Shepley,
please.”

“I wish you’d lay off, Shepley, please.”

“This is the living end, Hagerman; this really is!”

But it wasn’t. Oddly enough, it was like everything that had happened in the last sixteen hours — it was flat. It was the way Lois had described her time at the Cheetah, while they were lying in bed last night at the Bluebird. “Dull fireworks!” she had said, and he had stifled an impulse to say, “So’s this.” Meaning the way she had done everything he liked and then some, and he had, too, and it was not because they were not high — they were drinking right along with it — but there was none of the old wild euphoria, just sort of a wisenheimer awareness of it all, of her female machinations and his male response, as though it were all happening inside a breeding case, and yet at the same time some larger him was on the outside, peering in, observing with detachment.

— I love you, Charles.

(You don’t love anybody, Lois.)

— I love you, too, very much.

(Neither do I.)

— We’ve never said that before to one another. I’m glad we waited.

(I wish we hadn’t said it.) — I’m glad, too.

(Nowhere to go from here but down, now).

And Hagerman had lost his swagger; he looked like an ugly little kid whom nobody ever wanted to play with, scurrying off with the green-apple trots, already working his belt open before he got inside the door.

Shepley sat smoking a cigarette he did not really want, fiddling with the dial on the radio to find some music. The next song you hear will g
ive
you a message about the coming events of your life in the month of April. Listen!

Shepley thought of an afternoon at Holy Child when he had gone to visit Billy with his mother. Billy used to love gum. When they lived on Riverside Drive, at any hour of the day you could put your hand down under a tabletop or a chair, and there would be a wad of gum stuck there, lucky old wad of satiated Spearmint blessed by Billy’s pearly fangs. Anyway, that afternoon at Holy Child, Charles’s mother had kept on trying to put a stick of licorice gum in Billy’s gaping mouth, and when she got no response, she said, “I’ll chew it for you, darling, but I’ll leave the taste in it for you; don’t you worry,” and she had chewed it and pulled it out, and put it on Billy’s lips and tried to push it in, and it had fallen out all full of drool.

That was all.

Just a random memory.

It was taking Hagerman a long time. Shepley got out of the car and stretched his legs, leaned down and picked up some gravel, and tossed the pieces one by one at a telephone pole.

It was a seedy filling station; the idle gas pumps were peeling and the rubber hoses were rotted; there was a dead bird near the door with maggots and flies all over it, and there were tall weeds which had pushed their way through the tar and formed little clusters where cars used to drive in and wait for service.

Shepley looked at his watch. Hagerman had been in there for ten minutes. Shepley decided to goose him, and he walked across to the small square brick building and went inside. The door marked
MEN
was shut, and Shepley stood just outside of it and called Hagerman’s name.

There was no answer. Shepley waited another few seconds.

Then he shouted, “What the hell are you doing in there, Hagerman?” and still Hagerman did not answer.

Shepley tried the door; it was locked.

“Hagerman, what the hell are you doing?”

There was no sound.

Shepley rattled the doorknob and banged his fist against the door.

“Hagerman? … Hagerman, are you in there?”

And he thought of the pinched look on Hagerman’s face, and Hagerman whining, “I wish you’d lay off Shepley. I don’t feel well,” and he began to alternately kick at the door and shove it with his shoulders. It started to give, and Shepley applied more force, until the lock broke.

The putrid stench of stale excreta hit his nostrils full force at the same time something heavy and hard and merciless hit his head.

You were a gambler was what you were; you had always been one. You could suffer a surfeit of the worst sort of trepidations, and it would always make sense why you did when you won, for there was a thrill that went all through you, that lifted you right off the ground, like in dreams when you flew and it was easy and sweet and you were invulnerable. You forgot it at times; at times you thought you were a loser and your luck had been spent, but that was part of it, was what made times like this the exalted moments that were your reason for existence. Anything less was some weak stave you’d fall from leaning on, but you could lean on the power which charged you when you pulled off yet another
coup,
and weren’t you cool!

Hagerman got down off the chair. He did not put the monkey wrench back inside his overcoat, but left it lying there beside Shepley. Blood trickled from the back of Shepley’s head. He might well be dead, though Hagerman doubted that, and did not care, either way.

