Twisted Ones (6 page)

He blinked the flashlight on and off, sighing and wiggling his toes in his shoes. He was motherless. Christ, Clara was no mother! Even if she did have a baby, she wasn’t any mother, wouldn’t be; but the hell with even thinking about it! She was going to have a baby just like the jugular vein was in the head! He laughed, and it made his head hurt more. He let the flashlight drop to the floor of the car and roll, and he thought: I don’t have to pick it up immediately, let it roll around down there, but he retrieved it instantly, and put it in the side pocket where it belonged.

He had loved his mother. He had really
revered
her—that was the word. She understood him, for Christ’s sake! What if his father had had his way and named Brock—the name he wanted—Robert Brown, Jr.? He would have been called Bob Brown, like a little nothing. Like John Smith or Tom Davis, or any other nothing name. He might even have been called Junior! Junior Brown … He remembered the way his mother used to tell his father: “I had to give up the name Brock to marry you, Robert!”

He could remember a lot of things about his mother, but why should he? She was dead … Filthy, she used to say, filthy. Or had he imagined that? What did she used to say?
You’re a Brock.
Why did he remember filthy? He thought of his father’s hands: There was always dirt under the nails, dirt that never seemed to go away, no matter how his dad scrubbed. That wasn’t his dad’s fault. He was a mechanic.

Now it was worse. Brock could feel the pain in his head begin to get in line. The bandeau. He got out of the car, moving slowly so as not to jar his head too much. He began walking, going down the street by the tar-line in the center. He remembered the way he had swung out of the school parking lot that afternoon, with Dr. Mannerheim looking at him, and Carrie Bates. Why hadn’t he thought to turn the radio to some station playing classical music? Why did he always think of things too late? Maybe he wouldn’t have even been able to find any classical music on the radio if he
had
thought of it. Nobody had a chance anymore. It was all rock ‘n’ roll. And he wasn’t that kind of guy. ”
You’re a Brock.”

The Rubins’ house on the corner was dark. Jews were nice people; goddam Hitler! Brock had read in a book once that the Nazis tied women’s legs together when they were having babies. Oh, Christ! Oh, Christ! What kind of a lousy world was it?

Brock went up the gravel driveway of the Rubins’ house. He could hear the crunch of his shoes on the gravel under him. Maybe someone else would hear the noise—Mr. or Mrs. Rubin—and they’d call out
Who’s there?
If they did, he wouldn’t run. He wasn’t a sneak. He’d just stand there and take it. More than any Nazi’d do.

The lawn was wet with night dew. There was a birdbath midway between the garage and the back porch. It was nice of the Rubins to care about birds. They were really swell people, and Brock was glad they lived on Marvin Avenue. His headache had reached the tip of his ear now, in a full arc. He was on the first step of the back porch, and with his right hand he reached out to try the screen door. It was locked.

He began to perspire. Why had they locked it? Why in hell? What was so valuable on the goddam porch? By the light of the streetlamp on the corner, he could see a few things on the porch. A mop, a stepladder, some plants, and a pail. Why had they locked the screen door, for Christ’s sake? The door beyond, the wooden one leading into the house, was shut. That was probably locked too, Brock could understand that. But why the screen door? He didn’t want to break in. He wasn’t a housebreaker! But what choice did he have now?

He was in a cold sweat. He could get pneumonia, for Pete’s sake. He had run out without even taking a coat. His head was splitting, right down the middle in two even halves. From his trousers he took out his jackknife. He went up another step and held on to the iron door handle with one hand while he tried to cut the screen with the other. He could only make a hole. After he forced the hole more, so that it was wider, he stuck his finger in and flipped the catch. The screen door was open.

Before he went in, he felt in his pockets for change. He had seventy-two cents. Was that enough? He decided it was more than enough. The screen door squeaked as he held it open, reaching over for one of the plants. He held the plant under his arm and dropped the money on the ledge. His headache was at its peak now. Carefully, he let the screen door shut and began walking across the lawn with the plant. It wasn’t until Brock was halfway down the gravel drive that he realized water was leaking out of the bottom of the pot—dirty water, leaking down on his pants. He dropped the plant instantly! Even his hands were dirty. The plant and the pot spilled to the ground, and Brock kicked them angrily. What a rotten trick! What a rotten thing to happen! Dirty Jews! Dirty Jews! And he began to run, with tears stinging his eyes.

His headache was gone, but in its place was a sudden wave of nausea. He ducked into the shrubbery, two doors from his house. He knelt and retched. He looked down at his hands. They were as dirty as the wet earth he was kneeling in. From some time far gone, he heard a voice saying: “You’re a little pig! You and your father belong in a sty!”

