13 French Street (3 page)

All right, you say. Laugh. But I didn’t want it that way. Because something was wrong, dead wrong. It was in the house. In the way they spoke. In their actions. And already I was a part of it, without knowing anything about it.

There was a long silence. Then Petra returned. She had mixed me a drink, and as she handed it to me our fingers touched. She crossed the room, placed ice and a syphon on the coffee table. I glanced at the old woman in the corner. She was watching me.

Verne brooded at his empty glass, one arm sprawled across the fireplace mantel.

“Is it good?” Petra asked me with her back turned.

“Fine.” Her hips swelled beneath her dress, black again, but not the same one she’d met me at the door in. This one clung. Her back was bare to the waist. Her waist was slim, supple. She poured a drink of brandy into another glass she’d brought with her, went swiftly to the old woman, handed it to her.

“Thank you, darling,” the old woman said. It was the first time she’d said anything. Her voice was flat, dusty.

Verne’s voice was low-pitched, but harsh. “Damn it, you shouldn’t have done that! I’ve told you.”

Petra faced him, brushed a heavy wave of black hair away from her cheek with her wrist. “Don’t be tiresome,” she said. “The old girl doesn’t have any fun these days. Let her have her little kick.”

Verne’s face was red. The red deepened. He looked at me, tried to smile. I drank from my glass.

Petra settled in her chair again, flipped her feet onto the ottoman, and, glass in hand, watched me. It was nothing, perhaps. She didn’t alter her expression; she didn’t try to show her legs; she made no movement that wasn’t entirely accepted and proper. But she said what she said, all the same. And I got it and I answered right back, because I couldn’t help myself. I answered without speaking, just by looking at her. I answered, Yes, you’re beautiful. But stop it, cut it out!

She smiled and sipped.

Verne said, “I don’t like to have Mother drink anything. It goes to her head. But if I reach for that glass now, she’ll knock it down like a scared drunk.”

There wasn’t anything to say.

“Wish you could see the job I’m working on,” he resumed. “It sure is something—would have been. No, damn it! Will be!”

I grabbed at the straw. “Maybe I could go in with you. Maybe we could—”

“No. Wouldn’t hear of it. You’re on vacation. Petra will take you around, show you the country. I’ve got a million things to do, Alex. Hell, it’s a mess. I wanted to sit and talk. But either I go tomorrow morning, and try straightening things up, or I’m flattened.” He paused, gestured with his glass as I didn’t look at Petra. He said, “How’s the new museum coming along?”

“It’s all right. Coming along.”

“That’s the trouble with you, Alex. You’ll never get ahead. You’ll go on from year to year, wasting your time. You won’t get ahead because you’re too damned honest.” He drank. “Enough to make a man sick. Don’t get me wrong, now. Just that in business today, you got to grab, you got to lie, you got to be there one jump ahead of the next guy. If you aren’t—” He snapped his fingers. “Like that. You want to get ahead, don’t you?”

“Well—”

“Yeah, ‘well.’ What good is
well?
What good is a museum? What good is digging up bones all over the damned world? And now you’ve quit that to build a fool museum, and the man putting up the money must be a fool, too. Ye gods, Alex! Get into something hot!”

“Like you? You’re into something hot, from what you say.”

“You’re right. But listen, it
is
hot. No, damn it—it isn’t. Not now. Damn it!” He drank.

Something bumped on the floor. We all looked. The old woman had dropped her glass. It rolled across the rug and onto the hardwood floor,
clink, clink, clink, clink…
.

“You’re a sweet boy,” the old woman said. She was leaning awry in her chair and as drunk as a lord.

“I told you!” Verne snapped.

Petra didn’t look at him. She smiled at me.

“Is she all right?” I asked.

“You’re a sweet boy.”

I’d thought she was speaking to her son, Verne. But she was looking at me. There was a silly grin on her lips, and she nodded toward the right side of her chair, catching herself each time at the very instant of collapse.

“It hits her more quickly than it used to,” Petra said.

“He’s a good man,” the old woman said. She pointed a quivering finger at me. “Yes, you, sonny. Take care of yourself.” She went off into laughter. The dry leaves again, rustling against the side of a basement window, maybe with mice playing in the leaves.

