In the morning, as he left the house, he saw Walter Morton, Jr., heading for the McCann house with a blanket, a towel and a portable radio. The old man was picking up his ivy.
"Was it pulled up?" asked Theodore.
Joseph Alston grunted.
"So
that
was it," said Theodore.
"What?"
the old man looked up.
"Last night," said Theodore, "I heard some noise out here. I looked out and saw a couple of boys."
"You seen their faces?" asked Alston, his face hardening.
"No, it was too dark," said Theodore. "But I'd say they were-oh, about the age of the Putnam boys. Not that it was them, of course."
Joe Alston nodded slowly, looking up the street.
Theodore drove up to the boulevard and parked. Twenty minutes later, Walter Morton, Jr., and Katherine McCann boarded a bus.
At the beach, Theodore sat a few yards behind them.
"That Mack is a character," he heard Walter Morton say. "He gets the urge, he drives to Tijuana, just for kicks."
In a while Morton and the girl ran into the ocean, laughing. Theodore stood and walked to a telephone booth.
"I'd like to have a swimming pool installed in my backyard next week," he said. He gave the details.
Back" on the beach he sat patiently until Walter Morton and the girl were lying in each other's arms. Then, at specific moments, he pressed a shutter hidden in his palm. This done, he returned to his car, buttoning his shirt front over the tiny lens. On his way to the office, he stopped at a hardware store to buy a brush and a can of black paint.
He spent the afternoon printing the pictures. He made them appear as if they had been taken at night and as if the young couple had been engaged in something else.
The envelope dropped softly into the out box.
He found the Morton's lawn mower in the backyard. Lifting it quietly, he carried it back across the street to the McCann garage. After carefully raising the door, he slid the mower behind the work bench. The envelope of photographs he put in a drawer behind a box of nails.
Returning to his house then, he phoned James McCann and, muffledly, asked if the Ford was still for sale.
In the morning, the mailman placed a bulky envelope on the Gorses' porch. Eleanor Gorse emerged and opened it, sliding out one of the booklets. Theodore watched the furtive look she cast about, the rising of dark colour in her cheeks.
As he was mowing the lawn that evening he saw Walter Morton, Sr., march across the street to where James McCann was trimming bushes. He heard them talking loudly. Finally, they went into McCann's garage from which Morton emerged pushing his lawn mower and making no reply to McCann's angry protests.
Across the street from McCann, Arthur Jefferson was just getting home from work. The two Putnam boys were riding their bicycles, their dog racing around them.
Now, across from where Theodore stood, a door slammed. He turned his head and watched Mr. Backus, in work clothes, storming to his car, muttering disgustedly, "A
swimming pool!"
Theodore looked to the next house and saw Inez Ferrel moving in her living room.
He smiled and mowed along the side of his house, glancing into Eleanor Gorse's bedroom. She was sitting with her back to him, reading something. When she heard the clatter of his mower she stood and left the bedroom, pushing the bulky envelope into a bureau drawer.
"Good evening," said Theodore. "I hope I'm not intruding."
"Just chatting in the den with Irma's folks," said Putnam. "They're drivin' to New York in the mornin'."
"Oh? Well, I'll only be a moment." Theodore held out a pair of BB guns. "A plant I distribute for was getting rid of these," he said. "I thought your boys might like them."
"Well,
sure,"
said Putnam. He started for the den to get his sons.
While the older man was gone, Theodore picked up a couple of matchbooks whose covers read
Putnam's Wines and Liquors.
He'd slipped them into his pocket before the boys were led in to thank him.
"Mighty nice of you, Gordon," said Putnam at the door. "Sure appreciate it."
"My pleasure," said Theodore.
Walking home, he set the clock-radio for three-fifteen and lay down. When the music began, he moved outside on silent feet and tore up forty-seven ivy plants, strewing them over Alston's sidewalk.
"Oh, No," he said to Alston in the morning. He shook his head, appalled.
Joseph Alston didn't speak. He glanced down the block with hating eyes.
"Here, let me help you," Theodore said. The old man shook his head but Theodore insisted. Driving to the nearest nursery he brought back two sacks of peat moss; then squatted by Alston's side to help him replant.
"You hear anything last night?" the old man asked.
"You think it was those boys again?" asked Theodore, open-mouthed.
"Ain't say in'," Alston said.
Later, Theodore drove downtown and bought a dozen postcard photographs. He took them to the office.
Dear Walt,
he printed crudely on the back of one,
Got these here in Tijuana. Hot enough for you?
In addressing the envelope, he failed to add
Jr.
to
Mr. Walter Morton.
Into the out box.
She shuddered on the bar stool. "Why, Mister-"
"Gordon," he provided, smiling. "How nice to see you again."
"Yes." She pressed together lips that trembled.
"You come here often?" Theodore asked.
"Oh, no,
never''
Inez Ferrel blurted. "I'm-just supposed to meet a friend here tonight. A
girl
friend."
"Oh, I see," said Theodore. "Well, may a lonely widower keep you company until she comes?"
"Why…" Mrs. Ferrel shrugged. "I guess." Her lips were painted brightly red against the alabaster of her skin. The sweater clung adhesively to the hoisted jut of her breasts.
After a while, when Mrs. Ferrel's friend didn't show up, they slid into a darkened booth. There, Theodore used Mrs. Ferrel's powder room retreat to slip a pale and tasteless powder in her drink. On her return she swallowed this and, in minutes, grew stupefied. She smiled at Theodore.
