Juice (14 page)

“How are you?” Helen said.

“Oh, all right.” His voice was weary. “I feel like a damn fool and I wish it was all over.”

She pursed her lips in an aimless kiss, glancing at him. “Hand me the pepper mill. You'd better call Haviland.”

Joe stepped to the extension and called Haviland. He spoke briefly. “It's all right,” he said when he had disconnected.

“I was thinking how strange it is to have you home all day.”

“Under foot?” He smiled.

“Yes. I like it. It makes me feel a little shy, as though you were the iceman.”

“Like a vacation.”

She looked at him somberly. “Yes. I can't help feeling that.”

“I feel it a little myself. I'm tired now. Drained.”

“All set,” Dave called.

“We'll be back in an hour,” Joe said. He hunched forward and kissed her. “You're blushing,” he said.

“The iceman,” she said. “I can't help it.”

He laughed and left her. He and the two children walked to the road and crossed. “We walk on the left,” Dave said. Joe approved. “Single file,” Dave said, cradling the cat.

Their steps were light on the concrete. “It'll be downhill coming back,” Dave said.

“And the cat will be asleep,” Joe added. “What's this one's name?”

“Tiger.”

“That's a funny name for a cat.”

“That's what we call him,” Sally said. “Mom calls him Edna St. Vincent Millay.”

“Naturally,” Joe said. “How old is he?”

“I don't know,” Dave said. Sally was silent.

“We'll ask Dr. Haviland,” Joe said. “Walk quietly now. Look for birds and beasts.”

“And dragons and shimeras,” Sally said.

“Kimeras,” Joe said.

“What are they?” Dave asked.

“Lion's head, goat's body, snake's tail,” Sally recited. “They breathe fire.”

“Ever see one?”

“No. They're not real.”

“Oh.”

They had rounded a bend and the sun was full on them; Joe blinked. He sniffed; there was only the wet smell of new grass. No sap, he thought; no wine of the woods; just grass. He saw Haviland's place, a quarter-mile off, a white box-like house and behind it an acre of kennels and runs. He heard a faint bark. “Tiger all right?”

“He just pricked his ears,” Dave said. “He's all right.”

“Hold him tight,” Joe said. A car passed. The breeze crossed Joe's face, and a whiff of exhaust polluted the grassy odor. Sugar and spice and everything nice; pus and grass and exhaust fumes; that's what the world is made of, and finally we are all nitrates. Or coal, or diamonds.

“How's school these days? You never tell me anything.”

“Fine,” Dave said, and Joe thought, I wish he had never learned that word. Fine. Fine. Fine. “Fourth grade,” he said. “Then you're learning about coal mines.”

“How'd you know that?”

“Because I learned about it in the fourth grade. And the sixth grade—geography. Right?”

Sally, in front of him, nodded. “Principal cities of Europe,” he said. “Imports and exports.”

“How can you remember what you learned in the fourth grade?” Dave asked.

“You remember a lot of things that you never thought you would,” Joe said. He remembered because of the teacher, of course; she had huge blue eyes, and it was his first awareness that anyone over nine or ten could be pretty. Tell that to Dave? “I remember the sixth grade because I learned to dance in the sixth grade,” he said. “I hated it.”

“We learned in the fifth grade,” Sally said.

Joe shook his head glumly; no one turned to see it. “Things aren't what they were when I was a boy,” he said. “Cross over now. Careful.”

They crossed the road and walked together up the front walk. Sally rang, and Dr. Haviland came to admit them. “You,” he said to Joe. “Haven't seen you for months.” They shook hands. “Come on in. Hello, David. Hello, Sally.” Haviland was a little old man with strong hands and a white mustache. “What's all this?” he asked, taking the cat.

“An abscess,” Dave said. “He probably got a claw under the skin in a fight. It's full of pus.”

“Pus,” the doctor said. He weighed the cat, gave him an injection, shaved the cheek, painted it, slit it open, cleaned it, inserted a drain. “He'll be out for four or five hours. Try to keep the drain in. When he wakes up he'll be drunk.” Dave giggled. “Don't laugh, young man. Drunken cats can be helped. Rehabilitated.” He grinned at Joe. “Not bad. Took seven minutes. Big cat. He'll be all right.”