“It’s a vile thing!” Verne said. He faced Petra. His voice turned from ruggedness to pleading. “Good Lord, don’t you know she’s an old woman? Don’t you know the very smell of alcohol sends her balmy? You do know. You do it deliberately.”

“Oh, snap out of it,” Petra said. “Stop and think. What’s she got? Nothing. It won’t hurt her. So she’s drunk. So are you drunk.”

“Yes, but I—”

“It’s no different.”

“You know damned well it’s different.”

The old woman said, “They’re talking about me.” Only she didn’t say it that clearly. It was thick, sickly, bad. “But don’t you worry,” she went on. “I know what I know.”

Petra looked at her.

Verne said, “Take her upstairs, will you?”

Petra rose, placed her glass on the coffee table. “Will you excuse me?” she said, looking at me. She went over to the old lady. “C’mon, Maw,” she said, “let’s go.”

The old woman couldn’t stand. Her eyes were mere glinting slits, her mouth a tight clamp of chin to nose, and she kept saying over and over, “I know what I know.”

As Petra half carried, half walked the old woman past me, she halted. “Tell Mr. Bland good night.”

“Oh, God!” Verne said. Petra was shouting as loud as she could; shouting into the old woman’s ear.

“Tell Mr. Bland good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Man,” Verne’s mother said. “I know what I know, but you’re a good boy.” They reeled off into the hallway. I listened to them going up the stairs. The old woman was muttering.

“I’m sorry about this,” Verne said. “Damn it. Seems like everything’s going wrong. Naturally Petra doesn’t like Mother. She says Mother’s malicious, evil.” He ran his fingers through his hair and paced the room. “I don’t know, Alex. Sometimes I think I’d be better off dead.”

“Everything’ll be all right.”

“Easy to say.”

“Don’t let things get you down.”

He paused before me. I was trying to relax. My muscles ached from being held rigid. It was like waiting patiently for some terrific explosion—waiting until the second of the explosion you know for certain will occur; then, no explosion. But it would come—it had to come.

Verne’s mouth sagged at the corners. “A bad evening. But you’ll feel better tomorrow. Get Petra to take you for a drive around the lake. It’ll do her good, too. Hell’s fire, have some fun—somehow!” He strode to the mantel, poured himself a drink, drank it. His eyes were glassy, beneath heavy lids. I wanted to ask him what was wrong. Once I would have asked. Now there was something about Verne Lawrence that hadn’t been there when I’d known him five years before. Some added something that prevented you from asking anything personal.

“Well, you have a beautiful wife,” I said. “And a fine home. You have money socked away, I’ll bet.”

“Yes.” Nothing more. Just “Yes.”

“Look, Verne,” I said. “I know something’s bothering you. Everything’s in an uproar. Why don’t I go back to Chicago and you let me know when you get things ironed out?”

“No. Wouldn’t hear of it. Never see you again. An evening like this is enough to scare anybody away.”

“I know you don’t feel much like talking about the old days now.”

He looked straight at me, let his shoulders sag. “Alex, I’m tired. I’m dead rotten dog-head tired. In the morning I’ve got to go into New York and start fires under a bunch of fat behinds. I stand to clear over two hundred thousand dollars if this thing goes through on time.”

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” I hesitated, and the brandy talked. “Maybe I
could
manage to stay over a couple of extra days. We could get together, drink some beer, go fishing. Might even get in some hunting. O.K.?”

“Alex, there’s nothing in the world I’d rather do. Maybe we can—maybe we can work out something. If I can just build hot enough fires.”

“This damn business—it’s really got you down.”

“It’s got me nuts.”

I looked at him and I knew it wasn’t business at all. No. Verne was lying. He was afraid of something.

I heard movements in the doorway and turned. Petra stood there. Her left hand fussed with the waist of her dress. “Well,” she said. “The old girl’s snoring fit to kill.” She looked sharply at her husband. “Why, Verne! Do you know you’re plastered?”

Then she looked at me and laughed.

I
SAT
there on the edge of my bed with one shoe off. I took off the sock and wriggled my toes. It felt good, so I did the same with the other foot. Then I just sat there, wriggling my toes, contemplating my bare feet.

It had always been Verne’s creed, I guess. From what I knew of him, anyway. And from what he’d told me of his early life, before the Army. Dig, dig, dig. Well, that much was all right. But he believed in elbowing the other guy out of the way. A little judicious lying got a fellow places. Be fast. Get in there and sock. Sock the other guy out of the way. Everything was business with Verne. There are millions of Vernes, and they don’t honestly mean to hurt anyone, either.

