Two weeks? Was that
all?
More serious, according to Lane, was the burning of the on-site office, which contained time sheets, work records, and ninety percent of the company’s cost accounting records over the last three months. “This is going to be the very devil to straighten out,” Lane said. “It may set us back a month or more.”
Maybe that was good news. Maybe an extra month of time made it all worthwhile.
According to Lieutenant King, the vandals fled the construction site in a station wagon, possibly a late-model Chevrolet. He appealed for anyone who may have seen the car leaving the construction area by Heron Street to come forward. Francis Lane estimated total damage in the area of $100,000.
In other local news, State Representative Muriel Reston again appealed for ...
He snapped it off.
Now that he had heard, and had heard in daylight, things seemed a little better. It was possible to look at things rationally. Of course the police didn’t have to give out all their leads, but if they really were looking for a Chevy instead of a Ford, and if they were reduced to pleading for eyewitnesses to come forward, then maybe he was safe, at least for the time being. And if there had been an eyewitness, no amount of worrying would change that.
He would throw away Mary’s floor-bucket and open the garage to air out the stink of gasoline. Make up a story to explain the broken back window if anyone asked about it. And most important, he would try to prepare himself mentally for a visit from the police. As the last resident of Crestallen Street West, it might be perfectly logical for them to at least check him out. And they wouldn’t have to sniff up his back trail very far to find out he had been acting erratically. He had screwed up the plant. His wife had left him. A former co-worker had punched him out in a department store. And of course, he had a station wagon, Chevrolet or not. All bad. But none of it proof.
And if they did dig up proof, he supposed he would go to jail. But there were worse things than jail. Jail wasn’t the end of the world. They would give him a job, feed him. He wouldn’t have to worry about what was going to happen when the insurance money ran out. Sure, there were a lot of things worse than jail. Suicide, for instance. That was worse. He went upstairs and showered.
Later that afternoon he called Mary. Her mother answered and went to get Mary with a sniff. But when Mary herself answered, she sounded nearly gay.
“Hi Bart. Merry Christmas in advance.”
“No,
Mary
Christmas,” he responded. It was an old joke that had graduated from humor to tradition.
“Sure,” she said. “What is it, Bart?”
“Well, I’ve got a few presents ... just little stuff ... for you and the nieces and nephews. I wondered if we could get together somewhere. I’ll give them to you. I didn’t wrap the kids’ presents—”
“I’d be glad to wrap them. But you shouldn’t have. You’re not working.”
“But I’m working on it,” he said.
“Bart, have you ... have you done anything about what we talked about?”
“The psychiatrist?”
“Yes.”
“I called two. One is booked up until almost June. The other guy is going to be in the Bahamas until the end of March. He said he could take me then.”
“What were their names?”
“Names? Gee, honey, I’d have to look them up again to tell you. Adams, I think the first guy was. Nicholas Adams—”
“Bart,” she said sadly.
“It might have been Aarons,” he said wildly.
“Bart,” she said again.
“Okay,” he said. “Believe what you want. You will anyway.”
“Bart, if you’d only—”
“What about the presents? I called about the presents, not the goddam shrink.”
She sighed. “Bring them over Friday, why don’t you? I can—”
“What, so your mother and father can hire Charles Manson to meet me at the door? Let’s just meet on neutral ground, okay?”
“They’re not going to be here,” she said. “They’re going to spend Christmas with Joanna.” Joanna was Joanna St. Claire, Jean Calloway’s cousin, who lived in Minnesota. They had been close friends in their girlhood (back in that pleasant lull between the War of 1812 and the advent of the Confederacy, he sometimes thought), and Joanna had had a stroke in July. She was still trying to get over it, but Jean had told him and Mary that the doctors said she could go at any time. That must be nice, he thought, having a time bomb built right into your head like that. Hey, bomb, is it today? Please not today. I haven’t finished the new Victoria Holt.
“Bart? Are you there?”
“Yes. I was woolgathering.”
“Is one o’clock all right?”