He began to sob. “I can’t help it! I can’t help it!”

“Filthy little pig!”

In a small boy’s voice, Brock Brown began to pray: “Make her die, God! Kill her! Make her die!”

But his prayers had been answered some nine years ago.

REGINALD WHITTIER

Above Whittier’s Wheel, in Miss Ella’s living room that May evening shortly after ten o’clock, the trio sat facing the television set. Miss Ella rocked back and forth in her chair, and Reggie Whittier sat beside Mr. Danker on the worn mauve couch with the claw legs. It was the second time this week that Mr. Danker had been invited to dinner. After Laura Lee left the antique shop that afternoon and Reggie went upstairs to see what his mother wanted, Miss

Ella had said to him in a coy, saccharin tone: “There’s a surprise tonight, Reginald.”

“What would that be, mother?”

“Mr. Danker’s coming over.”

“He was just here Sunday.”

“Why, Reginald! I’m surprised at you. Mr. Danker thinks the world and all of you.”

“I didn’t mean anything.”

“You’re like a son to him. Why, we’re practically his family.”

“I like Mr. Danker, mother.”

“Then why aren’t you pleased?”

“I’m not displeased.”

“You don’t have any other plans, do you, Reginald?”

“I may go out later.”

“Now, don’t be a silly boy! Where would you go at that hour of night? Mr. Danker will stay to watch Cash-Answer. It’ll be midnight before he leaves.”

“Mother,” Reginald Whittier said, “would Mr. Danker mind so much if I were to go out for awhile?”

“You want to watch Cash-Answer, don’t you, Reginald? I bought the set for you.”

“I know that, mother.”

“Then let’s not talk silly,” said Miss Ella.

• • •

His mother had cooked Reggie’s favorite food. Chicken and mashed potatoes and fresh peas. Mr. Danker brought along a copy of the
National Geographic Magazine.
There was an article in it about the scenic playgrounds and historic shrines of the United States and Canada. Mr. Danker wanted to show Reggie the pictures of the Haleakala Crater in Hawaii National Park, where he had visited as a boy.

“Not much older than you are,” Mr. Danker had said, squeezing Reggie’s knee as they sat beside one another on the couch. “Someday maybe Miss Ella will let you go there with me, for a little vacation.”

“Reginald will be twenty soon,” said Miss Ella from the kitchen, “and when he’s twenty, it just might be a good idea. I’ve always thought travel was wasted on the young. But twenty’s nearly a man!”

“Wouldn’t you like that, Reggie?” Mr. Danker asked. “A nice vacation off in Hawaii?”

“Sure,” said the boy.

“We could swim, and fish, and get you a nice tan, eh Reggie?”

“Sure, Mr. Danker.”

Miss Ella said, “Reginald has very sensitive skin. It doesn’t take to the sun.”

“I’ve been in the sun plenty of times, mother.”

“Oh, I know that, Reginald. But you know yourself you always turn that awful red color that makes you look odd. Some people look fine after sun exposure, but you don’t, Reginald. You’re fair-skinned.”

Mr. Danker said, “Never mind. You’ve got those nice baby-blue eyes, Reggie. That’s all you need.”

“Doesn’t he have nice eyes, Mr. Danker?”

“Very nice eyes,” Mr. Danker answered. “I wish I had such nice eyes.”

Reggie sighed. “What else about Hawaii?” he asked.

Miss Ella said, “His eyes are the color of a summer sky!”

“They certainly are!” said Mr. Danker.

“Everyone has something nice about them,” said Reggie’s mother. “Everyone has one good point. Reggie’s eyes are his good point. It makes up for his stuttering. God is fair.”

“Reggie has nice hands too,” said Mr. Danker.

Reggie wished they would stop talking about him. He bit his lip and sighed a second time.

His mother said, “When he was a little boy, I used to kiss his hands and tell him God made them for him to do good deeds with.”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Danker. “You’re a lucky boy, Reggie, to have your mother love you the way she does. My mother, God rest her soul, was the same kind of woman. When she passed, I felt as though part of me went with her. Part of me just died with her.”

“Just how big is that Haleakala Crater?” Reggie asked.

“Well,” said Mr. Danker, stretching out his arms so that his right arm passed across Reggie’s shoulder, “It’s huge. It’s bigger than the whole island of Manhattan.” He let his right hand drop on Reggie’s shoulder and rest there. “It’s big, all right!”

Miss Ella said, “Dinner will be served in two minutes. Are you boys comfortable in there?”

“We certainly are,” said Mr. Danker, pressing his hand against Reggie’s back.