Hagerman walked across and kicked over a white pail once used for discarded paper towels. He turned a rickety chair on its side. He stood before the dirty mirror hanging on the wall, reached under his coat and ripped his shirt and tore his tie. Then he took out a small pocketknife and snapped the blade to, and slit some threads near the shoulder of his coat, and pulled until the material gave. Momentarily, he studied his face; then hating to do it, he nicked it with his knife, then took his fingernail and scratched the nick open; he did the same thing to his forehead. He wrenched a leather button from his coat, and tossed it on the floor.

He stood and looked at everything, and then he left the place, and drove his car a mile down the road, pulled over, cut the motor, and shook up a cigarette from the package in his pocket.

Then the old faithful computer took all the data in and gave it back, gift-wrapped.

— Oh, God! My old trouble! I have to get to a john fast.

— Sure, Peter. Is there some place near?

— There’s an old abandoned gas station off the next exit. I’m sorry, Charles. I know you’re upset.

— I feel better; in fact, I feel as though a weight’s been lifted from my shoulders.

— I’m glad. I’m glad I could help. You were bound to get caught eventually.

— I know it.

— Here we are. I’ll try not to be long. — Take your time.

Hagerman went inside the filling station; he had been to this place once before, so he knew it was open; he knew it was filthy and he was prepared for the foul odor, but he had this condition, this thing he had never told anyone about but Bud Burroughs, and urgency could not afford to shop around for quality.

The thought occurred to him that he had left Shepley in the car, with the keys. For a moment, he almost went back for the keys, but then he rebuked himself for such an idea; Shepley was so obviously beaten and tractable.

Hagerman locked the door of the men’s after himself, out of habit more than anything else. He relieved himself, and he was just on the verge of reaching for his overcoat, which he had hung on a hook in the small stall he had used, when he heard Shepley’s voice.

— Hagerman?

— Just a minute, Charles.

— Hagerman?

— Just a minute, Charles.

He put his coat on; he was starting toward the door when he heard Charles shout:

— You picked a nice spot, Hagerman. Start saying your prayers, Hagerman.

And damn it all, Hagerman did not feel very brave; he, damn it all, actually began to tremble.

Then Shepley tried the door.

— Open the door, Hagerman.

— Please, Charles.

Yes, he had said please; he was that scared.

But Shepley kicked in the door, and came at him carrying a monkey wrench.

The only thing that saved Hagerman was the fact Shepley kept talking, kept reading Hagerman out, saying he was going to kill Hagerman, but first Hagerman was going to really appreciate how much Shepley hated him. He kept bouncing Hagerman against the wall, knocking things over, grabbing his clothes and pulling him in and pushing him back, with his eyes like the eyes of someone who had gone soft in the head.

He was ape; he had really flipped.

All right, Hagerman cried — admit it. And Hagerman begged — admit it. And yeah, Hagerman did say his prayers. And God isn’t dead, because suddenly Charles Shepley slipped and fell to his knees, and the monkey wrench landed at Hagerman’s feet, and Hagerman picked it up.

You’re a little man, but when you’re fighting for your goddam life, well, mother, you hit like a man twice your size.

• • •

Okay?

Okay, but wait a minute. Let’s savor it a minute … You are a mother, mother; Peter, mother, you leave your mark, you
do
… and no Len Lovely, it
don’t
rub out.

Then Hagerman turned the key in the ignition, and headed into Far Point to meet the father of his roommate.

He woke up in a field, at the bottom of a hill, not far from the filling station. He remembered staggering there, remembered the warm feeling of his own blood trickling down his neck and soaking into his shirt collar through his jacket, and the pain throbbing at the back of his head. His only thought then had been to get away, out of sight of the road, in case Hagerman came back to finish what he had started. He had seen a housing development down past the hill, and he had headed for it. But he had collapsed, exhausted and quite faint from the realization that he had nearly been murdered, that maybe he would, after all, die, that his blood was leaking out of him.

Now he was stronger. The back of his head was sticky, but dry; the blood had clotted. He stood and the vertigo he had felt earlier had vanished; the pain was mild. He removed his jacket and saw that there was not a lot of blood on it. He put it back on, and he walked easily, though the memory of his terror upon awakening on the floor in the filling station lingered.

What he wanted to do was get out of Far Point, go somewhere, anywhere, but not home. He had five dollars and some change; the rest of his money was at Pi Delta Pi. That all seemed very far away; his mind did not want the task of sorting all that out, of thinking about the right thing to do, the practical thing to do, or of trying to imagine what Hagerman was doing.