“That’s fine.”
“Was there anything else?”
“No, huh-uh.”
“Well ...”
“Take good care, Mary.”
“I will. Bye, Bart.”
“Good-bye.”
They hung up and he wandered into the kitchen to make himself a drink. The woman he had just talked to on the phone wasn’t the same woman that had sat tearfully on the living room couch less than a month ago, pleading for some reason to help explain the tidal wave that had just swept grandly through her ordered life, destroying the work of twenty years and leaving only a few sticks poking out of the mudflats. It was amazing. He shook his head over it the way he would have shaken his head over the news that Jesus had come down from the sky and had taken Richard Nixon up to heaven upon wheels of fire. She has regained herself. More: She had regained a person he hardly knew at all, a girl-woman he barely remembered. Like an archaeologist she had excavated that person, and the person was a little stiff in the joints from its long storage, but still perfectly usable. The joints would ease and the new-old person would be a whole woman, perhaps scarred by this upheaval but not seriously hurt. He knew her perhaps better than she thought, and he had been able to tell, strictly from the tone of her voice, that she was moving ever closer to the idea of divorce, the idea of a clean break with the past ... a break that would splint well and leave no trace of a limp. She was thirty-eight. Half of her life was ahead of her. There were no children to be casually maimed in the car wreck of this marriage. He would not suggest divorce, but if she did he would agree. He envied her new person and her new beauty. And if she looked back ten years from now on her marriage as a long dark corridor leading into sunlight, he could feel sorry she felt that way, but he couldn’t blame her. No, he couldn’t blame her.
December 21, 1973
He had given her the presents in Jean Calloway’s ticking, ormolu living room, and the conversation that followed had been stilted and awkward. He had never been in this room alone with her, and he kept feeling that they should neck. It was a rusty knee-jerk reaction that made him feel like a bad double exposure of his college self.
“Did you lighten your hair?” he asked.
“Just a shade.” She shrugged a little.
“It’s nice. Makes you look younger.”
“You’re getting a little gray around the temples, Bart. Makes you look distinguished.”
“Bullshit, it makes me look ratty.”
She laughed—a little too high-pitched—and looked at the presents on the little side table. He had wrapped the owl pin, had left the toys and the chess set for her to do. The dolls looked blankly at the ceiling, waiting for some little girl’s hands to bring them to life.
He looked at Mary. Their eyes caught seriously for a moment and he thought irrevocable words were going to spill out of her and he was frightened. Then the cuckoo jumped out of the clock, announced one-thirty, and they both jumped and then laughed. The moment had passed. He got up so it wouldn’t come around again. Saved by a cuckoo bird, he thought. That fits.
“Got to go,” he said.
“An appointment?”
“Job interview.”
“Really?” She looked glad, “Where? Who? How much?”
He laughed and shook his head. “There’s a dozen other applicants with as good a chance as me. I’ll tell you when I get it.”
“Conceited.”
“Sure.”
“Bart, what are you doing Christmas?” She looked concerned and solemn, and it suddenly came to him that an invitation to Christmas dinner and not to some new year’s divorce court had been the thing on her lips inside. God! He almost sprayed laughter.
“I’m going to eat at home.”
“You can come here,” she said. “It would be just the two of us.”
“No,” he said, thoughtfully and then more firmly: “No. Emotions have a way of getting out of hand during the holidays. Another time.”
She was nodding, also thoughtfully.
“Will you be eating alone?” he asked.
“I can go to Bob and Janet’s. Really, are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Well ...” But she looked relieved.
They walked to the door and shared a bloodless kiss.
“I’ll call you,” he said.
“You better.”
“And give my best to Bobby.”
“I will.”
He was halfway down the walk to the car when she called: “Bart! Bart, wait a minute!”
He turned almost fearfully.
“I almost forgot,” she said. “Wally Hamner called and invited us to his New Year’s party. I accepted for both of us. But if you don’t want to—”
“Wally?” He frowned. Walter Hamner was about their only crosstown friend. He worked for a local ad agency. “Doesn’t he know we’re, you know, separated?”
