Authors: Helen Nielsen
“Why did you do that?” Pitman asked.
“I want you to play a part for me,” Jaime said.
“A part?”
“I want you to speak a line. Say, ‘Jaime, what happened after Sheilah fell?’”
“Why the devil …?” Pitman protested.
“Don’t ask me why. Just say it.”
The shadow without a face didn’t move or speak for several seconds. Then the words came: “Jaime, what happened after Sheilah fell?”
Jaime absorbed the sound of the words and then pulled the drapery cord and let the light come back into the room. He turned around. Dr. Pitman had a face again. Puzzled, bewildered, expectant. Jaime offered no explanation. He crossed the room and left the office.
Domingo Alvarez had completed painting the last white horse. The white horses were his favorites. Black horses and brown horses were a drab duty; but white horses were something eternally pure in his soul, and he painted them with love and tenderness. When they were done he took up the blue paint. Blue, like the cloak of the Virgin in the old mission church in the valley, and he painted the trim under the saddle with this blue. Each year when he did this a daring thought quickened his tired mind and wrinkled his dark face with an impish smile. Blue. How he loved the blue. But no, the children wouldn’t understand. Children weren’t young any more.
He heard the motorcar come and pull off the highway. He continued painting, carefully, using the smallest brush. After a few moments he drew back and looked around. The Anglo was there. Domingo regarded him carefully. The shoes first—expensive leather; the trousers—narrow, short-cuffed; the jacket—soft suede. Above the jacket the same face with troubled eyes and dark hair … but with no blood.
“Are you Domingo Alvarez?” Jaime asked.
A drop of blue paint fell on the scuffed toe of Domingo Alvarez’ shoe. He shifted the brush to a position above the pail. He nodded.
“There was an accident over a month ago,” Jaime said. “A sports car hit a barricade on the highway. A man was injured. Do you remember that?”
“I remember,” Alvarez said. “You were the man.”
“Good. I want you to remember more…. First of all, the accident. Did you see it?”
The can of blue paint was heavy. Domingo Alvarez set it down on the ground. It was a foolish idea. A blue horse. He put it away with the other foolish ideas that sometimes invaded his mind. Children no longer had imaginations. They wouldn’t understand a blue horse.
“No,” he answered. “I was on the machine with my grandchildren. The music was playing. I heard nothing. When I saw, I stopped the horses.”
“What did you see?” Jaime demanded.
The old man’s eyes were darkly cautious. “I saw blood …” He gestured. “On the face. The baby, Carlos, screamed. I stopped the machine.”
The Anglo listened, and it seemed to the old man that he heard more than was being said.
“And then …?” he coaxed.
“And then I saw you fall, señor. That’s when I stopped the machine.”
“That was all? … I didn’t call out? I didn’t speak anything before I lost consciousness?”
Domingo Alvarez was an old man, but not so much of a fool as he might have been. He hesitated. What was he supposed to say? The Anglo might be very rich. “I heard nothing,” he said at last. “You said nothing.”
The Anglo seemed displeased. For a moment old Domingo was afraid he’d guessed wrong. And then the Anglo took out his wallet and removed a ten-dollar bill. “Now,” he said, “can you tell me what was done with the wrecked car?”
Domingo Alvarez smiled with the show of obedient humility he was supposed to feel and nodded toward the highway. Jaime looked behind him. On the far side of the crossing was an old quonset hut … a faded green sign over the doorway. The sign read “Herb Catcher’s Garage.”
“Thank you,” Jaime said.
The ten-dollar bill was in Domingo’s hand. He pocketed it quickly and picked up the can of paint. Blue. Blue like the cloak of the Virgin …
“Mr. Alvarez,” Jaime said, “will you start the merry-go-round?”
“The machine?” the old man echoed.
“The machine,” Jaime said. “The horses. The music. Just for a few minutes.”
It was, after all, ten dollars. If the Anglo was crazy, what was that to Domingo Alvarez? He shrugged and stepped up on the platform. He threaded his way through the freshly painted horses and disappeared amidst the machinery. The merry-go-round started slowly …
… slowly. Then faster and faster. The music grew louder. It was off pitch and a little sad, but the horses flashed past in their newly painted glory until finally Jaime could see. Ramon, the older boy, was on the black horse, with little Carlos sitting behind him. Small faces laughing and then, suddenly, freezing in terror. Small faces horrified; small hands pointing. High-pitched cries above the sad song of the calliope …
Jaime saw them clearly. It was beginning to fall into place.