Now dinner was over. They had watched Mystery Hour and the Happy Honey Family. Now they were watching Cash-Answer. Reggie glanced at his watch in a nervous, surreptitious gesture. The quizmaster’s voice blared in the room: ”
All right, Chuck. For forty-seven thou-sand doll-ars, name the forty-one signers of the Mayflower Compact!”

On the screen there was a close-up of the eight-year-old’s face as he puzzled over the question, while the music played in the time allotted for him to think out his answer.

Mr. Danker sat forward on the couch, counting on his fingers.

“Let’s see. There was William Mullins, Edward Tilly, William White, Edward Doty, John Tilly, Francis Cooke—let see, Myles Standish, of course—Gilbert Winslow—“

“Time is up,”
the quizmaster’s voice shouted.

“… Issac Allerton,” said Mr. Danker, “John Goodman, William White—“

“You said William White,” said Miss Ella. “I did?”

“Yes, you said William White. Now, shhhh! Listen!”

“Samuel Fuller,” said Mr. Danker, “Degory Prist, Steph—“

Reginald Whittier’s mother said, “Shhhh! Mr. Danker! Listen!”

It was ten past ten by Reggie’s wristwatch. He was supposed to meet Laura Lee at ten-thirty in front of the college. He sat wondering how he would get out of there; could he just stand up and walk out?

The quizmaster was screaming: “You get cash for your answer, because your answer is correct!”

Mr. Danker said, “I knew them all.”

“You named William White twice,” said Miss Ella.

“But I knew them. It was a very simple question.”

“I’d never force a boy of mine to that extent,” said Miss Ella. “As far as I’m concerned, a boy should be the best of whatever he is.” She smiled across at Reginald. “If you can’t be a pine on the top of the hill, Be a scrub in the valley—but be, The best little scrub by the side of the rill; Be a bush if you can’t be a tree!”

It made Reggie think of the Lees’ trailer; of the way he had hit his head on the bunk bed when he had bent over to get in it with Laura. He remembered how he had thought:
You’ve got to do it someday, Reggie, if you ever want to grow up and be a man. He remembered how he had thought: Be a pine, Reggie! Don’t let her keep you a scrub!

Mr. Danker said, “I know the second verse to that poem!”

In unison, Miss Ella and Mr. Danker recited:

“We can’t all be captains, we’ve got to be crew, There’s something for all of us here; There’s big work to do, and there’s lesser to do, And the task we must do is the near.”

Miss Ella laughed. “That was fun!”

“I know that poem,” said Mr. Danker.

“I like to think of it as my touchstone,” said Reggie’s mother.

“It’s got some good sound advice in it,” Mr. Danker said.

Reggie stood up. The
National Geographic Magazine
fell from his lap to the floor. Miss Ella looked at him with surprise.

“What’s the matter, Reginald?”

“I have to go somewhere, mother.”

“Go where?”

“Somewhere,” Reggie said. “I have an appointment.”

“At twenty minutes after ten in the evening?”

“Why, even Stoker’s is closed,” Mr. Danker said. “The last show is just letting out down at the Green Mountain Theater.”

“I’m not going to a drugstore, and I’m not going to a movie,” said Reggie. “I’m going to meet a girl!”

“I don’t know what kind of a girl would be willing to meet a boy at this hour,” said Miss Ella, “do you, Mr. Danker?”

“I daresay I don’t,” Mr. Danker answered.

“Don’t pretend,” said Reggie, “just don’t sit and pretend!”

“You’re starting to stutter, Reginald.”

“I never stopped stuttering, mother!”

“You’re embarrassing me before Mr. Danker, Reginald.”

“This is no way to behave to your mother,” Mr. Danker said.

“I’m going out. That’s all. I’m going out.”

“Go ahead,” said Miss Ella. “Go right on along. No one will stand in your way, Reginald. Go right on along.”

“Mother, is there anything
wrong
with my seeing a girl?”

“That depends on the girl,” said Mr. Danker.

“There’s nothing wrong with the girl!” Reggie shouted.

“Don’t try to reason with him, Mr. Danker. He’ll not listen to reason. He’ll find a way to put us both to shame.”

“I’m going,” said Reggie. “And there’s nothing wrong with it.”

He walked to the hallway and grabbed his jacket. “I’ll be back later.”

“Don’t bring any diseases into
this
house,” his mother said.

Mr. Danker said, “Reggie—wait!”

But Reginald Whittier slammed the door. He went down the back stairs to the street. The car was parked in front of Whittier’s Wheel, and Reggie climbed in. Then he remembered. He had left the keys behind in his room. He would have to go back for the keys.

Suddenly, Miles Danker was standing beside the car.

He said, “I brought your keys, Reggie.”