“He knows, but you know Walt. Things like that don’t faze him much.”
Indeed they didn’t. Just thinking about Walter made him smile. Walter, always threatening to quit advertising in favor of advanced truss design. Composer of obscene limericks and even more obscene parodies of popular tunes. Divorced twice and tagged hard both times. Now impotent, if you believed gossip, and in this case he thought the gossip was probably true. How long had it been since he had seen Walt? Four months? Six? Too long.
“That might be fun,” he said, and then a thought struck him.
She scanned it from his face in her old way and said, “There won’t be any laundry people there.”
“He and Steve Ordner know each other.”
“Well, yes,
him
—” She shrugged to show how unlikely she thought it was that
him
would be there, and the shrug turned into an elbow-holding little shiver. It was only about twenty-five degrees.
“Hey, go on in,” he said. “You’ll freeze, dummy.”
“Do you want to go?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.” He kissed her again, this time a little more firmly, and she kissed back. At a moment like this, he could regret everything—but the regret was far away, clinical.
“Merry Christmas, Bart,” she said, and he saw she was crying a little.
“Next year will be better,” he said, the phrase comforting but without any root meaning. “Go inside before you catch pneumonia.”
She went in and he drove away, still thinking about Wally Hamner’s New Year’s Eve party. He thought he would go.
December 24, 1973
He found a small garage in Norton that would replace the broken back window for ninety dollars. When he asked the garage man if he would be working the day before Christmas, the garage man said: “Hell yes, I’ll take it any way I can get it.”
He stopped on the way at a Norton U-Wash-It and put his clothes in two machines. He automatically rotated the agitators to see what kind of shape the spring drives were in, and then loaded them carefully so each machine would extract (only in the laundromats they called it “spin-dry”) without kicking off on the overload. He paused, smiling a little. You can take the boy out of the laundry, Fred, but you can’t take the laundry out of the boy. Right, Fred? Fred? Oh fuck yourself.
“That’s a hell of a hole,” the garage man said, peering at the spiderwebbed glass.
“Kid with a snowball,” he said. “Rock in the middle of it.”
“It was,” he said. “It really was.”
When the window was replaced he drove back to the U-Wash-It, put his clothes in the dryer, set it to medium-hot, and put thirty cents in the slot. He sat down and picked up someone’s discarded newspaper. The U-Wash-It’s only other customer was a tired-looking young woman with wire-rimmed glasses and blond streaks in her long, reddish-brown hair. She had a small girl with her, and the small girl was throwing a tantrum.
“I want my
bottle
!”
“Goddam it, Rachel—”
“BOTTLE!”
“Daddy’s going to spank you when we get home,” the young woman promised grimly. “And no treats before bed.”
“BAWWWWTLE!”
Now why does a young girl like that want to streak her hair? he wondered, and looked at the paper. The headlines said:
SMALL CROWDS IN BETHLEHEM PILGRIMS FEAR HOLY TERROR
On the bottom of page one, a short news story caught his eye and he read it carefully:
WINTERBURGER SAYS ACTS OF VANDALISM WILL NOT BE TOLERATED
(Local)
Victor Winterburger, Democratic candidate for the seat of the late Donald P. Naish, who was killed in a car crash last month, said yesterday that acts of vandalism such as the one that caused almost a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of damage at the Route 784 construction site early last Wednesday cannot be tolerated “in a civilized American city.” Winterburger made his remarks at an American Legion dinner, and received a standing ovation.
“We have seen what has happened in other cities,” Winterburger said. “The defaced buses and subway cars and buildings in New York, the broken windows and senselessly marred schools of Detroit and San Francisco, the abuse of public facilities, public museums, public galleries. We must not allow the greatest country in the world to be overrun with huns and barbarians.”
Police were called to the Grand Street area of the construction when a number of fires and explosions were seen by (Continued page 5 col. 2)