“The honorarium,” Joe said.

Haviland waved a hand. “I'll bill you later. With that menagerie of yours you keep me going. You have every right to my professional courtesy. Ever think of larger animals? Goats, sheep, a cow?”

“Higher fees.” Joe laughed. “Two horses are enough.”

“Well, of course,” Haviland said. “Can't blame me for trying. Nice, though, to have a Holstein around on a cold winter night. Man's best friend.” He brightened. “I've got a dog in there right now,” he gestured. “The cops sent for me. Mad dog, they said. I took some thick gloves and went on over. They had him trapped behind a café in Ashford. Snarling and whining, with bloody foam on his mouth. Didn't look right to me. Big fellow, a collie, and he looked like a thoroughbred.” Dave and Sally were entranced; the doctor nodded to them. “So I went in after him with the gloves. I was a little scared. I saw he couldn't get his mouth shut. I reached in and pulled out a turkey bone. Poor animal. His mouth had been propped open for twelve hours or so. He's all right now. Damned cops, you know. Prima-facie rabies, wasn't it? Turned out like a lot of other prima-facie cases.” He turned to the children. “Things are seldom what they seem,” he said portentously. To Joe he added, “Want a drink?”

“No, thanks,” Joe said. “We should be getting back for dinner.”

“All right. Let's take this big fellow out to the car.”

“We walked,” Joe said.

“Walked, did you? Then you'll have to carry him home. Who gets him?”

“I do,” Sally said.

“Here you are. Hold him carefully; don't let his head drop. He's out cold; dead weight. You keep him in a natural position.” Sally nodded. The doctor herded them toward the door. “Come in again,” he said. “I see your wife often. Charming girl. Steady nerves. I should ask you down, I guess. But I'm an old man and I live in an abattoir. Well, some day.”

“Some day soon.” Joe smiled; they shook hands again.

“Keep to the left,” Haviland warned. “Single file.” He stood in the doorway and waved.

“He's a nice man,” Dave said positively.

7

Then, as he had known it would, the moment came that had been stalking Joe Harrison all day, the moment when he would leave his home, go down the hill into Ashford, and pay his respects—ah, that word!—to the widow. It came late, after a skimpy supper—meat pie, and no Montrachet this time, no Romanée-Conti, no dusty Johannisberger, but a glass of cold, almost penitential milk. He and Helen faced each other quietly across the kitchen table and he said, “I have to go down there.” She nodded. He finished his milk and called a taxi. He shaved and changed to a dark suit and wore a plain tie. He was handsome and seemed rested. (Now Helen hurt for him. She wondered what she would say to the man who had killed Joe, and could not decide. But she knew that the pain Joe had felt until now was nothing. She thought that perhaps the pain he would feel after this night would be less; he could never feel worse than he would in half an hour, and that was something, the first relief, a hope.)

Joe left her without speaking, and she let him go. In the cab he sat empty and silent. It was the hour of true dusk, when the fading of light is almost perceptible, when shrubs begin to resemble pedestrians and darkened houses seem haunted. Joe smoked a small cigar; in the twenty minutes of their drive night came, and the glow of the cigar turned bright orange. In the valley there was no breeze; the cabbie was untalkative, and the silence was heavy. Joe felt the sweat start gently when he saw the lights of the town. They were beyond the intersection before he recognized it, and then they were stopping, and of course Joe was ready to go back, temporize, postpone, cancel the visit. But he was out of the cab and telling the man to wait, and he felt very mechanical, as though he had been wound up and could only proceed helplessly, with his knees clanking and a red eye gleaming in his forehead and hooks for hands. He was nine miles from home as the crow flies, and it was as though this were another country, half familiar, half hostile, English spoken but the customs different. Atlantis.

When he turned he saw that the front door was open. A man leaned there, a thickset man smoking a cigarette. He was silhouetted against the light of the hallway and Joe could not make out his expression. The sweat was gone now and Joe was pervaded by a sensation he could not place—a tension, a tightness in the stomach, a clarity of vision and a strong pulse—until he remembered that Helen, disrobing, often brought that upon him, partly an eagerness and partly the swift, puzzling knowledge that she was his, always would be, that every night of his life he could watch her unbind her breasts, discover her thighs.