Herb Catcher had grease on his nose. He mopped it with a dirty wipe cloth and regarded Jaime curiously. “Yeah, I still have the car,” he said. “After the wreck I towed it out in my back lot. I never got an order from the police to do anything about it. It’s still there.”
“What caused the accident?” Jaime asked.
Herb Catcher was a blunt man. “You were driving too fast,” he said. “I didn’t see it happen—I was under a truck I had to get out for a nervous customer. But I heard it. Man!” He dropped the wipe cloth on the bench and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Want to see your car? It sure won’t take the Grand Prix this year.”
“Let’s go,” Jaime said.
Catcher led the way through the garage to a back lot that was a semisheltered area for discarded parts and chassis. At the far end of the clutter the mangled sports car squatted forlornly on a support of wooden blocks. Catcher stopped and offered Jaime a cigarette from the pack. Jaime refused. Catcher took one, lighted it, and grinned wryly at six thousand dollars’ worth of imported junk.
“The front tires blew,” he explained. “I jacked it up to get the weight off. The motor’s in good shape, but the front axle’s shot and the radiator’s gone. You’ve got about four hundred dollars’ worth of body work. You sure put a twist on that frame.”
Jaime moved slowly about the wreckage. The collision had been head on, followed by a roll to the right.
“How did I get out?” he asked.
“Thrown out,” Catcher said. “No other way. You hit a barricade the highway department put up in front of a new section of asphalt. The car bounced and you flew…. I can fix her up for you, but it’ll run into money.”
The right fender was gone. Jaime found a scrap of red metal in a junk heap and pulled it free. The fender. The underside was coated with a rough, white, hard substance.
“I thought you said I hit asphalt,” he said.
“I said you hit a barricade,” Catcher answered.
“There’s no asphalt under this fender. This is dried cement.”
Catcher discarded his cigarette and joined Jaime at the fender. He scratched at the whitish substance and nodded. “It’s cement, all right,” he agreed, “but it didn’t come from the highway. Look for yourself. Asphalt. This stuff came from some other place.”
Old man Alvarez was still operating the merry-go-round. The sad whine of the calliope drifted across the highway, bringing bits and pieces of forgotten time. Jaime listened to what the calliope was telling him.
“It’s clean cement,” he said. “There’s no highway grime or dirt on it. That means it was picked up fresh just before the crash.”
Catcher was puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, Mr. Dodson,” he said, “but I can tell you, the police went over that wreck with everything from a fine-tooth comb to a vacuum cleaner. They didn’t find a thing.”
But the calliope was telling Jaime another story. He rolled a piece of the dried cement between his fingers until it crumbled away to nothing. “They didn’t know where to look,” he said.
The place to look was on a bluff above Cypress Point. The road was in—lined with young trees furnished by the Women’s Club. The sites for the sculpture were set. Jaime remembered, wryly, that he was on the judging committee. He drove to the crest. The uncompleted Center—another of Sheilah’s bizarre twists on ancient Grecian lines—stood stone silent against the sky. A concert hall, art gallery, two small stages. All of the shell was up—some of the interior. Jaime followed the curving drive to the wide mouth at the rear of the entrance. The cement for the basement floor had been poured on the day of Sheilah’s death.
He braked the convertible and got out. No work had been done on the job since that day. The mixing truck was gone, but there was spillage on the earth where it had been parked. Near the entrance Jaime found what he was searching for: tire marks, sharp and distinct in a white mixture that was fresh enough when the tracks were made to throw an undercoating of cement on the fenders of the sports car.
He was excited. He stooped and flaked bits of cement between his fingers. Flesh touched the same texture he’d found on the discarded fender. Back at Hanson’s Pier, the calliope had begun to tease at a chain of memories like the lure of the Pied Piper’s pipe. It was still daylight when he smashed into the road barrier. He wasn’t drunk. It had to be, then, that he was in full flight … or that he wanted to hit the barrier.
Jaime came slowly to his feet, remembering….
