Whistling in the Dark (7 page)

Jack, to his surprise, looked sheepish. "It's all right. Ready to sweet-talk old Ida?"

Sutton wasn't by a long shot, but Ida had to be faced. They went into the quiet restaurant, the hour past nine, and Esther stopped scrubbing the counter to look at him with alarm. "Where've you been?" As Jack followed with the bike, she rolled her eyes. "Jack, get out of here. Ida will--"

Stomping echoed on the cellar steps. The door was kicked wide. Ida, her thin arms stretched taut around a sack of potatoes, fixed a sharp eye on Sutton and he didn't think his own father had ever regarded him more fiercely. "You're late."

Sutton fished the dollar from his pocket. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Carlisle. I did make the delivery--"

Jack startled him with an exasperated laugh. "Sutton, for God's sake, tell her. Hell, you were a regular hero." Jack hardly paused for breath. "You should have seen him, Ida. We'd just delivered Mrs. Barrow's breakfast when those kids from the pool hall grabbed some old lady's pocketbook, practically right in front of us. Sutton took off after the kids--and damn if he didn't send 'em packing. I'll bet he picked that up in France." An elbow nudged Sutton, "Right?"

Jack's smile was so frank and full of confidence, Sutton half-believed the story, himself. "Hell of a thing to be modest about, pal. Really--" He turned the engaging smile on a stony-faced Ida. "I just wish you'd seen it. Battered the bike a little, chasing them down, but I fixed it good as new. No charge, of course--but if you feel obliged, you could forgive my tab and call us square."

Esther made little choking sounds behind the hand over her mouth and had to flee to the kitchen, a maneuver Sutton envied. He'd never in his life heard such a lie proclaimed so earnestly. He held his breath, waiting for what was sure to be a scorching dressing-down before Ida ordered him to get his things and go.

Ida looked at Jack, then back at Sutton. "Is that the truth?"

"It's difficult to believe, I realize--" He choked on the words and Jack jumped to his rescue again.

"I know I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself. Goddamned smart of you to hire him, Ida. Pardon my French."

Ida gave in with a long-suffering snort. "Take these potatoes. Folks will be in for lunch, so don't dawdle."

She wasn't going to fire him. Dazed, Sutton took the bag. Jack winked at him on the way out. "If there's ever anything else I can do for you, just let me know."

- Eight -

Jack finished his coffee and yawned again. Two cups and he still couldn't keep his eyes open. A nap might be called for. He'd gotten used to catnapping while overseas. The noise and bustle, the endless discomfort, and the constant presence of his fellow soldiers had contributed to a pattern of sleep doled out in minutes instead of hours. The falling of night, once an easy drift into dreamland, these days left him with a restless feeling, a need for vigilance that would not go away.

He had eaten his breakfast, but left the newspaper unread. There was more entertainment to be found in watching Albright scurry from counter to table, ignoring him every time. Come to think of it, Albright had been ignoring him for a few days, ever since the trip to Keeler's.

"Hi ya, Mabel," Jack said as Sutton walked past.

Sutton barely glanced at him.

Jack grabbed a corner of his apron. "Come on, slow up, will you? You're going to make me think you don't like me."

"I have work to do, so if you will--let--go--" He tried to pull away, but Jack hung on.

"Ida giving you trouble?"

"No, you are. Will you let me go, please?"

"Ida's not mad and you didn't get the boot. What are you sore about?"

"I'm not sore. I'm just trying to keep my job."

"Esther associates with me and she's still working here."

Sutton groaned. "If I say I like you, will you let me go back to work?"

"Only if you mean it." Jack grinned.

The corners of Sutton's mouth grudgingly lifted. "Have you finished?" He nodded toward the plate, where a scrap of egg remained.

Jack tossed him the quarter. "No change this time."

"And the ten cents you owe me?"

"Mind if I pay Chase first?"

"Who is this Chase?"

"Remind me to tell you later." Jack hopped up and went out before Sutton could press any more questions on him. He was at the curb when the sight of customers heading into the emporium stopped him in his tracks. Both he and Harry had begun to wonder if the till would see another penny before the rent was due. Now three customers at once seemed like a gift from above. A belated urgency hit him and he dashed across the alley and into the shop at their heels, there launching into a welcome that had Harry peering dubiously around the aisle.