Lois. He wanted to be with her. He trudged through the field toward the lights ahead, trying to fathom the reason for a sketchy feeling of indifference he had had earlier when he remembered last night and being with her. He had turned it into something very different than the way it had been; he was sure of that. It had been very good between them, better than it had ever been. Yet he did remember, even now, thinking that it was the beginning of the end with them, that she had announced her love, and whatever he stole from that point on he would be stealing for himself. And he had gone directly from the Bluebird to Blouter’s suite, as he had planned to do before the Bluebird, but something was different about it. She was missing from the adventure; it was not for her. It was not even for anything he wanted; it just was, the way it just was when he made the demand on Hagerman after breakfast.

He remembered a moment with Hagerman when he was fooling around about having a nervous breakdown, and his own voice had sounded like a stranger’s voice saying something wholly believable.

And he remembered, too, a feeling he had had when he was standing outside the men’s in the filling station, and the thought had occurred that Hagerman might really be very ill in there, and occurring with this thought was one of giving up the whole venture, of letting poor Hagerman off the hook, really of getting off it himself, before he couldn’t.

These remembrances had a soothing effect, for he had not been all the way in; there had been some part of him protesting, the part of him that had led him yesterday afternoon to his father’s lab, the part that was carrying him across this field right now, because he felt that he was going to be all right; he was going to get himself back somehow — somewhere along the way he had lost himself, and nearly lost his life in the bargain.

He saw a Mr. Frostee stand to the left of the housing development; he saw an outdoor phone booth next to it, and he headed that way. It was six-thirty.

It was seven before he was able to reach her, after eight by the time she arrived to pick him up. He had washed in Mr. Frostee.

“I’m not a taxi, you know!”

“I know.”

He shut the door.

“No, you don’t know, or you would have called a taxi!”

“Are we going to sit here and argue?”

“My God, Charles!
My God,
what
happened
to you?”

“A lot. Let’s go someplace where we can talk.”

“Let’s go to a hospital! What
happened
to you?”

“Let’s just
go
someplace, Lois. Not a hospital.”

“That’s blood on your shirt!”

“Yes, but I’m all right. I’ll button my coat; I’m all right.” “No, you’re
not!”

“I am. I am. I’m not the martyr type.” “What type are you?” He said, “I’ll get to that.”

• • •

He began to get to it once they got to the park.

He poured himself a drink and lit a cigarette; on the way there he had told her that he had had a fight with Hagerman, but he had not gone into all the details, because he wanted to start way back.

She said, “Are you sure your head doesn’t hurt?”

“Yes. I’m okay. Okay?”

“Are you surprised that I wore my mink?”

“Not too.”

“You don’t want me to tell you why I wore it, do you? Because we’re talking seriously.” “Why did you wear it?”

“You really don’t want to know. I can tell by your voice.” “I really want to know.”

He found himself smiling, despite the growing suspicion that all that he planned to say to her was not going to amount to a hill of beans, because you didn’t reach a Lois Faye ever, which was probably the reason he was attracted to her in the first place. He had had no destination in mind when he had met her. Now? He didn’t know what he wanted from her at this point, only that he wanted to be with her, which entailed listening to the reason she had worn her mink.

She said, “I wore it because I’ve never worn it when I was in love. And I wasn’t in a good mood either, having to go all the way out to some Mr. Frostee stand!”

“I want to tell you something before we start talking about love, Lois.”

“You’re married, aren’t you?”

“Can we be serious?”

“I’m sorry about your head. Why wouldn’t you let me take you to a hospital?” “My head’s all right.”

“We could have stopped on the way, and gotten me some Southern Comfort.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t even notice you weren’t drinking. Have some of mine.”

“This car isn’t much of a bar; one empty bottle, one bottle half-full.”

“Have some of mine.”

“I hate it without water! I hate it anyway, but I hate it without water worse!”

“We should carry a thermos for emergencies. Do you want to drive in and get some Southern Comfort?”

“Charles! We have a thermos! It had ice cubes in it, and I put it in the back with the picnic hamper.”

“And the picnic hamper has cheese in it, and I’m half-starved!”

“I’m glad I wore my mink,” she said, as Charles got out of the car to get the things from the trunk.

They drank from paper cups. Charles diluted his whiskey, too, because he was drinking on an empty stomach; he quartered the cheese and passed her some, and then he began again, he began with Billy and he got up to the part where the move to Eighty-second Street from Riverside Drive became necessary because of the drain on his grandfather’s estate.