"I
like you Misser Gor'n," she confessed. The words crawled viscidly across her lolling tongue.
Shortly thereafter, he led her, stumbling and giggling, to his car and drove her to a motel. Inside the room, he helped her strip to stockings, garter belt and shoes and, while she posed with drugged complacency, Theodore took flashbulb pictures.
After she'd collapsed at two a.m. Theodore dressed her and drove her home. He stretched her fully dressed across her bed. After that he went outside and poured concentrated weed killer on Alston's replanted ivy.
Back in the house he dialled the Jefferson's number.
"Yes," said Arthur Jefferson irritably.
"Get out of this neighbourhood or you'll be sorry,"
whispered Theodore, then hung up.
In the morning he walked to Mrs. Ferrel's house and rang the bell.
"Hello," he said politely. "Are you feeling better?"
She stared at him blankly while he explained how she'd gotten violently ill the night before and he'd taken her home from the bar. "I do hope you're feeling better," he concluded.
"Yes," she said, confusedly, "I'm-all right."
As he left her house he saw a red-faced James McCann approaching the Morton house, an envelope in his hand. Beside him walked a distraught Mrs. McCann.
"We must be
tolerant,
Jim," Theodore heard her say.
Walking to the Jefferson house he set the can down and painted, jaggedly, across the door-nigger!
Then he moved across the street allowing an occasional drip of paint. He left the can under Henry Putnam's back porch, accidentally upsetting the dog's plate. Fortunately, the Putnams' dog slept indoors.
Later, he put more weed killer on Joseph Alston's ivy.
In the morning, when Donald Gorse had gone to work, he took a heavy envelope and went to see Eleanor Gorse. "Look at this," he said, sliding a pornographic booklet from the envelope. "I received this in the mail today.
Look
at it." He thrust it into her hands.
She held the booklet as if it were a spider.
"Isn't it hideous?" he said.
She made a face.
"Revolting,"
she said.
"I thought I'd check with you and several others before I phoned the police," said Theodore. "Have you received any of this filth?"
Eleanor Gorse bristled. "Why should I receive them?" she demanded.
Outside, Theodore found the old man squatting by his ivy. "How are they coming?" he asked.
"They're dyin'."
Theodore looked stricken. "How can this be?" he asked.
Alston shook his head.
"Oh, this is
horrible."
Theodore turned away, clucking. As he walked to his house he saw, up the street, Arthur Jefferson cleaning off his door and, across the way, Henry Putnam watching carefully.
She was waiting on his porch.
"Mrs. McCann," said Theodore, surprised, "I'm so glad to see you."
"What I came to say may not make you so glad," she said unhappily.
"Oh?" said Theodore. They went into his house.
"There have been a lot of…
things
happening in this neighbourhood since you moved in," said Mrs. McCann after they were seated in the living room.
"Things?" asked Theodore.
"I think you know what I mean," said Mrs. McCann. "However, this-this
bigotry
on Mr. Jefferson's door is too much, Mr. Gordon, too much."
Theodore gestured helplessly. "I don't understand."
"Please don't make it difficult," she said. "I may have to call the authorities if these things don't stop, Mr. Gordon. I hate to think of doing such a thing but-"
"Authorities?"
Theodore looked terrified.
"None of these things happened until you moved in, Mr. Gordon," she said. "Believe me, I hate what I'm saying but I simply have no choice. The fact that none of these things has happened to you-"
She broke off startledly as a sob wracked Theodore's chest. She stared at him. "Mr. Gordon-" she began uncertainly.
"I don't know what these things are you speak of," said Theodore in a shaking voice, "but I'd
kill
myself before I harmed another, Mrs. McCann."
He looked around as if to make sure they were alone.
"I'm going to tell you something I've never told a single soul," he said. He wiped away a tear. "My name isn't Gordon," he said. "It's Gottlieb. I'm a Jew. I spent a year at Dachau."
Mrs. McCann's lips moved but she said nothing. Her face was getting red.
"I came from there a broken man," said Theodore. "I haven't long to live, Mrs. McCann. My wife is dead, my three children are dead. I'm all alone. I only want to live in peace-in a little place like this-among people like you.
"To be a neighbour, a friend…"
"Mr.-
Gottlieb"
she said brokenly.
After she was gone, Theodore stood silent in the living room, hands clenched whitely at his sides. Then he went into the kitchen to discipline himself.
"Good morning, Mrs. Backus," he said an hour later when the little woman answered the door, "I wonder if I might ask you some questions about our church?"
"Oh. Oh, yes." She stepped back feebly. "Won't you- come in?"
"I'll be very still so as not to wake your husband," Theodore whispered. He saw her looking at his bandaged hand. "I burned myself," he said. "Now, about the church. Oh, there's someone knocking at your back door."
"There is?"
When she'd gone into the kitchen, Theodore pulled open the hall closet door and dropped some photographs behind a pile of overshoes and garden tools. The door was shut when she returned.
"There wasn't anyone," she said.
"I could have sworn…" He smiled deprecatingly. He looked down at a circular bag on the floor. "Oh, does Mr. Backus bowl?"
"Wednesdays and Fridays when his shift is over," she said. "There's an all-night alley over on Western Avenue."
"I love to bowl," said Theodore.
He asked his questions about the church, then left. As he started down the path he heard loud voices from the Morton house.
"It wasn't bad enough about Katherine McCann and
those
awful pictures," shrieked Mrs. Morton. "Now this…
.filth!"
"But, Mom!" cried Walter, Jr.