He didn't get far before one of the women gestured toward the back, from whence came Ox's less than sprightly rendition of
Moonlight Bay.
"Mr. Bailey--what is that?"

"Oh. Our pianist. Tops, ain't--" He paused, certain for an instant he'd felt the gentle swat that had been his mother's way of correcting him. "Isn't he?"

Ox stopped abruptly, then started over. The women exchanged nervous smiles, vaguely promised to return, and made their escape. His own elation fading, Jack didn't have to look around to picture the expression on Harry's face. "Okay, I'll tell him."

"You do that," Harry said, "before the cops arrest us for disturbing the peace."

Jack pounced on Ox and pulled him into the office to rearrange the practice schedule. The day improved after that and Jack wondered aloud to Harry if maybe the intermittent announcements over the radio were having some effect. That hope kept him peddling energetically through the day, though by late afternoon he was nearly asleep on his feet. When he couldn't hold out any longer, he asked Harry to wake him in thirty minutes and dropped onto the office sofa.

With the sound of activity distant and lulling, he melted into the cushions to his bones. If he dreamt of crawling through the mud while shells rocked the heavens, Harry's hand on his shoulder would startle him awake to discover nearly an hour had passed and they were ready to close for supper. Hell, maybe the slow whirr of the fan and the steady tap of the clock were the dream and he would wake in a dim dugout, his head pillowed on burlap, the crusted layer of mud on his clothes serving as a blanket. He would rise, every muscle aching, and climb out, to see barren fields, frosted even in the daylight. He would feel the chill wind running unceasingly through him and the slick duckboard underfoot. He would hear the distant whistle in the air and know the shell was flying, that it was coming for him, and he had nowhere to go and nowhere to hide before it burst--

But no searing metal rained. No smoke tinged with the terrifying whiff of gas choked him. The world went silent and for one fragile moment he thought he'd escaped the nightmare.

He hadn't. Around him lay his fellows, his comrades at arms. His friends. No longer knowing anything--or perhaps knowing everything. He searched their gray faces, upturned toward a cold sun, and their eyes stared through him as if he were the ghost. Death found them before they had an instant to realize it. And that was the only way. Better than lying conscious under a smoke-blackened sky while his heart slowed with every breath and his mind grasped at what last thoughts it could--God, he couldn't bear that. He would turn from that unending expanse, curl up on his side and fumble for the hand of the soldier nearest, and while there was a little warmth left between them, believe he wasn't going alone. Maybe his thoughts would keep coming afterward, churning and twisting in the wind. Maybe that was how he would find his way, riding on the wind, to a place where no wars could follow. Heaven--if that shelter was granted him.

"Jack?" Never was a voice so unsuited for gentleness so gentle. "Jack, come out of there. You know where you are. Come on, son. Look at me."

The dream--which was the dream? His insides churned with sickening confusion. The war was over. Home wasn't a wistful creation. It was reality, if a changed one. Which was the goddamned dream? He was afraid to open his eyes. The arm around his shoulders prevented escape. The bayonet was next. Or a bullet to the head. Either way, death--with all the time in the world to realize it.

"Calm down, Jack. Ox, give me that blanket. And get them all out. Close up, for Christ's sake."

Cold, he was so cold. Colder than the muddiest foxhole on the darkest, longest night of the year. But the gruff voice rambled on and its warmth seeped into him. It surely meant he was someplace safe. "Harry?"

"Thank God. Yeah, I'm here." A hand brushed roughly over his hair. "I'm right here."

He ran in his mind, ran madly back to wakefulness. His chest tightened and he gasped for breath. "Harry?"

"It's okay," Harry said. "You're all right."

Squeezing shut his burning eyes, he pressed his face into Harry's sleeve. He was home. A hand moved in soothing circles on his back until he could breathe easier. He drifted and the next thing he knew, he lay on the sofa, under the quilt that he used to cover the radio at night. The hand around his wrist was warm and real.

"Some better?" Harry asked and his voice was less than steady.

