Juice (9 page)

Dreamer, he chid himself. This is the world: accept or reject, but stop whining. Where my tears fall, there lies forever some corner of the eighteenth century. The proper study of mankind is woman. John James Bartlett, Esq.: the epigram what am. Perhaps, he thought, I am just an ass.

So he walked through the moist, barely pulsing spring evening; so he pushed open a glass door, crossed a marbled lobby, entered an inspected elevator, rose to the sixth floor, groped for his key.

As he crossed his own threshold, the telephone rang.

3

Joe Harrison sat rigid for almost a minute. He was conscious of color and sound—the darkling twilight, the woman's scream, the policeman's whistle, the scrape of shoes and the murmur of voices—but they were dimmed and muted. His heart had swollen; his throat was stopped, or the air was thinned; he drew in a gasping breath and became aware that his body was wet. He tried to open the door; his fingers slipped from the handle. And then a different sensation crossed him, one he had known long before and many times: if he closed his eyes, if he counted to a hundred slowly, none of this would be true; it would be ten minutes ago, and he would be approaching Ashford; the game would not be lost, the dance not ended, the door not closed, the woman not gone, the nay not said. The feeling left him and was replaced by nausea. He opened the door. At the side of the road he tried to vomit, and failed.

He shambled back to the intersection. Buildings and people and clouds were less blurred. The earth was steady under him. His knees were weak.

He squatted beside the man, was dizzy, and knelt. The man was dead; his head had been split by the angle of the curb. There was only a little blood. It was red, he knew; he saw it blackish. There was white bone, and there was gray pulp.

The woman was talking. He heard her say, “The wrong side of the road. He was over the white line, he was.”

The dead man seemed young, perhaps thirty or thirty-one. There were grease stains on the corduroy pants, but the body lay gracefully.

“The light was red,” the old man was saying.

That's not true, Joe Harrison thought; it was green. He checked the thought; how could he know? The old man had watched. The old man spent whole days watching, sitting in doorways, smoking, waiting for the end of a day, the end of a season, the end of his own life.

Joe Harrison heard footsteps and looked up. The policeman was returning; he had taken the license number and examined the ownership card. Joe Harrison stood up, found his wallet, and silently passed his registration and license to the policeman.

It was still not true, not any of this. Joe Harrison was puzzled; something had gone wrong and there was a man lying here dead; but his own part in the event bewildered him. Joe Harrison saw himself now as a good man with a respect for life, and this was—was—was not
like
him. He blinked hard and shook his head; the policeman said, “Let's have a whiff of your breath.”

Joe Harrison opened his mouth and exhaled.

“Christ,” the policeman said.

Joe was breathing heavily now, the tired athlete, the defeated statesman, the cashiered major, who could not understand. He saw the black lunchbox tilted against the curb.

A man trotted up the sidewalk toward them. He was a grotesque man, small, his jacket flapping, his heels clicking, the sun sparking off his spectacles. He was carrying a black bag.

Seeing him, Joe Harrison understood. He blinked again, and the air cleared: a sign said
FRESH VEAL;
another
NEW SOLES;
another
DRUGS SODA
. Joe remembered the neat's foot oil. He brushed at his eyes; his hand came away wet, and he realized that his tears had been falling for some time. The signs were distinct and bold; but where were the colors?

His breath came easier. It had been done; no conjuring would undo it. But it was not right; he was not quite sure yet that he had done it.

“I—” he began. They all looked up at him, even the doctor. “Could I—” He gestured toward the drugstore. “My wife. Could I telephone?”

The policeman stared coldly. Joe noticed that the policeman was very young. You are not yet twenty-five, he said silently to him.

“Yes. Come right back,” the policeman said.

Joe nodded. He walked to the drugstore, a few steps. The pharmacist, in the doorway, made room for him. Joe stopped and frowned. “Neat's foot oil,” he said. The words were wrong. He had not meant that.

The pharmacist stared.

“Of course,” Joe said. “Where's the telephone?”

The pharmacist pointed. He was a middle-aged man with a mustache. Joe went into the store; the man came close behind him. He entered the telephone booth; there was no light. He opened the folding door and looked at his handful of change. No dime; no nickels. He looked at the pharmacist, who looked away.