Sheilah was a woman. She went to her office in tailored suits, imported fabrics, hand-tailored; but a dinner party called for elegance. She loved elegance. She was wearing a black sheath cocktail dress—plain, unadorned—except for a huge onyx dinner ring and ear clips. She wore her blonde hair brushed back, close-cropped and neat. She stood at the bar examining a highball glass. She looked up as Jaime entered the room
.
“They’re quite nice,” she said, holding up a glass. “I’m surprised.”
Jaime stood before her like a sullen boy summoned to the teacher’s desk. “Why should you be surprised?” he demanded. “Greta bought them for you. She has good taste.”
“Yes, she has.” Then Sheilah put the glass down on the bar and stopped playing. “She wants you,” she said
.
“I think you have that twisted,” Jaime said. “I want her.”
“Then take her! If you’re short of cash, I’ll advance you a few thousand. Try Mexico City. I hear it’s romantic.”
“Sheilah,” Jaime said tightly, “I could kill you when you say that.”
There were words people had to speak—stinging and cutting like the old hates that spawned them. Sheilah listened quietly and then picked up a little crystal bell and rang for Trench. When he came in from the kitchen she said:
“Trench, for God’s sake mix up a dosage of your special-for-Jaime martinis. The boy needs to relax.”
Trench left
.
“It’s no good, Sheilah,” Jaime said. “I’m in love with Greta.”
“You’ve been in love before,” Sheilah said
.
“No. I’ve had fun before. I’m going to marry Greta.”
Sheilah didn’t like rebellion. Jaime had been a nuisance … sometimes an embarrassment. But this was different. He could feel her anger across the room
.
“You’re really serious, aren’t you?” she said
.
“You know I am!”
“Well, so am I,” Sheilah said. “That’s why we’re having a dinner party, Jaime, my love. I have an announcement to make to your beloved—in the presence of others.”
“You’re not going to hurt her!” Jaime said. “I won’t let you get away with anything!”
The air was electric when Trench returned with a martini shaker on a tray. Sheilah was at her most regal elegance when the air was electric. She took up one of Greta’s glasses again while Trench poured
.
“They really are handsome, aren’t they, Trench? A gift of love—all eight of them.”
Trench was well trained. He filled two martini glasses; gave one to Sheilah and the other to Jaime. For a moment he stared at Jaime’s face and then hurried back to the kitchen. Sheilah took two sips from her glass
.
“The announcement,” she said, “concerns you, Jaime. I’m letting you out of the business.”
Jaime hung onto his glass. He didn’t attempt to raise it
.
“You’ve had a long time to learn. You wouldn’t. You wanted to play. All right, play on your own. I’m tired of bailing you out of trouble. Marry anyone you like.”
“I don’t believe you,” Jaime said. “You’ve threatened to cut me out before.”
Sheilah’s eyes flashed. “But only threatened, Jaime. This time I’ve done it. We’ll see how your beloved likes a Dodson without money. I started legal action this afternoon.”
“I’ll fight you!” Jaime choked
.
“No, you won’t, Jaime. I know too much about the rake-off you’ve been getting on supplies. You’ll bow out gracefully, or you won’t work anywhere…. If you don’t believe me, go up to the Center. A change has been made.”
Sheilah drained her glass. She was watching him … and enjoying it. Jaime could feel the hate welling up inside like a volcano
.
“The center! That mess of gingerbread on the hill! Why don’t you put gold leaf on the ceilings and red plush drapes on the stage?”
“I might,” Sheilah said, “but I don’t have to make so many compromises any more. I don’t have to pay your way.” And then her expression changed. She lost the enameled hauteur. She backed away toward the fireplace. “Jaime!” she gasped. “Don’t be a fool!”
The memory stopped, abruptly. Jaime stood as motionless as stone while the last of the white cement crumbled from his fingers.
The telephone was ringing when Greta returned from the office. She was tired and worried. Dull days were tiring, and she had put in a full day of inventory-taking without a customer or a word from Jaime. She dropped a bag of groceries onto the divan and ran eagerly to the telephone. Not until she picked it up did she realize it was an extension from Steve’s house.
A man’s voice was speaking.
“Steve? This is Dr. Pitman at the hospital. Is Jaime Dodson with you?”