“Thanks.”

Reggie held his hand out.

“I’ll give them to you in a few minutes. I want to talk to you first.”

“I’m late, Mr. Danker.”

“That kind of girl will wait,” said Mr. Danker. “Just don’t worry about that.”

Mr. Danker walked around to the other side of the car and got in. He sat sideways, facing Reggie. Reggie looked straight ahead.

“What do you know about women?” Mr. Danker said.

“You ought to know. You made the speech about them, Mr. Danker, a long time ago.”

“Three years ago, Reggie. Only three years ago. You’re still a boy.”

“I’m not a boy, Mr. Danker. I’m a grown man.” Reggie said, “Why can’t I be treated like one?”

“Do you want to go for a drive and talk, Reggie?”

“Yes. But with the girl who’s waiting for me, Mr. Danker.”

“A girl like that,” Mr. Danker said, “What do you know about a girl like that. A maid!”

“I knew you and mother knew where I was going. Why do you pretend?”

“Because we both know more about this kind of girl than you do, Reggie.”

“You’re not even married, Mr. Danker.”

“Do you think I’d bring a whore to my mother’s house? Do you think I’d violate my mother’s memory that way?”

“Mr. Danker, I’m not going to meet a whore, and I’m not going to bring her to my mother’s house.”

“She was in the shop today, wasn’t she, Reggie?”

“You know everything, don’t you? All the signers of the Mayflower Compact, and who was in and out of the shop today.”

“Why do you want to hurt me, Reggie? Because you hurt me everytime you’re sarcastic.”

“I wasn’t sarcastic before now, Mr. Danker. I’m sorry if I am sarcastic, but I want to keep my appointment.”

Mr. Danker said, “You were sarcastic earlier, Reggie. Earlier, when I was telling Miss Ella and you how dear my mother was to me. The minute I finished saying that, Reggie, you asked me how big the Haleakala Crater was. Now, if that isn’t sarcasm, what is it? It was your tone of voice. You were snide, Reggie. Snide. I tried to ignore it, but for heaven’s sake, Reggie, I’m human. I have feelings!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Danker.”

“I know you don’t mean to hurt me, Reggie.”

“No, I don’t want to hurt you. I like you, Mr. Danker, but I’m late as it is.”

“Do you know what that girl will want you to do, Reggie?”

“Nothing,” said Reggie, “Nothing!”

“All right, Reggie, I’m afraid I’m going to have to be brutal. I hoped I wouldn’t have to be brutal, but I’m going to have to be!”

Reggie turned his head and looked at Miles Danker. He was reaching into his coat pocket for something.

“What are you doing, for the love of Pete, Mr. Danker?”

“Turn on the dashboard lights, Reggie. I want you to see something.”

“What?”

“Turn on the dashboard lights, Reginald.”

Reggie leaned across and flipped the switch. Mr. Danker passed him a packet of cards.

“What is it?” said Reggie.

“Look at them carefully, Reggie,” said Mr. Danker, “I hate to be brutal, but Miss Ella’s asked me to be a father to you. It isn’t easy for a boy to grow up without a man to guide him, and I want to guide you, Reggie. Guide you along the right path.”

“Oh, jeez! Jeez!”

Mounted on the cards were pictures of men and women—pornographic pictures, one after the other.

“Look at every single one of them, Reggie,” said Mr. Danker.

“Where’d you get these?”

“You think because I’m not married, I don’t know about women, Reggie? You look at those pictures. How do they make you feel, Reggie?”

Reginald Whittier lied. “I don’t feel anything. They’re dirty pictures, that’s all.”

“Is that what this girl wants from you, Reggie? This
maid?”

“No, Mr. Danker,” Reggie said.

“Then why are you stuttering?”

Reggie dropped the cards on the car seat. “Give me the keys, Mr. Danker.”

“Do you want to go for a drive, Reggie? We’ll talk.”

“I want to keep my appointment.”

“You
still
do?”

“Mr. Danker, please take your cards and give me my keys.”

Miles Danker reached for the cards, his hand brushing Reginald Whittier’s trousers. Reggie jumped.

“What’s the trouble, Reggie?”

“Will you give me my keys, please?”

“Your mother wouldn’t mind if we went for a drive. She’d like that a whole lot better than your meeting that maid.”

“The keys, Mr. Danker!”

Reggie held out his palm, and Miles Danker placed the keys there, his fingers touching Reggie’s skin. A pang of revulsion shot through Reggie. He shoved the keys in and turned over the motor.

Mr. Danker smiled. “All right,” he said, “all right, Reggie. But we’ll go for a drive another time. Don’t think I don’t know you by now. You won’t have any fun with that girl!”