Intimate Victims (11 page)

Each time he placed the child on its back, it charged back in the attack position. Ramond’s heart began beating anxiously, and he felt a wave of acute anxiety begin in him. Was the child having a fit of some sort?

A voice from across the room, a squeaky, sleepy voice said, “Give her her stocking, Mister.”

“Her what?” He turned and saw the four year-old sitting up, rubbing her eyes.

She said, “Chrissy won’t head-bang if you give her one of Mommy’s stockings to chew on.”

“To chew on?”

“Umm hmmm. She goes to sleep with it, and she carries it around all day.”

“Well, where is it?”

The child crawled out of bed before Raymond could stop her, and ran across to a bureau. She pulled open the bureau drawer, and out came a series of small leather books, each one announced by, “That’s not it, that’s not it, that’s not it,” as Raymond reached down and picked them up after her.

“Here it is!” she said. “Here’s one of them.” She pulled out a long silk stocking and ran across to the crib with it. “Here, Chrissy! Here’s you ‘tocking.”

Raymond watched while the younger child reached up sleepily for the hose, took it in her little fist, put it to her mouth, and turned on her side, holding it as though it were a bottle.

“Now she’ll sleep,” said Carla Carson. “Thank you,” Raymond said.

Not until he was back in the living room did he discover he was carrying three leather-bound diaries. He sat down and opened one. The page was filled out in green ink.

At the bottom of the page, in a box made out in the same green ink used to answer the black printed queries above, were three notations.

Aloud, Raymond Battle exclaimed, “Good Lord!” With a mixture of fascination, incredulity and revulsion, he turned to the next page.

Raymond Battle had a sudden impulse for a glass of wine. He got up and crossed to the decanter set out on the table with a half-dozen wine glasses.

“Hot water bottles and the whole bit,” he murmured to himself as he poured the drink. “Good Lord!”

It was port, very sweet port. Not good port. He made a face after he swallowed it. He carried it back to the armchair, set it on the table, and reached across to turn down the sound on the television.

Then he began reading entries in the diary, at random.

He found that at the end of every month’s record in the diary, there was a memoranda page. Invariably there was written across them: “Nothing at all” or “What do you expect?” or “Hate these pages. What’s left to say?” Each diary entry ended with “Nite! Nite!” and began with, “Me again!”

This was Raymond Battle’s sampling of Mrs. Carson’s 1958 diary.

On the very last page was the final entry.

Raymond Battle shut the diary and leaned back in the chair. Then, almost as though he were having a seizure of some sort, he leaned forward, shaking, holding himself around the waist — laughing, laughing in a crazy way he never had laughed before. Roaring!

• • •

When the door opened, he was still on his knees.

He looked up at her. “You’re early,” he said.

“Yes, I am. What are you doing?”

“I’m looking for something,” he said. “I can’t find it.”

“Well, what is it?”

“It’s nothing very much.”

“Well, what?”

“It’s just something that fell out of my eye,” said Raymond Battle.

“Something that fell out of your eye!”

“Very well, Mrs. Carson, it’s my left lens. A contact lens.”

“Oh, do you wear those?”

“What would they be doing in my eyes, otherwise?”

“You don’t have to be nasty, Mr. Battle.”

“You weren’t very nice to me earlier.”

“I think you’ve been drinking, Mr. Battle. I know you have. There was a whole decanter of wine here, and it’s empty.”

“I’ll replace it, if you like.” Battle was crawling about by the television set, running the palms of his hands along the rug.

“I told you I didn’t care if you had some. It’s made you drunk, though.”

Battle hit his forehead against the end of the low TV table. He cried out in pain, and held the injured part with his hand. He managed to say, “Sweet port is very sneaky, Mrs. Carson. One shouldn’t have more than two small glasses of it.”

“Do your lenses always fall out when you’re drunk?” she asked. Battle could not see her very clearly without his other lens but he was aware she was standing near the mirror. Probably gawking at herself again, he thought, and he sighed and sat back on his haunches. “I can’t find it! And the answer to your question, Mrs. Carson, is that I very, very seldom get drunk. In fact this is the first time, for your information.”

“You can call me Bunny, Mr. Battle. Everyone does.”

Battle heard the loud noise of her honking into her handkerchief. She said, “I have the most horrible hay fever. Worse at night.” And more honking.

Battle got up on his feet. “Fortunately,” he said, “the right lens fell into my lap.”

“What made them fall out anyway?”

“I was laughing at something.”

“I don’t think I’d like wearing them very much at all, if they fall out every time you laugh.”

“I don’t have that much to laugh about.”

“That’s too bad, Mr. Battle. Well, what are you going to do about the lens?”

“Do you see it anywhere?”

She walked across the room and bent over at the spot on the rug where Battle had been looking. “No … I might not even know it if I did see it.”

Battle squinted at her through his right eye, which contained a lens. She was wiping at her nose with a tissue and staring down at the rug. Battle smelled something familiar, distasteful. He realized it was beer he smelled. He said, “I’d say you were drinking too.”