He dropped a quarter into the slot and waited. The operator was cheerful. He gave her the number. Then he heard Helen's voice; his body stiffened again. At that moment he realized fully why he had stopped the car, why he was in a telephone booth. “Aaaah,” he breathed. The sound was shaky. The booth was dark, and the hum of electricity ominous and final.

“Hello, hello. Who is it?” Helen repeated.

“Me,” he said. “Joe.”

“Joe!” She knew. She knew from the sound of the two words. “What's happened?”

“I, ah, I'm in trouble,” he said.

“What trouble? Quickly. Tell me!”

“The car,” he said. “I hit a man. I … it was …” He could not force the words out.

“Joe!”

“Yes.” She knew.

“Oh, Joe! Where? Where are you?”

“Ashford.”

“Shall I come?”

“No,” Joe said, seeing the shattered skull. “No. I don't know what they do next. Book me, or throw me in jail, or set bail, or what. But call Rhein. Tell him I'll need a lawyer. If you haven't heard from me in half an hour come to Ashford and ask the police. All right? And call Kelley, the insurance man.”

“Yes, all right, yes. Joe, I love you. Joe, do you know I love you?”

“I know,” he said. “I'm—it means everything. Don't stop. I have to go now.”

“Go on. Call me. Think of me.”

“Don't tell the kids,” he said.

“No. Oh, my darling, my poor Joe.”

“Goodbye,” he said. “Call Rhein.”

Now he did not want to leave the booth. He studied the scrawled numbers, the inevitable graffiti. “Corinne lays,” he read. There was a cautioning card:
Isn't there someone else you should call?

He walked outside. The face, the head, were covered. The policeman handed him his license and registration. “Sorry,” the policeman said, still coldly. “Too late now for a lecture. Your own fault.”

“Who is he?” Joe Harrison asked.

“Was,” the policeman said. “He was Walter Storch. S-t-o-r-c-h. He had a wife and two kids. He was a friend of mine.”

“Ah, Jesus, Jesus,” Joe Harrison said.

“Even He won't bring him back,” the cop said curtly.

When Rhein and Davis questioned him about the evening, his memory of it, from here on, was confused and deficient. His memory of the policeman was clear: the unbending professional, contemptuous, hostile. And more than that: the agent, the arm of society; the policeman was king-for-a-day, the-man-in-charge, and in his long-restrained, now-released officiousness there was a barely apparent trace of gratitude, of thanks offered to the constabulary gods. Joe's mind that night was a witches' cauldron in which seething thoughts boiled (newts' eyes, frogs' toes, dogs' tongues), popping to the surface when he least wanted them. He saw Walter Storch's split skull so often that his imagination split other skulls: he saw the policeman bleeding, the magistrate's pulpy brain; he thought of Raskolnikov; he decided that guilt, and not the Navy Colt, was the great leveler; for long moments his mind rejected the evening entirely, and he saw himself booked for a variety of uncommitted crimes: pride, voyeurism, greed, bigamy, embezzlement, fishing without a license, and finally, when he stood before the magistrate, accidie: his guilt lay not in what he had done, but in what he had left undone. Then there was the long ride through the onrushing night, and they proceeded silently, as men should toward a doom, and the magistrate's home, from outside, radiated softly an air of ultimate mystery. They entered, and he saw that the magistrate's furniture was covered in chintz.

On the wall was a citation; Joe was trying to read the black letter when he realized that the magistrate had spoken. He looked down. The magistrate was seated at a desk; he was lean, blue-eyed, gray-haired; desiccation had begun, but he was impersonal and businesslike. His shirt collar was too large: years had contracted the man.

“You are charged with a violation of Section five-o-one, Penal Code, namely that while driving under the influence of intoxicating liquor you drove a vehicle, and when so driving committed an act forbidden by law—that would be crossing the white line and going through the red light—and caused death to a person other than yourself—” Joe's mind leaped again: other than yourself. Caused death to a person other than yourself. There was no statute to punish the causing of one's own death. Could a twin murder his brother and go free claiming he was the deceased?