“Is your drink sweet?” she interrupted him. “I didn’t notice.”

“I think there was sugar in that water.” “Can I finish?”

“So far, it’s a
very
depressing story. So far, I don’t see what it has to do with you and me.”

“It has a lot to do with you and me. I think.”

“I don’t think it does.”

“You want to get down to brass tacks?”

“What is the sum and substance? Let’s talk turkey, Charles. Let’s get down to cases, and go over the cardinal points.”

He sighed, “This isn’t funny … I’m leaving Far Point, Lois.”

As he said that, he felt a salty taste in his mouth, and a pressure in his head.

“No, you’re
not!”
she said.

“I can’t stay here.” And something was happening to the light; there was a queer prismatic look to the park lamp down the road. He probably should have gone to the hospital. She said, “Yes, you can; what do you mean you
can’t?”
The air seemed to crackle. He managed to say, “I’m a thief.”
“What?”

“Yes, I am. Turn off the radio, will you?”

“The radio isn’t on. Are you
crazy?”

“I’ve been stealing so I could take you out. I don’t have any money. I’ve been stealing everywhere. Everywhere.”

His words seemed to come out very, very slowly, but he was telling her all about it, and it took a long, long time, but he was telling her everything, until he could no longer hear his own voice over her laughter. She kept laughing and laughing and laughing at him, laughing and laughing, and laughing, and laughing.

Charles began to sob. Everything before his eyes turned into bright jelly, and his mother’s face appeared then on the radio dial, or was Lois there, her head on a great pendulum, larger than the car, hovering over the car, laughing at him?

Charles said, “I can’t pay you to love me.”

The pendulum was actually one of her breasts, with her face on it; the nipple, her nose. He saw himself on her breast, crawling across it like a baby, crawling up into her nose.

“Lois,” he said, “let me out. I feel awful.” She said, “I’m a big phony!” “Why are you laughing at me?”

“I’m taking off everything. I don’t want to wear these clothes.”

“You better stop laughing. I know what you think of me. You traded me for silverware.”

“Everything comes off. I’m going to be naked!” “Stop laughing!”

But she could not stop, and she
was
going to be naked. And it took a long, long time to get out of her clothes, and all the while Charles was glaring at her. He was a rabbi, and if there was anything she could not stand it was a rabbi stoking a fire, but that was what she deserved, to be incinerated like all the Jews.

She said, “I’m afraid.”

Charles’s voice said, “You hate me.”

“I don’t, Charles. Where are you?”

“Don’t come near me.”

“Charles, I need to hang on to you. I’m out of whack, way out of whack!”

“Don’t get near me, I said! I’m tired of being used. One wants a mother’s pin, and one wants a Pucci, and no one wants me.”

“I want you, Charles. I know I’m boring. I am. I make jokes to try and cover it up. I don’t want the right things. I’m a phony. If you don’t love me, I’m going into the fire with all the Jews. I’m a dirty kike! We’re all alike. We want money. Charles, let me hang on to you. I love you.”

“Don’t!”

“Charles, please!”

“You want to decapitate me! I need my head! I need it to think with!”

“Charles, the knife is so pretty. Look at the colors. There’s cheese left on it, and now there’s a trillion little jewels right there where the cheese was.”

“You’re a spider.”

“I’m lonely, Charles. I’m not worthwhile, for I have no real values and I am empty as a shell. I know I am. I’ve been told that I am, and I am. Hold me so I’m full, Charles.”

“You see this knife? In my fantasies I held a knife like this to kill Billy with. Don’t you hurt my head. Don’t you put your hands near me. I can’t kill Billy, but I have this knife for protection.”

“I want to put my arms around you. I never told my father I loved him because he made me a Jew. I’m not a nice person at all, not at all. I see snakes hanging from the trees, Charles. I see snakes, Charles! I think I’m out of whack! I see myself dead on the fender! Am I dead?”

“Let go of me!”

“I’m afraid!”

“Let — go — of me!”

“Charles!”

“I
told
you! I
need
my head!”

Then he said, “My head is there, but I’m out of my mind.” It took a long, long time to pull out the knife. She was naked, and she would soon be very cold, so he forced enough energy out of himself to put her coat on her. Mink. Because she was with someone she loved.