“Yes. There wasn’t any rehearsal. The director just didn’t show. One of the boys did the funniest thing! There’s this blackboard in the room where we meet, and one of the boys — his name is Scott Allen, and he’s a riot — wrote on the blackboard,

Just in case the director did show after all, natch!” She straightened up and giggled. She repeated:

Honestly, he’s a riot! I had beer with him. He plays folk songs on the guitar, real yummy.”

“Well, I suppose there’s not a thing I can do about it. If you step on it, you step on it.”

“What are you wearing contact lenses for, Mr. Battle?” “There’s nothing wrong with it, is there?” “No, but it seems odd. You’re not in theater or anything.” “No, I’m not in theater.”

“Are you really writing a novel? Mrs. Plangman said something about it.”

“I’m making notes,” said Battle. “Put it that way.”

“Do you want some coffee? I might be a little tipsy myself. It doesn’t take much.”

“I could use a cup,” said Battle.

“The girls okay?”

Battle followed her into the kitchen. He told her about Chrissy banging her head, and about Carla giving the stocking to her, and beyond that, he was unable to get a word in. Mrs. Carson rattled on about Scott Allen, describing what he was majoring in at the University (drama, natch), what he was wearing that night (a yummy blazer with a yummy ascot), what he did last summer (a stock company in Skaneateles, New York; he was an understudy), and about his personality (real intellectual and cultured, but sweet at the same time).

Finally, Battle said, “You’re certainly making a lot of him. How long have you known him, anyway?”

“I just met him tonight. He’s trying out for the lead in the play, natch.”

“Isn’t he an undergraduate?”

“Umm hmm. A senior. You want sugar and cream, Mr. Battle?”

“Black,” Battle said. “Isn’t he a little young for you, Mrs. Carson?”

“He’s twenty-three. I’m twenty-four. I was married very young, Mr. Battle. Very young!”

“How long have you been a widow, if I might ask?”

“A year last Tuesday.”

“Your resiliency is admirable.”

She whirled around and faced him, and he squinted back at her while she shouted, “Now, look! I don’t need you coming up here making any cracks like that! I don’t appreciate that at all, Mr. Battle!”

“Me coming up here! I was asked up here! I’m doing you a favor!”

“You just leave my resiliency out of it! I’m a young woman!”

“I never said you weren’t.”

“Just because you’ve had too many drinks!”

“Go ahead and marry your banjo player, for all I care, Mrs. Carson.”

“He plays the guitar, goddam you!”

Battle backed away. “All right,” he said, “The guitar — the banjo. Whatever it is he plays.” Battle felt a peculiar delight in Mrs. Carson’s anger. He felt immune to it — immune to her, as well. Preposterous person. He would drink his coffee and go back downstairs to his own place. He looked forward to taking off all his clothes and getting between the sheets, and he remembered he had changed the sheets that morning; they would be clean and cool. If only he had not lost one of his lenses, he would have no real regrets about his behavior this evening — none whatsoever. He had remembered to put back the diaries, and since reading them, he had absolutely no qualms about having drunk too much of the sweet port. He could be as tipsy as he liked around Mrs. Carson; it was just like being obstreperous and abnormal in some foreign country where you knew no one and no one knew you.

She handed him a coffee cup and he followed her back into the living room. He felt very much like announcing to her that sneakers did nothing for a woman’s legs. Instead, he said, “And I’m not interested in those couple of dollars you put on top my stationery box when you came in, Mrs. Carson.”

“It’s payment for sitting.”

“Ha! Ha! Payment for sitting! You knew I wouldn’t take anything. You knew I’d offer my services, gratis. Now surely you knew that.”

“What’s biting you anyway, Mr. Battle? Why shouldn’t you take it?”

“Even if I needed it, I wouldn’t take it. Isn’t it always the man who pays and pays. Ah yes! Waffle irons, hot water bottles and the whole bit! All lavished on you, hmmm?”

“You’re so bombed you’re out of your head.” She giggled and blew her nose. “You are bombed!”

“Hot water bottles and the whole bit,” he repeated, feeling it was slightly dangerous — but she missed the allusion altogether, and she only giggled harder.

Battle said, “True to you in my fashion, darling, except for a stray banjo player here and there.”

He hit his mark. She was on her feet, shaking her finger at him, furious again. “Now, look! I don’t know what your little game is all about, Mr. Battle, but don’t bug me! You don’t even know Scott, and you don’t even know me! And I can just as easily pick up that telephone and tell Mrs. Plangman you’re sitting up here insulting me!”

“Oh, that’s typical. I’m sitting up here insulting you! What am I doing sitting up here?”

“Do you want a pound of flesh, Mr. Battle, because you babysat for a few hours?”

“Furthermore,” said Battle, “it interests me that the baby has suicidal impulses.”

“Head-banging is very common among babies, Mr. Battle. Goddam you! You’re drunk! I’m a damn good mother, and you just shut up!”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Professor Bullard was on his way up here right now,” said Battle. “There’s no point in screaming, Mrs. Carson.”

“Just finish your coffee.”