He’d always kidded me about not wanting to do enough, go far enough ahead. Well, that was all right, too. Some of us don’t. Some of us just want the satisfaction of an accomplished dream, enough money, a good home, and a loving wife.

Yes, wife. He was cutthroat about that, too. Find her—find the one that’s right and marry her. She’s got to have push and power, too. Yeah. Well, he’d sure made a discovery. Petra.

I finished undressing, flung all the windows up, and climbed into the shower again. I got it just off cold and stood there with it blasting my back.

He’d socked his way out of a family of fifteen and finagled his way from a Nebraska farm to a possible two hundred thousand dollars. With God only knows how much in the bank now. Only maybe he’d used that. Could be. He’d gamble, too. Anything. All the way.

Petra of the long black hair …

I shoved my face into the needles of water with my eyes closed. When I tipped my head, it sounded like rain on a roof. Tin roof, maybe.

Well, I wasn’t going to get snarled up in his mess. The museum looked good from here and it looked good from the museum, too. And Madge looked good. Now, tak’e Madge and Petra.

I stood there. Then I turned off the water. I found a heavy towel and tried to rub myself pink like they say in the magazines. No luck. Never did have. I padded into the bedroom, finished unpacking my suitcases, and looked at the new pair of pajamas I’d bought special for my vacation.

Hell, I always sleep in the raw. I wasn’t going to stop now. I tossed the pajamas on the bureau and sat down at the desk.

Take Madge and Petra, for instance.

Well, I loved Madge. We were going to be married. Chicago was a long way off. Seven hundred miles? Nearly.

I closed my eyes and saw the red taillight of the taxi winking around the corner.

Take Madge. I had, twice. Take Petra….

I slammed my fist on the desk. The blotter moved, and there was the letter I’d written Madge earlier in the evening. I ripped the envelope open and read the letter. Then I went and got my pen and wrote a postscript. I wrote four lines about how nice it was here, addressed another envelope, sealed up the letter, and stuck it beneath the blotter.

His old man couldn’t even write, Verne had told me. He died standing between the handles of a plow. The horse was so old it didn’t even move when the buzzards came. That’s the way they found him. Standing upright between the plow handles, leaning back against the reins. There was a buzzard on each shoulder, plucking at his ears.

Verne said his mother found his old man like that. She shooed the birds away, unhitched the plow, loaded his father on the horse. When she got the body back to the house, she dug a grave. Then she waited till the kids got home from school and she read from the Bible. Verne said he threw the first shovelful of dirt. It landed on his father’s face. It made him so mad he walked off the farm in his bare feet and hopped a freight into St. Louis. He never went home again.

“Don’t you ever wonder how they made out?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, Alex. Sometimes I do wonder.”

I went over and turned off the bedroom light. There was a moon. I stood at the open window, the side window. This autumn was still in the hands of the Indians.

Petra of the hot dark eyes …

Another man’s wife.

Why in all hell did I have to be born with a conscience?

So, then, maybe I was a fool all the way. I began to wonder. Maybe I was overtired. Imagining things. She probably hadn’t meant a thing. I’d read what I’d wanted to read. Maybe it was me, not Petra.

Only none of this did any good. I could still feel it and the house was quiet. I went over and locked the door, like Jenny said. In my friend’s home? I unlocked the door, and went to bed.

What was the matter with Verne? What kind of beast was gnawing at the already frayed edges of his being? What was eating away at him? He looked like an old oil painting that someone had carelessly spilled a small amount of acid on. It eroded and bit and gnawed away, making small traceries of lines, curlicues….

The house was very still. Night and moonlight sighed in the windows, billowing the curtains. Somebody walked quietly down the hall. Whoever it was wasn’t tiptoeing, wasn’t trying to be especially quiet. But the footsteps paused at my door.

Then they went on down the hall. I realized I’d been holding my breath. I got out of bed and opened the door.

I’d recognize that perfume anywhere.

Plenty was wrong, cockeyed wrong. I had to get back to Chicago.

I went back to bed. The footsteps came back along the hall and paused at my door again. I held my breath again. She waited longer this time. Then she went on.