Joe rubbed his eyes. The magistrate had finished by informing him that he had a right to counsel. “Yes,” Joe said. “I want counsel. Only because I'm so confused … I can't think at all.”

“Whom shall I call?” the magistrate asked.

“I don't know. The family lawyer is a business lawyer … Wait. May I call my wife? I told her I would. She may know.”

“I let him call her from the scene of the accident,” the officer said. His name was Pearson, Joe remembered.

The magistrate nodded.

Joe called. The chintz was probably yellow, with probably blue flowers; color was still beyond his powers.

“Hello,” Helen said. “Joe?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm at—” He stopped. “Wait.” To the magistrate he said, “Where exactly am I?”

“Judge Lieber's home, on Route Thirty, outside of Los Pinos.”

He repeated the information.

“What have you done there?” Helen asked. “Rhein said you shouldn't do anything without a lawyer. He has Davis for you.”

“Who?”

“Davis. Remember? Landauer? The little musician you were so upset about?”

“Yes.” Joe felt alarm. Why Davis? What had he done? Could they—a life for a life? “I haven't done anything,” he said. “I told them I was too confused. I told them I wanted a lawyer.”

“Have they set bail?”

“No. Wait.” Joe turned to the magistrate. “Can you set bail? Or do I have to go right to jail?”

“I can set bail,” Lieber said crisply. “I know who you are, and this seems to be your first offense. Five thousand dollars.”

“Five thousand dollars,” Joe Harrison told his wife. “Can you come?”

“Yes. Rhein's sent someone over. He isn't here yet. As soon as he comes, we'll start. Are you all right, my darling?”

“Yes. I don't know exactly what I'm doing. I can't seem to focus. All I know is I've done something bad. I feel like a little boy.”

“Wait for me. We won't be long. Where's the car?”

“Where's my car?” Joe asked the officer.

“They're bringing it along,” the young man said. “But your license is suspended. You can't drive.”

“My wife will,” he said. To her he went on, “The car'll be here. I can't drive any more. I couldn't drive anyway. I wouldn't want to be responsible.”

“Just wait, my love,” Helen said.

“I will, I will.”

Joe hung up and faced the magistrate. “She'll be along with a bondsman, Judge. Thank you.”

The judge nodded. “I can set a hearing for two to five days from now. I'll make it Wednesday, day after tomorrow. Eleven
A.M.
in room 101 of the County Courthouse in Los Pinos. You be there with counsel. Officer Pearson, you can make that all right? And bring your witnesses?”

“Right.”

“Good. Nothing to do now until the bondsman comes. You want anything?” he asked Joe. “Coffee?”

“No. No thanks.” Joe felt wary, and was ashamed of it. “Could I ask a question?”

The judge nodded.

“How much … what's the maximum penalty for this?”

The judge reflected. “It depends. The jury has latitude, you know. If they recommend the county jail, ninety days to a year. If they recommend the state prison, it's one to five. That's if you're guilty. That's the criminal case. Then there's the civil case. That's when the family sues you.”

“Five years,” Joe murmured. Sally would be sixteen, Dave fourteen.

“Then there are fines. Either or, or both. They range from two hundred to five thousand.”

Joe nodded. He glanced at Pearson. “Is anybody taking care of Mrs. Storch?”

“You worried?”

Joe reddened. “Yes,” he said. “I meant from—” Joe stopped, cautious again. You are under arrest. Anything you say may be regretted tomorrow. Wait for counsel. Davis. A big one. Anyone would think he had fathered a bastard. That was unfair to Davis; Joe withdrew the thought.

Mrs. Storch had two children. At least there was money. It was easy to be sentimental; but money would make some difference. Maybe she had not loved her husband. Joe was ashamed again. And maybe she had loved him; maybe it was an idyll; and what did it matter? They were husband and wife; he had pulverized the rock she built on. But it was not a rock; it was a man.

Joe could not follow that thought; his mind rebelled. Pearson. He would think about Pearson. Would Pearson tell the story later, making much of his own part, talking scornfully of the drunken rich? Let him who has not sinned … but that was unfair. That was license.