Not trusting his own voice, Jack nodded. When Ox peered around the door, Jack waved him in and apologized to both of them at once. Harry let out a breath he must've been holding too long and settled back in his chair. "Maybe you've got some things to be sorry for, but that ain't one of them."

"Harry's right. I know." Ox's stint had lasted two months, until a busted leg put him in the hospital and his mother's death got him all the way home to the bedridden father who needed him. His father had mended and the only sign of Ox's injury was a limp on rainy days. But even two months was enough to bring home the lion's share of nightmares.

"Glass of milk help then?" Jack asked.

Harry pointedly ignored the change of subject. "What the hell did you see, Jack?"

Jack started to sit up, but Ox's hand on his shoulder held him still. "Come on, you can tell us."

Jack lay back and rubbed eyes that felt as achy as his head. "Pair of tough guys. When I go bugs up, think you'll be tough enough to put me away?"

He heard Ox's startled breath and saw Harry scowl. They ganged up on him and all but carried him upstairs, to imprison him in his apartment without any chance of parole.

"What makes you two think I want to get any more shut-eye?"

Harry pushed him toward the sofa. "Who says you have to sleep? I'll keep you company to make sure you don't."

"I'll stay, too." Ox started to take off his coat.

Harry looked at him. "Go on, get some supper and don't worry about Jack. I'll look after him."

Listening from his sprawl on the sofa, Jack wanted to tell them both to beat it. He felt like a goddamned invalid, too dependent on his friends just to live through each day. Ox had nightmares, yeah, but they didn't knock him flat. Even Albright had come back from France looking in no way scathed or brutalized by the experience. No, he was the weak one, the one who'd fallen apart. Hell, maybe the time had come to put himself away. He could move into that cozy asylum upstate with doctors trained in the latest voodoo. No longer did they chain lunatics to the walls in dark lonely cells. At least he was pretty sure they didn't. Sooner or later he'd find out.

Harry shut the door after Ox and came to sit beside him. "Got anything to drink here?"

Jack leaned over the arm of the sofa and opened the bookcase door to wriggle loose the bottles squeezed in with the books and magazines. One bottle had been a trade for repairing Mrs. Valmeer's music box. The second one he'd wheedled from the boys at the club. "Here you go."

"That's it?"

Jack had to smile at the sarcasm. "Well, no, there's--"

"Never mind. Speaking of gin, want to play some?"

Harry won five games in a row, until Jack roused himself to pay closer attention. Then the wins went back and forth until well after dark when a yawning Harry started slipping and Jack won every game. Jack drained another glass and Harry grimaced. "Your liver's going down without a whimper, Jackie." Harry studied him as Jack lit a cigarette. "You've got to be tired. You ain't tired?"

"It's only ten. Why don't you go on home? You're not a nanny."

Harry's gaze narrowed on him. "You're in no kind of shape to be out carousing. Anyway, I ain't all that beat. You got anything else to do around here?"

Jack shrugged. "I'm never here. I think I've still got that box of checkers Ox gave me for Christmas."

"Mind if we--" Harry tried to stifle another yawn. "Take it and the gin to the bedroom?"

Jack broke into a grin. "Trying to seduce me?"

"Christ, do you have to say shit like that? I'm not that desperate to get you to go to bed."

"Yeah, you're just hoping once we get there, I'll drop off." Jack followed him down the hall. "You ought to know better."

Harry pushed a pile of magazines off the mattress and sat with a pillow propped at his back. "Yeah, sometimes I forget how goddamned obstinate you can be."

Jack went fishing under the bed for the checkers. "Jesus, Harry. You'd think I was swearing off sleep on purpose." He popped back up and overturned the box, spilling game pieces everywhere. "You know, we could skip the game and go for a ramble--"

"You ain't been arrested enough this week?" Harry snorted. "What you need is a pal who won't get you in trouble. Like for example that kid next door."

"Nah, not Albright." The checkers in orderly formation, Jack turned the red pieces toward Harry. "He's a little too buttoned down."

"Well, I'm sure you'd unbutton him." Harry bit off the last word with a groan. "Forget I said that. Too much gin and--gin."

Jack couldn't resist. "Unbutton him. There's an idea. Think of the hush money I could get out of Albright senior."