He put the image from his mind and went up the walk. The man in the doorway said, “Good evening.”

“Hello,” Joe said.

“Inside and to the left,” the man said.

“How is she?”

“All right. She's through crying. The kids are asleep.”

Thank God for that, Joe thought, and stepped in. He walked down the hall and turned left, and saw two women and three men sitting quietly in the dim living room. One of the women looked at him and raised her head slowly until her posture expressed something like pride; it was Mrs. Storch, he knew. He said nothing, but stared at her numbly.

She was in her late twenties and dark-haired, attractive as most American women, beautiful or not, can be attractive with good clothes and functional bathrooms and new-world cosmetics. Her brown hair was cut short and waved; her nose was too long, although in the dim light it did not matter; and she had a good basic figure. She wore a dark dress and no jewelry and was sitting in a wing-back chair covered with pink stuff.

All this Joe Harrison noticed as she straightened. It occurred to him that this was not what he had expected to think, or what he should think, but his mind was divorced now from his emotions, and he could not for the moment remarry them. He moistened his lips. Then he saw that the others were also watching him. He tried to speak, but only nodded awkwardly. He felt much younger than they, and in the next instant infinitely older.

Mrs. Storch turned to the others. “You'd better go, I think.” They murmured, and stood, and milled briefly, while Joe watched them, and noticed that there were bridge chairs open around the room, that the curtains were drawn, that the rug had a floral design, that there were no books in the room, that the television set was a console model. There was also a couch. It was old-fashioned, thickly stuffed, and he decided that he would sit there. Then he decided that he would wait to be asked, and he stood aside to let the others leave. Then he and Mrs. Storch were alone and he did not know what to say. An odor hung in the room and his uneasiness grew.

“Sit down,” Mrs. Storch told him.

He took the nearest bridge chair. “I'm Joseph Harrison,” he said.

“I know.”

He saw then, closer to her, that she had wept. He looked away.

“I won't cry now,” she said.

Joe gestured. “I wish—”

“I know,” she said. “I wish, too. I thought you'd probably come, and I couldn't think what I'd say to you.”

“I've never felt so bad in my life,” Joe said.

“Neither have I.”

“I didn't even know if you'd let me in,” he said.

“I hate you,” she said calmly. “But it wouldn't bring him back. I've been busy trying to make sense out of it for the kids. It took my mind off you. We almost had the house paid for.”

Joe's breathing became uncomfortable. “I … don't—don't know if I should bring this up—”

She waited.

“You won't have to worry about money.”

“I haven't thought much about it yet,” she said. “I suppose we'll sue.”

“You won't have to sue, I hope,” he said, “unless that's the way it has to be done. I have the regular insurance, the maximum. And all your expenses now—” It was a relief to Joe; he could talk now, and the words came rushing. “I'll take care of them myself.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It's only right. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

Joe felt an instant's fear that they were both unhinged. The fear was replaced by a total bewilderment. This was not what he had meant at all; this was no way for the interview to proceed; they had lost sight of the victim, of justice and mercy and humanity; they sat speaking of money and now she wanted to know if he would care for a cup of coffee.

“Yes,” he said, only because he needed time, and while she was in the kitchen he would rally, restore a fit reverence to the occasion.

But while she was in the kitchen he sat stupidly, trying to identify the odor, wondering how much the house had cost and how thick the walls were, whether Daddy—dead Daddy, dead Daddy—had had peace and quiet after his day's work; whether the children giggled as the sounds of love oozed through the plywood; whether Mommy liked the kitchen—Dispose-all, freezer, automatic dishwasher maybe, washing machine. He had not noticed whether there were other houses like this on the block, but he imagined there were.

She came back into the room with two cups of coffee and he saw that she was drab, but what difference? Sundays she would wear a flat blue hat with lilies of the valley, and a veil, but what difference? Her husband was dead, at Joseph Harrison's hand, and to him she had been—presumably; the benefit of the doubt had to lie with her—Cleopatra. And now he was gone and she had ceased to be Cleopatra; beauty had vanished because there was no beholder; and how much money would make that up to her?